“On Sir George Harvey?” The Chief shrugged. “Well, he’s an important man and we don’t want any international scandals. I think you’ll find he’ll do anything within reason to help. He was a great success at the Ministry during the war, you know.”

Chavasse nodded. “I’ll try not to use him if I can help it, but he might be just the extra thing needed to make Muller believe I’m on the level.”

“That’s what I thought,” the Chief said. He came round the desk and held out his hand. “Anyway, good luck, Paul. I think you’ll find this is a pretty straightforward job. Whatever happens, I’ll see you get that holiday after it’s all over.”

Chavasse opened the door and half-turned, a curious smile on his lips. “I’m sure you will,” he said dryly, and closed the door before the Chief could reply.

Jean Frazer had gone, and judging by the neat and orderly condition of her desktop and the cover on the typewriter, she was not coming back. He went slowly downstairs, his mind going back over the interview, recalling each remark made by the Chief and Sir George, shaping them into a coherent whole.

The car was waiting for him outside and he climbed in beside the driver and sat hunched in his seat, wrapped in thought, all the way back to the flat. One thing puzzled him. Assuming the whole thing was genuine and not a hoax, then why had Bormann decided on this time rather than on any other to offer his memoirs for publication?

The war had been over for fifteen years – years during which Bormann had successfully evaded discovery by the intelligence agents of all the Great Powers. Why then should he now set off on an undertaking that, by its very nature, would start the most colossal manhunt in history – with himself as the quarry?

Chavasse was still thinking about it as he undressed at the flat, but it was a problem that could have no solution for the time being. Only Hans Muller could supply the answer.