‘Something’s not right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Listen.’

‘I can’t hear a thing.’

‘Exactly. It’s unusual to hear nothing in the countryside: this is too quiet.’

They waited another half-hour before de Vries said it had been long enough and they needed to move. Half walking, half running in a crouched position, they hurried out of the woods and across the field leading to the railway line. They were just feet from the bank dropping down to the line when night turned to day, and when their eyes finally adjusted to the searchlights trained on them, the field was swarming with troops emerging from the hedgerow.

Both de Vries and Frieda sank to their knees and held their hands high above their heads. A young man in a Gestapo regulation trench coat had just climbed up from the railway line and was walking towards them, a pleasant smile on his face and his hand outstretched as if greeting old friends. He shouted in German for the pair to be separated and followed de Vries as he was dragged to a waiting truck.

‘What kept you? We’ve been waiting so long – I’m chilled to the bone!’ He smiled pleasantly once more and threw back his head, his blonde hair falling into place. He spoke surprisingly good Dutch. De Vries didn’t reply, trying to work out who could have betrayed them. He wondered about the farmer.

‘We are going to Amsterdam,’ the German said, rubbing his hands together as if he was looking forward to the outing. ‘What is your name?’

De Vries said nothing, pursing his lips in case he uttered anything involuntarily. The German shrugged as if it didn’t terribly matter.

‘Ah well, there’ll be plenty of time for you to tell me when we get there, eh? I’ve not introduced myself, have I?’

Another smile as he edged closer to de Vries, who picked up a strong smell of cologne. ‘I’m known as das Frettchen. Do you understand German?’

De Vries shook his head.

‘In Dutch, it’s de fret, but I don’t know if you prefer English. It translates as the Ferret.’

In the normal course of events the Ferret would have been punished after managing to kill the British agent in Dijon the previous November without extracting any useful intelligence from her. He’d ignored instructions to bring her back to Paris, where there were plenty of people at 84 Avenue Foch perfectly capable of doing the job for him.

It was his last chance: his combination of an explosive temper and sheer incompetence was not ideal for the Gestapo, which liked to pride itself on efficiency and discipline. The Ferret had arrived in Paris with a bad reputation, and it never improved. His bosses were also bothered by what was described to them as ‘psychopathic sexual behaviour’. It wasn’t that they cared about the well-being of French citizens, but they were concerned when such behaviour impeded his ability to function effectively.

Of course the Ferret would never have been in Paris in the first place had it not been for the influence of his father, a senior party official who was part of what was known as the Österreichisches Clique – the Austrian clique.