“But there are still plenty left in high places?”

“That fact is impossible to dispute. They’re in the government, in big business.” The Chief laughed ironically. “Muller must have found that out to his cost when he wrote to that German publishing company.”

“Does he name the firm?”

The Chief shook his head. “He didn’t even give his own address. Said he’d get in touch by phone.”

“And did he?”

The Chief nodded. “Six o’clock last night on the dot, just as he said he would. The managing director took the call. He told Muller they were definitely interested and made arrangements for a director of the firm to meet him.”

“And that’s me, I suppose.”

“Correct!” the Chief said. “I want you to cross to the Hook of Holland by the afternoon boat. You’ll catch the North-West Express for Hamburg.” He opened a drawer and took out a large envelope. “You’ll find everything you need in there. New passport in your own name, but changing your occupation to publisher, money for expenses, and a few other things that might come in useful.”

“Why the night train to Hamburg?” Chavasse asked.

“I’m coming to that,” the Chief told him. “I’ve got you a first-class sleeping-car berth in a reserved compartment. You’ll find the tickets in the envelope. Muller will board the train at Osnabruck a few minutes before midnight and come straight to your compartment.”

“And what do I do with him once I’ve got him?”

The Chief shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you. I want that manuscript, but more than that I want Bormann. As it happens, Sir George is going to Hamburg on the same train to attend the United Nations Peace Conference. That’s one of the reasons I’ve rushed these arrangements through without discussing them with you. String Muller along. Tell him you must see the manuscript, or at least part of it. If necessary, call Sir George in to meet him. Tell him that Sir George has a big interest in the firm, that the publishers have asked him to accompany you as an evidence of their good faith.”

Sir George got to his feet. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Chavasse. You can rely on me to do anything I can to help.” He smiled. “It’s like old times, being on the inside of a thing like this, but now if you’ll excuse me, I really must go. The train leaves Liverpool Street at ten and I’d like an hour or two in bed before then.” He held out his hand with a smile. “If you’ll take my advice, young man, you’ll do the same thing. You look as though you could do with it. I’ll see you on the train, I hope.”

The Chief ushered him out of the door and then came back. He sat down behind his desk. “Well, what do you think?”

Chavasse shrugged. “It all depends on Muller. Have we got anything on him?”

“I’ve had the files checked,” the Chief said, “but this seems to be the first time we’ve come into contact with him. Of course, we have no description and he may have used another name previously.”

“Did he say what his connection was with Bormann?”

The Chief shook his head. “That also is a complete mystery, I’m afraid.”

Chavasse picked up the envelope that contained his passport and tickets and slipped it into his pocket. “What about German intelligence? Will they be in on this?”

The Chief shook his head. “I thought about that, but decided against it for the moment. I don’t want things to get confused. If the affair gets out of hand and you decide you need some local help, telephone me here. Ask for Mr. Taylor and use the name Cunningham. Just say that business is booming and you could use some help. I’ll bring German intelligence into it at that point.”

Chavasse nodded slowly and got to his feet. “That seems to be everything. I think I’ll take Sir George’s advice and go back to bed.” He started to move to the door and then paused. “By the way, how much can I count on him?”

“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.

He brewed a pot of coffee and got into bed. It was just after three A.M. and the rain drummed steadily against the windows. He lit a cigarette and opened the envelope that the Chief had given him.

They’d done a good job on the passport. It had been issued four years previously and was true in all personal particulars except for his occupation. He had apparently been to the Continent several times during the period and once to America. He memorized the dates quickly and then examined the other documents.

His tickets were all in order and so were the travelers’ checks. There was also a current driving license and a member’s ticket for a city luncheon club. Finally, he had been supplied with several letters that purported to be from business contacts and one couched in affectionate terms from a girl called Cynthia.

He read the letter through with interest. It was goods – very good indeed. He wondered whether the Chief had gotten Jean Frazer to write it, and there was a smile on his face when he finally switched off the lamp and turned his face into the pillow.

The train started to slow down as it entered the outskirts of Rheine, and Chavasse put down the book he had been reading and checked his watch. It was eleven P.M. They were due at Osnabruck in just under an hour.

He pulled on his jacket and went out into the corridors as the train came to a halt. The sleeping-car attendant, who was standing nearby, opened one of the doors and stepped down onto the platform. Obeying a sudden impulse, Chavasse followed him and stood there, hands in pockets, drawing the cold night air deep into his lungs.

The platform was almost deserted and no one seemed to be getting on or off. He was about to get back into the train when a group of men emerged from the waiting room and came toward him.

The one who led the way was a tall, heavily built man with an iron-hard face and eyes like chips of blue ice. Behind him came two attendants in white coats, carrying a man on a stretcher. The man who brought up the rear wore a Homburg hat and an expensive overcoat with a fur collar. His gaunt face was half-covered by a carefully trimmed black beard that looked as if it had been dyed.