‘Tea. In my room in the Bunker. Four o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.’ With that the phone went dead.

Hencke threw an evil look at Greim, but the sergeant’s attention seemed to have been distracted. At the next phone the officer had abruptly ceased shouting and was staring with incredulity at the receiver. A moment before he had been talking to his mistress in the suburb of Wannsee, scarcely ten miles from the Reich Chancellery. Now all he could hear coming out of the phone was a guttural male voice gabbling in what sounded very much like Russian.

Greim followed Hencke like an unpleasant smell as they walked down the tunnels and towards the Bunker. The checkpoints were all in place; whatever other chaos was going on the FBK still seemed certain of its duty. Hencke was anxious that the security checks might delay him, make him late, but at last he entered through the final steel door and was in the corridor of the Vorbunker. She was there, too, smiling. He offered a formal nod of respect and she took his arm, leading him towards the stairs that led down to the Fuehrerbunker.

As they started to descend the wrought iron staircase there came the clatter of Greim descending after them. Eva turned to him.

‘Sergeant, where on earth do you think you’re going?’

Greim looked uncomfortable. ‘I have instructions, Fräulein. From Reichsminister Goebbels himself. I am to accompany the captain everywhere and ensure his safety.’

She laughed gaily. ‘I assure you that he will be perfectly safe taking tea in the Fuehrerbunker with me. Or do you suspect me of wishing to attack him?’ Her tone was light but mocking.

Greim began to stammer with embarrassment. ‘No, Fräulein, but my orders …’

Her gaiety had gone, in its place only taut impatience. ‘Sergeant, your orders do not require you to be either ridiculous or impertinent. I promise you the captain will come to no harm.’

Greim writhed, a picture of misery. ‘But I shall have to report to the Reichsminister …’

‘And if you continue your insolence I shall be reporting to the Fuehrer!’

She was staring angrily at him, defying him to continue down the stairs. Greim felt himself caught between the hot breath of a firing squad and the frozen gales of Siberia. He had to choose between Goebbels and Eva Braun, and knew whatever he decided he couldn’t win. He looked once more into her indignant eyes. Shit! She was here and Goebbels wasn’t. It was bound to be all right if he stood guard at the top of the stairs. As the slut said, what the hell could happen down in the Fuehrerbunker? Greim turned on his heel and disappeared.

Bormann threw himself down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, his face beetroot red and spittle-covered from the exertion and his growing sense of panic. The telephone call had got through just as he was completing his packing in the Chancellery. The line from Karlsbad was as terrible as ever and held out for less than three minutes, but three minutes had been enough, and – string up the entire milk-sucking Signal Corps from piano wires! – when he in turn tried Goebbels in his Bunker office but a few hundred yards away, he found the land line chewed to pieces by a Russian shell and out of action. So he’d been forced to run. He was very unfit. The sweat poured down his face and he thought he was going to bring up a bellyful of salami and sauerkraut. Since the telephone call there had been a terrible pounding in his temples and for a moment he wondered whether he was having a heart attack; it seemed a considerably brighter prospect than anything Goebbels was likely to do to him when he heard. He forced his tired legs onwards.

The sight of a wild-eyed Deputy Fuehrer charging down the tunnels towards the checkpoints unnerved some of the FBK guards – perhaps the Russians were already here … or Bormann had cracked, he was always the one most likely to … perhaps they should shoot him. But such was the bull-like charge that he was past them before they had a chance to think. He hauled himself through the bulkhead door which led to the Vorbunker, took a huge lungful of air and bellowed.

‘G-o-e-b-b-e-l-s?’

A bewildered adjutant paused from his packing, the sight of such animalistic fury rendering him utterly incapable of response.

‘Where’s Goebbels, you bastard?’ Bormann screamed. He lunged towards the adjutant who had begun to tremble. He was about to lay his huge paws on the wretch when the soldier waved towards one of the doors leading off the corridor.

‘But … but he’s recording his radio broadcast. He mustn’t be disturbed.’

With a wild sweep of his hand Bormann threw him aside and crashed through the door.

Eva Braun’s suite led directly off the Fuehrer’s sitting-room, and was furnished in similarly frugal style. Only a coat of pale yellow paint on the walls differentiated it from the other dingy cubby holes of the Fuehrerbunker. Hencke sat in an armchair while she busied herself on the small sofa pouring tea, moving to one side the vase of fresh flowers on the table. It was a scene almost identical to that of the Fuehrer’s own tea party for him. Except there was no orderly. And the nearest guard was in the corridor, out of sight and out of earshot.

‘Thank you for your help, Eva.’

‘It wasn’t easy. I haven’t had a chance to explain things to the Fuehrer; I’ve simply invited him to tea, our last time in the Bunker. He’ll be along any minute. I hope he won’t be angry with me …’

From within his black officer’s tunic Hencke took a one-armed toy bear. It looked sad and exhausted, as if it had had enough. He placed it on the table beside the tea cups.

‘My lucky charm. It’s been with me all the way …’

‘Peter, how sweet. You with a teddy bear! You really are the strangest man.’

She picked up the battered toy to examine it, glowing with pleasure like a girl sharing presents with her schoolfriends, trying to stroke fresh life back into its tattered fabric. For a moment she scarcely noticed that Hencke had risen from his seat and was by the small bureau near the door, where she had left her handbag. When she looked up again she saw he was opening the bag and reaching inside.

‘Peter …?’ The smile had gone as she saw him take out the Walther. ‘Peter, what is it …?’

It took him less than two full strides to cross the room. He was leaning over her. He didn’t want to, from deep down within him he absolutely didn’t want to, this was no aunt-image, but he knew she would leave him with no choice. Her mouth was open and she was about to scream when his hands went round her neck and he began to squeeze, choking off the cry of warning. Her right hand came up, clenched in a fist, striking him fiercely in the testicles and he winced with pain, but kept squeezing. She tried to kick but her feet were obstructed by the seat. Her face was rapidly changing colour and after another futile attack on his groin her hands were up trying to tear his fingers away from her neck. The harder she fought, the tighter he squeezed. Her body was shaking, seeming as light in his hands as a pillow, and her strength was ebbing fast. Her tongue was out, her jaw was slack, her lips pursed in a silent scream of fury, and her large green eyes stared up at him accusing, beseeching, uncomprehending. While they stared, he dared not let go.

It seemed for ever before he realized she was dead, that the eyes, still full of accusation, retained no life.

His own eyes brimmed with tears. ‘No regrets, Eva. No regrets,’ he whispered. With great tenderness he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

It was as he stood up that he heard someone enter the room behind him. He turned round to find himself looking straight down the barrel of a gun.