‘Smooth enough flight out: kept to twelve thousand feet over the North Sea, speed averaging a decent two seventy. Bit of flak over German Bight, but I’m not sure we were the target. Crossed the Danish coast at Thyborøn, if that’s how you pronounce it, and then headed east-south-east towards the drop zone. Descended to five thousand over the lake north-west of the target zone and then followed normal protocol for dropping an agent: swift descent to six hundred feet, held that in a loop for as long as the engine could bear it, then pulled the hell out of the throttle and up to twenty thousand by the time we were over the North Sea again. Spotted a couple of German night fighters just off the Frisian Front but we soon told them to fuck off—’

‘Language, please, Green, we have a guest…’

The pilot looked towards Hendrie as if it were the first time he’d seen him. Hendrie noticed that despite the young pilot’s apparent insouciance, there was a noticeable twitch on one of his eyelids and he was constantly clasping and unclasping his hands.

‘Sorry, sir, where was I?’

‘Just off the Frisian Front, I believe – some German night fighters with whom you didn’t see eye to eye.’

‘Ah yes. Stepped on the accelerator after that, little bit of a headwind off the Norfolk coast and here we are!’

‘And I don’t suppose you saw anything on the ground?’

The flight lieutenant glanced at the group captain; both men looked surprised.

‘No, sir. We’d chosen a night with a small moon and plenty of cloud, as you know. Wouldn’t do for the Germans to have a clear view of no one jumping out of the Halifax, if you see what I mean, but by that same token, hard for us to see anything on the ground.’

Hendrie was driven straight from RAF Tempsford to MI6’s headquarters in Broadway. By the time he arrived in Gilbey’s office, he realised he’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours. He was on his third cup of coffee when Webster came in just after six, looking like a man who’d had a brush with death.

‘Are you all right, Webster?’ Gilbey sounded genuinely concerned.

‘Do you mind if I smoke, Tom? As you’re aware, I’d arranged for the message from the Randers group to be received by the Norwegian section, so no chance of Tindall getting the slightest inkling of it. I say, is there a coffee going?’