‘And where is that?’

‘Apparently he’s been hiding at a farm in Bavaria, near the town of Eggenfelden. Friedrich said that he and Ulrich stayed there for a few weeks ago, and while he was there, he discovered that his father had hidden notebooks and rolls of film in the cellar. He said he’s sure they’re full of top-secret material. He told us exactly where to find it. You can have that information – the address of the farm is on that piece of paper, and there’s even a helpful diagram Steiner drew of where to find the films. In the—’

There was a sharp rap at the door and they heard Bartholomew’s voice telling them to get a move on. Marija gathered her things and leaned close to them.

‘Today my comrades are taking Friedrich Steiner to the place where he buried the three girls outside Maribor. He’ll then be handed over to their families.’

Epilogue

Bartholomew didn’t think there was much damage left to be done by Hanne and Prince in Trieste, but he still wanted to get them out of the city and back to England as soon as possible. But before they left, there were one or two of what Tom Gilbey euphemistically termed ‘loose ends’ to be tied up.

Chief among these was what to do with the dozen or so Slovenians and Italians they were holding in custody – as far as they could tell, around a dozen more had managed to get away. The commander of the British garrison in Trieste was all for throwing the book at them and was minded to ignore the view shared by Gilbey and Bartholomew that imprisoning former partisans for killing a Nazi might not play terribly well at home or anywhere else for that matter. In the end, Sir Roland Pearson had to have a word with Field Marshal Alexander, who as far as he could make out was now in charge of the Mediterranean area, and fortunately he agreed with him. The Slovenians, he said, should be released and told to make themselves scarce, which they seemed more than happy to do.

The Admiral began to worry when the news from Trieste of the deaths of Edward Palmer and Myrtle Carter and from Berlin of the disappearance of Wolfgang Steiner filtered through in the dark days just before Christmas. He was fearful of what would happen to him. His man left after lunch on Christmas Day and he spent the afternoon in his library, the room lit only by a candle and the fading embers of an untended fire.

As darkness wrapped itself around the isolated Victorian house he found himself in a depressed mood as he wandered into the dining room he rarely used and gazed at photographs of long dead family members on top of a piano which was never played.

But once he’d turned on the lights and drawn the curtains he took a grip on himself. There was no point allowing himself the indulgence of worrying about what was to happen to him. He needed to do something about it.