She led the way upstairs from the hall and opened the door to the drawing room, where the Baron sat by the fire, Marco standing by the window.

“General, what a surprise. What can I do for you?”

Ferguson turned to Hannah. “Tell him, Superintendent.”

Afterward, the Baron shook his head. “An amazing story. Ridiculous, of course, but then what would one expect from an old lady who obviously went through traumatic times in the war? She obviously suffers from some delusion, some fantasy that she knew the Führer. I was an aide in the Bunker for three months and certainly knew the staff. I can’t recall a Sara Hesser.”

“Well, you would say that, ould son, wouldn’t you?” Dillon told him.

“Mind you, I’m intrigued by the whole idea,” the Baron said. “Perhaps the superintendent could give me the view from Scotland Yard. If, for example, I were in control of deposits in private accounts in Switzerland, would that constitute a crime in the U.K.?”

Hannah glanced at Ferguson. “No, sir, it would not.”

“And if someone gave you their diary for safekeeping, would that be illegal?”

“Of course not, but-”

“For God’s sake, let’s cut the nonsense and get down to facts,” Ferguson said. “We now know the truth about how you got out of Berlin and why. We also know the source of your money – the money that got you started again after the war. And then there’s the diary: a holy book, Sara Hesser said.”

“A most fanciful idea.”

“Especially when it records meetings in Sweden between Hitler’s go-between and President Cazalet’s father.”

“As I said, a fanciful idea.” The Baron smiled. “Though it certainly wouldn’t help Jake Cazalet’s political future much, would it?” He smiled again. “But all this is nonsense. Stories of the Führer’s diary have abounded for years. Charlatans and forgers have tried to produce such items repeatedly. Now we have the fantasy of some aging lady. No, it won’t do.”

“Even if both British and German records indicate that she was indeed there in the Bunker?”

“Oh, really? Hmm. Well, there you are, then. I’m afraid there’s not more I can add, General – though if all of this were true, the prospect of it being revealed would be very unpleasant for the President, I should think. You take my meaning?”

“I certainly do.” Ferguson nodded to Hannah and Dillon. “Let’s go,” and he led the way out.

Marco poured an Irish whiskey and took it to his father. “Bravo, you deserve it. He never knew what hit him.”

“Ferguson is a very astute man, Marco. He won’t let it go – and this thing could easily leak.”

“But wouldn’t that accomplish your aim? To hurt the President?”

“But I don’t want it to happen yet. I want it to be on my terms and at a time to suit me.” He sipped his whiskey. “But the game is in motion now. The ball, as the English say, is in Ferguson’s court.” He sighed. “Hitler offered her a seat in my plane. It would have got her out and she refused, said it was her duty to stay with him.” He shook his head. “She should have died with the others.”

Marco lit a cigarette and walked to the window, staring out into South Audley Street. “Yes, it really would have been better, when you think of it.”

MARCH WEATHER, DUSK falling early, rain drifting in across the Thames, and in the darkness of the porch of the church in Brick Lane, Marco Rossi waited in a black trench coat and rain hat.

Rossi wasn’t sure what he intended to do, and had certainly not mentioned to the Baron what he was up to, and yet there was a certain inevitability to things. He hadn’t driven in his own car and had taken a taxi to Wapping High Street and walked the rest of the way, which perhaps meant something.

He’d been there an hour, watching the house, not sure what he was waiting for, and then a light went on over the door, it creaked open and the old lady appeared with the Scottie on a lead. She was wearing a headscarf and a raincoat and put up an umbrella.

“Good boy, Benny,” she said, and set off down the pavement for the corner shop, whose lights were still on.

Rossi hurried along the other side of the churchyard and paused at the end by the wall opposite the shop where the old jetty jutted out into the river. There was no rail, just a single lamp giving a subdued glow. The old lady turned onto the jetty and walked to the end with Benny. Rossi, seizing his opportunity, darted up behind her as she gazed out at the bright lights of a riverboat passing by, put both hands on her back and pushed her over into the water.

She had released her grip on the lead and the dog barked and ran to the edge of the jetty. Rossi looked down, saw her flounder and go under. He dashed away as quickly as he had come to the shelter of the churchyard, and from there made his way back to Wapping High Street.

It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Mr. Patel, distracted by Benny’s constant barking, went outside and found the little dog, still with his lead on him, at the end of the jetty.

“What is it, Benny?” Patel demanded, retrieved his lead, then looked over and saw her frail body half in the water below.

The following morning, Charles Ferguson was having breakfast when his phone rang.

“Sir, it’s Bernstein.”

“Isn’t this a bit early, even for you, Superintendent?”

“Just listen, sir. I put Mrs. Sara Grant on the Special Branch Priority One list, just to keep an eye on her.”

“And?”

“She was found in the Thames last night, just off that jetty at the end of Brick Lane. The Indian gentleman, Mr. Patel, who owns the store, heard the dog barking and went to investigate. He found it at the end of the jetty with its lead still on and she was in the water.”

“Dear God,” Ferguson said. “Where is she now?”

“Wapping Mortuary.”

“Oh, we’re such idiots, Superintendent. Look, we’ll have to fast-track the postmortem. I’ll telephone Professor George Langley and ask him to do it this morning.”

“That is fast, sir.”

“He’ll do it for me. You will use your authority to take over the case from the Wapping police. It’s a Code One matter from now on. I’ll sign the warrant. Brook no interference from anyone. And notify Dillon.”

Dillon was on his morning run from Stable Mews, the hood of his tracksuit up against a light drizzle, when his mobile sounded and Hannah said, “It’s me, Sean.”

“At this time in the morning. Jesus, girl, am I finally getting through to you?”

“Shut up, Sean, it’s bad news,” and she told him. Dillon stopped in a doorway, stunned. “Are you still there, Sean?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“What do you think?”

“It stinks, that’s what I think.”

The rage was in his voice. She said, “Sean, don’t do anything stupid. We have to be sure. George Langley will do the postmortem later this morning. He’s the best there is. He’s put more murderers behind bars than even you can imagine. If there’s the smallest thing wrong, he’ll find it.”

“He’d better,” Dillon said. “By God, he’d better.”

She rang off and Dillon stayed there for a while in the doorway, then walked away.

He went home and changed, then drove to Roper’s place and found him in the sitting room at the computers. The major said, “You’re early. That means something’s up.”

Dillon told him, then went and found the bottle of Paddy whiskey and poured a glass. “It’s early, even for me, but I need it.” He swallowed it down. “What do you think?”

“She was certainly a mine of information.”

“Which von Berger immediately denied as the fantasy of an aging woman.”

“Who promptly has some sort of accident and ends up in the Thames. Very useful, that happening,” Roper said.

“Yes. It’s all true, everything she told us. Von Berger’s mission from Hitler, his final flight out of Berlin, the diary – all true.”