‘We haven’t got time to deal with you bastards now. You’re one of the group that stole the bread, eh?’

Prince nodded and said he was terribly sorry, but he’d been working non-stop and—

‘Shut up and go and join that lot there. You’ll soon wish you’d never left this place.’

Prince shuffled over to a small group gathered by the entrance. They were all placed in handcuffs and loaded onto a lorry. The prisoner next to him was August, a German communist he knew from a nearby hut who always shared his cigarettes and constantly recited the poems of Schiller and Goethe, which he said was his way of keeping sane.

‘You know where they’re taking us, don’t you?’ August said.

‘No.’

‘Neuengamme.’

Sophia von Naundorf heard the raid from her villa near Greifswald; it was hard not to. Like Prince, she’d been waiting for it for a couple of sleepless nights, and when she heard the drone of planes, she got out of bed, dressed and stood in the garden of her villa, making out the flashes and explosions to the east.

She had an intense sense of satisfaction, aware that she’d played no small part in this. She was certain Peenemünde was being obliterated. She was wreaking her revenge in the best possible manner. Of course she was worried about the Englishman, but she was also aware what the message from London had said: the slave labourers’ camp would not be bombed.

Her first visit to Usedom island to wait for Agent Laertes would be on the coming Sunday, three days after the raid. By now, courtesy of the orphanage where she was such a willing volunteer, she had acquired an impressive-looking nurse’s uniform, which, along with a sheaf of documentation from Oberführer Hausser in Greifswald and the Mercedes stuffed with provisions for the sentries at Wolgast, would hopefully ensure she’d get to Zempin with little difficulty.

When there was no sign of the Englishman, she imagined he was still gathering information, or needed another few days before he could get on the right work detail, so she returned on the Tuesday and again on the Friday. There was still no sign of him. On the Friday, she managed to speak with a guard by the beach, who was grateful for the cigarettes she slipped into the pocket of his greatcoat. It must have been terrible, she said. Were many people killed?

‘Quite a number, my lady, but not as many as you’d expect, not given the number of planes that flew over us and the amount of bombs they dropped.’

She told him how brave he was, and he must take this sausage, please… no, I insist. Was it mostly good Germans killed, or slave labourers?