Jung sat in the passenger seat of his newly acquired car. He had ditched the Bentley in the station car park and hot-wired an anonymous black Austin 10. Now, as he gazed at the blacked-out windows of the house, he weighed up his choices. He had to know who was in there and whether they were armed. He looked at his wristwatch. Almost 10 p.m. It would be better to wait until the early hours. If there was an armed guard in there, they might not be so alert at 3 a.m.

‘OK, drive on,’ he said.

The woman at the wheel depressed the clutch, engaged first and pulled away from the kerb. She was not a good driver, but she had other, more important, uses.

Her name was Felicity Vickery. He had met her a few hours earlier in her pretty cottage on the outskirts of the small market town of Spixton, south-east of Cambridge. She was at least sixty-five, perhaps seventy, with a sweet, kindly face and blue-rinsed hair.

The encoded message to the E-boat from Bormann had contained few details, save her name and address, that she was to be trusted and that she had access to a wireless transmitter.

She lived down a short private lane, so the house was not overlooked. He had approached her with caution, one hand in his pocket resting on the butt of his jewel-handled pistol. There was such a thing as a double agent. And when he saw a smiling little old lady at the door of her picture postcard English cottage, he hesitated. Had he got the wrong address? Surely, this couldn’t be Bormann’s English contact? But she was looking at him as though she were expecting him.

‘Mr Young?’

‘Mrs Vickery?’

‘The very same, dear. But everyone calls me Mrs V. Do come in. And wipe your feet on the mat, if you would.’

‘Is there a Mr V?’

‘No, dear. My husband fell from a cruise liner in the Mediterranean. Very sad. So now I’m a widow.’

Indoors, her house was spotless. She offered him tea, explaining that Herr Bormann had been in touch and was worried about him and his progress.

As the kettle boiled, he told her about the people he was seeking. He also handed her the address book from Wilde’s house.

‘Look through there, if you would. See if any names or addresses jump out at you. Something out of place . . . not quite right.’

‘I’d be happy to, dear, but if they’re in the hands of MI5 and they’re in this area, the most likely place they’ll be is a village not too far from here called Harkham. In fact the secret service seems to bring people there from all over the country. It’s what they call a safe house. But safe or not, I’m sure a man of your courage and resourcefulness will find a way in.’