He reached over to grasp Hencke’s hand but his fingers were so unsteady he had to use his other hand to quell the shaking. He was already breathless and wheezing painfully. ‘Hencke, I have a plan. The war will not end. We shall stay in Berlin a few days longer and give the Russians a bloody nose. Then we shall fly to the mountains! We can fight for months from there, up where the air is sweet and the sun will shine upon us. We shall leave this shit hole of Berlin for the Americans and Russians to fight over. Jewish capitalists marching from one side and Jewish Bolsheviks from the other. Imagine! The mightiest blood-letting history has ever seen. They can lob artillery shells at each other over the fucking Reichstag, for all I care. We are die von dem Berg, people of the mountain. We don’t need vast panzer divisions and to hell with all those miserable, whingeing, double-crossing generals. Just a few thousand of us, carefully chosen. People like you, Hencke. We can stay up in Berchtesgaden until the Americans get bored and limp back home after they’ve stuck their bayonets up the bums of half of Russia. We shall have new weapons, deadly new nerve gases, Tabun, Sarin, atomic weapons perhaps. Then – will – be – our – time – again!’

He collapsed back in his chair, exhausted, unable to continue.

Hencke, too, was incapable of speech. Deep inside, in the parts where men cry and rant about the injustices of life, he cursed whatever forces had brought him to this underground bedlam. They had brought him into the lair to inflict his mind with further madness, shown him an evil beyond comprehension, filled him with such horror that he knew he would burn in hell if he failed to wipe out this evil. And yet he had been left powerless, stripped of means or ideas to end it all. He could see no shadow of a chance.

‘It can work, can’t it, Hencke?’ Hitler asked, interrupting his thoughts.

The endless alpine war? Hencke had to admit to himself that, like so much madness, it just might. He nodded.

‘I knew it. You are my lucky mascot, Hencke, sent to let me know that with valour like yours we can still achieve anything we want.’ He shook his guest’s hands limply and he had started to mumble with exhaustion. ‘This is a happy day … very special one for us both … miserable bastards, to hell with the doctors and their suicide pills. They can shove them up their wives’…’

Suddenly Hitler halted his litany of abuse, and Hencke looked up to see that they had been joined by another figure, a woman, pretty, lithe, smiling, early thirties. It was one of the group of friends he had seen laughing in the cellar of the Reich Chancellery. Hencke expected outrage at this unannounced interruption but, instead, Hitler gathered his energies and rose unsteadily to his feet, straightening his jacket, kissing the woman tenderly on the hand. Gone was his rambling coarseness of a moment before.

‘Hencke, allow me to introduce you to Fraülein Braun, a dear and trusted friend of mine.’ Having effected the introduction, he sank down heavily in his chair.

‘I came in to make sure you weren’t tiring yourself,’ she said to him. ‘It seems I came not a moment too soon.’ There was a scolding tone in her voice and her blonde, shoulder-length hair fell about her diamond-shaped face as she leaned over Hitler. She turned to Hencke. ‘Captain, forgive me, but I think it’s time for the Fuehrer to rest. He has so much still to do …’

‘No, one last thing,’ objected Hitler. ‘Hencke, I have something for you.’ From beside his chair he produced a red leather case which he thrust at his guest. ‘Something special.’

Inside, Hencke found a solid silver photo frame. Inlaid into the metalwork was a small gold swastika. It carried a photograph of Hitler and there was writing, a dedication in practically illegible scrawl which he struggled to decipher.

Hitler hurried to cover the embarrassment of his growing inability to control a pen. ‘It says: “To Peter Hencke, A brave and devoted follower. From your Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler”. I don’t give those to everyone, you know.’

‘I find it difficult to know what to say.’

‘Well, that’s it. Time for a rest. Perhaps see you later, Hencke.’ With that he pulled himself awkwardly out of his chair. Having straightened himself, Hitler bowed courteously to the woman and shuffled off into a neighbouring room. The interview was at an end. Hencke never had a chance.

The office was dark, the only illumination coming from a candle on the desk. The power had failed again. Bormann was in foul mood. He loathed Goebbels, for the intellectual gifts which Bormann could never match, for the significant role he had played in the early days of the Movement, for the access to Hitler which this gave him, and for his role as Der Chef’s oldest – and nowadays seemingly only – trusted counsellor. Over the years Bormann as the archetypal bureaucrat had outmanoeuvred and outlasted most of the others, but he had never learned how to handle the Reichsminister for Propaganda. Goebbels always seemed one step ahead. And Bormann seethed when he remembered how Goebbels had spoken to him, in the presence of the secretary, too. No one else would get away with that … He was in no mood to tolerate the prevarication he was getting on the telephone.

‘Look, I don’t want a debate on logistics, I don’t want to hear how busy you are and I don’t give a damn if your pet dachshund keeps crapping on your best carpet because of the shelling. This is not an enquiry. Nor is it a request, you little jerk. This is a Fuehrerbefehl, an order direct from the man himself, and if it’s not obeyed I shall come down personally to the Ministry and string you up on a meat hook with my own hands. So if you want to live to see tomorrow night I suggest you drop whatever else you are doing and get me some answers. Can I make it any clearer than that?… That’s right. H-E-N-C-K-E. Peter. Check his birth certificate, his university records, his teaching diploma, his collar size, his taste in music, everything … I don’t know if he’s married, cretin. It’s your job to find out! By midday tomorrow. Understand?’

He was just about to throw another barrage of abuse down the receiver when the connection went dead. Bormann stared at the mouthpiece, unable to decide whether the phone had been put down on him or the land line had once again been cut. He was still looking at it when the secretary, kneeling directly at his feet, ran the tips of her fingers across her heavily rouged lips.

‘Shall I continue now, you big bear?’

‘Captain Hencke, I know your plan. I think you have come here to cause the most extreme havoc.’

Hencke froze and his brow creased in bewilderment as he saw the young woman’s green eyes staring directly at him.

‘Do you realize that four of my best friends are at this very moment threatening to murder each other in order to decide which of them is going to be the first to be seen with you in Berlin?’ Her face lit up in mischief and a peal of laughter echoed around the small Bunker sitting-room. As she laughed she swung her narrow hips, causing her silk dress to rustle.

‘Fraülein Braun, I’m not sure I understand …’

‘Come on, Captain. You surely don’t think it’s only the likes of Goebbels who take an interest in you.’

‘I fear I would be a miserable disappointment for one lady, but for four?’ He shook his head in self-condemnation.

‘Don’t fool yourself, Captain. You might have evaded the clutches of Churchill and the entire British Army, but I can assure you that you will not escape so lightly from my girlfriends. They have instructed me that if you refuse I am to get the Fuehrer to sign a personal order!’ She laughed gaily once more, and Hencke was still wondering who this extraordinary woman was who had walked in on Hitler and then propositioned him on behalf of her friends when her laughter suddenly died. Her face puckered and her hand came to her forehead.