‘What is that, Richard?’ She was pointing to a carving of a strange creature perched high on top of a stone column. A sunbeam piercing through the south transept window caught its face sneering at them.

‘That’s the Lincoln Imp. He’s famous around these parts.’

‘And why’s he here?’

‘According to a fourteenth-century legend, two imps were sent by the devil to cause trouble. They created chaos in the cathedral until one of the angels up there turned this imp to stone while the other one escaped.’

‘He looks as if he’s alive.’

Prince nodded. ‘Apparently it’s to remind us that evil is never far away, even in a place as holy as this.’

Chapter 1

London and Dijon, France, November 1943

‘No news, I imagine?’

‘No, sir: I did promise to let you know as soon as we hear anything.’

‘I know you did, Forster, but it’s getting late and—’

‘Why don’t you go home, Major Lean, and I’ll call you if we hear anything.’

‘Remind me how late the circuits transmit these days, Forster?’ Lean was speaking from the corridor as if afraid to enter the room. Because of his height – he was taller than the door frame – he bent low to address the man sitting at a desk laden with radio equipment.

‘It varies from circuit to circuit: Tractor tends not to transmit as late as some others, but who knows, sir.’

Lean remained in the corridor, glancing hesitantly into the room but without saying a word for a while, instead watching the tiny lights blinking on the equipment in the gloom and listening to the bleeps from the radio, which sounded like dripping taps.

‘I tell you what, Forster, I’m going to put up the camp bed in my office. Call me as soon as you hear anything.’

He climbed the two floors to his office, gingerly feeling his way along the darkened corridors of Orchard Court on Portman Square in central London, the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive’s F Section. He noticed the lights on in the office opposite his. A man a good decade and a bit younger than him was sitting in an easy chair with his feet stretched out onto his desk. He was wearing a waistcoat, and his sleeves and tie were both undone.

‘No news, Major?’

‘I’m afraid not, Stephens. How long is it now since we last heard from them?’

‘Just over forty-eight hours, sir.’

‘Remind me what the message said again?’

The other man closed his eyes as if trying to recall it. ‘The decoded version, sir, was that the whole circuit had been compromised and they were expecting to be caught any minute. Hervé used the word “thunder” three times in the one message, sir, which means things are about as serious as they can get.’ He shook his head, his eyes still closed.

Neither man said a word. It was just over an hour before midnight and the building was cloaked in silence. Not a sound penetrated from outside. They could have been in the middle of the countryside but for the absence of the calls of wild animals.