‘Very wise,’ I said, lifting my glass. He poured a generous measure, and as he stepped away I took out the Luger, disengaged the safety, aimed between his eyes and fired in almost the same moment. The kick pushed me into the armchair and I felt one of the springs dig into my back as the crystal shattered on the floor and his body slumped to the ground and the liqueur began to seep into the carpet.

It was very quiet then. I could hear the wind whipping against the trees outside and a joist creaking somewhere in the house. My head was pounding, the blood careering around it. There had been a moment, a fraction of a moment before I had fired, when he had stared into my face and I’d thought he might have understood what was about to happen to him - that he had realized who I was.

I replaced the Luger and stood up. Pritchard was due to arrive in twenty-eight minutes, and I had to clear up the mess and be well away before then.

I set to work.

II

II

Sunday, 8 July 1945, British Zone, Germany

I reached the farmhouse about an hour before dawn and hammered on the door. After several minutes it opened, and a tall, lean figure with piercing blue eyes peered out at me.

‘Kann ich Ihnen helfen?’ he said, in an unmistakably English accent. He looked exactly the same as he had the last time I’d seen him.

‘You’re English,’ I said, searching his face for a reaction but getting none. ‘That is good news. I’m afraid I’m lost. I’m looking for the British headquarters at Lübeck.’

‘You are lost,’ he said, placing his emphasis equally carefully. ‘It’s a good distance from here. Come in and I can show you on a map.’

It was typical of Father: the war in Europe had been over for two months and there wasn’t a soul for miles around, but he had still insisted on keeping to nonsensical recognition codes with his own son until we were inside the house. As soon as we were, he shook my hand and asked if I had had a safe journey. Barely pausing to listen to my reply, he led me through to a cramped, low-ceilinged room and told me to take a seat. He didn’t ask about Finland, or Mother, or anything else. He had business to attend to.

The area looked as though it had once been a sitting room, judging by the elaborate floral pattern on the wallpaper and armchairs, but it was now inescapably the domain of a military operation, with most of the space given to a row of card tables that had been pushed together and covered in maps and papers. The room was lit by candles - there was no electricity in the house, and wouldn’t be for several weeks.