‘You look terrific, Sumpy.’

‘You look like a chicken,’ she said; ‘I’ll untruss you. Have you been reading your manual upside down?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You got it all wrong: they should have been tied up and you should have had the gun.’

‘It’s funny you should mention it – I had a feeling something was wrong.’

She untied my hands and started working on the cord around my legs. Her name was Mary-Ellen Joffe, but I called her Sumpy on account of a passion she had for making love whilst soused from head to foot in Johnson’s Baby Oil, her name being taken, in the nicest possible way, from the oil sump of a motor car. My legs came free, and I sat up. I sent Sumpy back to her compartment, and told her to order a stiff drink for each of us.

I set about trying to clean up the compartment. I rolled back the carpet and lifted up the hatch to where Sparrow lay. The accommodation hadn’t been designed for five, but none of them were in any shape to do any complaining. I washed the bloodstains off the carpet and seats with the towels, and threw them out of the window. Then I went along to Sumpy’s compartment.

She had drunk both the drinks, and two more were on their way. A bit of colour had come back to her face. The steward delivered two double Scotches. I picked up one glass. ‘To the human atom bomb!’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘Angel,’ she said, ‘your little guardian angel.’

Chapter 24

24

Outside, beyond the black window, the dim glow of the snowbound Canadian emptiness passed by. The train rattled noisily and shook gently. Cold air poured in through a dozen different places, and the heater was fighting a losing battle against it. I felt goose pimples on my shoulders, bare arms, and on that part of my chest which wasn’t warmed by Sumpy’s sleeping head.

Trying not to disturb her, I tilted my wrist and looked at my watch. It was a quarter past one in the morning; at a quarter to two, the train would stop at North Bay. In a few minutes, I had to start getting dressed.

‘What’s the time, Max?’

She was awake. I told her the time.

‘I wish you were staying,’ she said.

‘So do I.’

‘Why don’t you go in the morning?’

‘It is the morning. Every hour is important at the moment. I have to get to Slan. If any American power station blows and the Americans find out Britain knew about Operation Angel all along, there’ll be more than just merry hell.’

‘Why does Fifeshire play everything so close to his vest?’

‘He doesn’t trust anyone. He figures that the less people that know anything, the less chance of a leak. Whether he’s right or wrong this time, we’ll find out soon enough.’