Robert Craven - Get Lenin

And that was the end of her test. The lights went off and the sound stages began to hum to the production teams preparing for the days filming.

Kincaid had spent most of his time during the day on the phone in his study, in meetings or hunched over his ticker tape machine. He would turn the air blue with his outbursts should a stock value drop several points. On particularly bad days he would sit sullenly at the dinner table drinking heavily. On more than one morning she would find him sprawled across the table at breakfast in a stupor, clutching ribbons of ticker tape.

Eva was wheeled out when it was party time, which meant every night, dressed in stunning gowns from plush studio wardrobes off set. Her hair and make-up was professionally done by studio staff and she was carefully hidden amid his entourage. In the media glare she would stay three of four paces back from him on the red carpet.

The parties in the villa were wild and Eva, inured to the cabaret life of Germany, was unfazed by the antics of Kincaid and his cronies, the night always ending up with someone overdosing on cocaine or some other substance. Kincaid’s personal physician, Dr Harry Gold, would be summoned in the dead of night and either administer a cure or load a body into his car.

Despite his chaotic lifestyle, she always felt safe on Kincaid's arm. He never let her out of his sight when the younger dashing actors milled around her at the parties and, to his credit, could always hold his drink when he had to. She kept her own drinking to a minimum and within a fortnight she had met an intimate circle of men about Kincaid's age. Some were oil men in California here to enjoy the pleasures of starlets; others were clearly military men in civilian clothes and Eva recognised another man from the party in Berlin. He was a large wheezing man, a pharmaceuticals magnate, full of bonhomie with an unbridled lust for skinny actresses. She only caught a glimpse of him coming into the villa and he hadn’t seen her. She didn't catch his name, but Kincaid was in thrall to him and almost a little fearful.

During the long empty afternoons in the mansion, she would write letters to Diana Mosley, knowing full well they would be intercepted and read. Eva, keeping the correspondence as light as possible, would slip in names, descriptions and the status of the men she met. Despite her best efforts, Kincaid refused to give her the name of the big man; he was simply known as ‘The Big Fellow’.

Four weeks into her stay, Kincaid burst into her room one morning with a telegram. 'I told you doll, I told you! It’s all starting to fall into place. Start packing. We're flying to Berlin tonight!'

Berchtesgaden 1939: The Kehlsteinhaus

The Tea House sat 183 metres at the top of the Kehlstein mountain, accessed either by the 131 metre elevator bored into the mountain or the specially commissioned road. Hitler chose the road. As the motorcade swept up through the winding tunnels, its progress was observed by Martin Borman and Albert Speer from the sun terrace,

The head of Hitler's security detail strode up, 'He wants to look around.'

‘Let’s hope he likes it,’ said Speer, taking in the view. The clouds danced beneath them around the peak of the nearby Hochter Goll,

‘He’d better,’ replied Borman, his eyes never leaving the road. ‘It cost enough to build.’

The motorcade, all black with red flags fluttering, pulled into the main driveway. Hitler’s Mercedes was flanked by SS outriders on powerful motorbikes. Borman rose from leaning against the terrace balcony. They walked through the lavishly decorated main dining area to the reception. An SS honour guard was preparing to greet the entourage. The head of Hitler’s personal bodyguard, Schaedle, strode up to them.

Hitler ascended the steps to where Borman, Speer and Goebbels stood waiting in the doorway. The alpine air was refreshing and he stopped to admire the Alps. Removing his fedora, he closed his pale blue eyes, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on his face. He breathed deeply, his throat tingling from the crisp tang of the air. As he started toward the reception, a wave of vertigo swept over him. He steadied himself, inwardly furious that his followers could see this.

Once inside, the Fuhrer marvelled at its craftsmanship. They walked as Speer explained its construction in detail. ‘As you can see, mein Fuhrer, from the two windows here in the main dining area you can observe the Watzman and Hochkalter mountains.’ They paused to admire the peaks. Speer then guided Hitler through each room, some panelled in rare cembra pine or sand-blasted oak. Hitler was impressed; nodding quietly, stopping, examining, and inquiring, with hands clasped firmly behind his back when he wasn't shaking the hands of each of his household staff, beaming and joking awkwardly in the main reception area.

Then he was ushered to his private chamber off the main dining room. Speer's scaled model of New Berlin, moulded according to Hitler’s vision, almost filled the entire room. Hitler leaned into it closely, holding his breath in wonder.

Das Museum von gebesiegt — The Museum of the Vanquished — caught his eye and made him smile. He envisioned the British Crown Jewels, French Impressionist works, Faberge eggs and Mozart’s manuscripts. And in pride of place, Lenin’s mausoleum.

‘Perhaps,’ Goebbels suggested, ‘Stalin’s head in a jar of formaldehyde or mounted like a hunter’s trophy?’ They all roared with laughter.

The rest of the guests arrived and the four men left the room to attend Hitler’s 50th birthday party. Goebbels paused, looking back at the model citadel. Eradicating Communism was a personal crusade for Hitler; what if they managed to snatch Lenin's body sooner rather than later? It would be a sensational bargaining chip. He began to hatch a plot, an idea so brazen that, if it was pulled off, it would change the world. But before that could happen, there would have to be a war.

The following morning, Himmler drove directly to his new headquarters in Berlin, SS Hauptampt. The city had a freshness to it he hadn’t noticed before. The population moved about their business around the thriving Potsdamer Platz, the facades gleaming and the skies a cloudless blue. Everywhere around the capital gave the sense of success and order. He nestled himself deeper into the leather depths of his seat.

Across from him were two Waffen SS: General Rolf Metzger and a young impossibly beautiful Aryan Captain, Thor Schenker. All three were perusing a manila folder stamped at the highest level of confidentiality.

Metzger’s grey-steel eyes twinkled as he completed his review. ‘If this goes wrong, Reichsfuhrer …. ’

Himmler’s eyes narrowed behind his wire frame glasses, a faint smile danced around his lips, making his moustache twitch.

‘This is why we selected you, General. It won’t go wrong,’

Schenker’s head snapped up. It reminded Himmler of an obedient Doberman. He found he was unable to look away from this Adonis. Hitler was right; this boy was a prime specimen.

‘I can’t foresee any problems.’ His cultured accent and his refined sense of dress confirmed he was born to wear the uniform. Himmler felt himself dumpy in this beautiful boy’s presence. He tried to concentrate on the dossier. He tried not to blush.

Metzger lit a cigarette. Himmler tried to wave the smoke away with a tailored leather glove.

'My concern is that we get a local policeman who just happens to be thorough.'

Himmler afforded himself a small smile as the limousine turned off Prince Albrecht Strasse down into a cavernous parking lot below the SS Hauptamt building.

‘The nature of this will be so heinous that the Gestapo, Waffen SS and Diplomatic corps will want it. It is imperative that we execute this plan efficiently to forward the Fuhrer’s plan.’