‘Who is it?’ Foolishly, he spoke in English. He quickly repeated the question, this time in Danish. He could hear the fear in his own voice, his mouth and throat dry.

‘Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.’

He found himself breathing fast and realised he was gripping the sheet, as if to prevent himself from falling off the bed. This was the first line of the code Agent Osric was to use, the code he was meant to respond to. But hearing the voice had shocked him, and in his confusion, he had to think carefully about his reply, despite having rehearsed it a dozen times each day.

‘I am satisfied in nature, whose motive in this case should stir me most to my revenge.’

It was like being back at school, forced to the front of the class to reluctantly recite Shakespeare.

Osric took a step into the room. ‘How is it, Laertes?’

He was ready now with his response, the final part of the code. ‘Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric. I am justly killed with mine own treachery.’

Agent Osric turned on the bedroom light. ‘Let’s hope not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That bit about your own treachery. He wouldn’t approve, would he?’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, come on – your William Shakespeare. He wouldn’t approve of us changing Hamlet round like that, would he?’

Prince was out of bed now and putting on his dressing gown. He couldn’t take his eyes off Osric. ‘I think Shakespeare would approve; he’d understand the circumstances.’ He realised he was talking too fast.

He followed Osric into the small lounge, where they sat facing each other, working out what each was about.

‘But I’m not sure,’ said Prince, ‘Shakespeare would have wholly approved of the part of Osric being played by a woman.’

She laughed, tossing her head back and allowing her long dark hair to fall on either side of her shoulders.

Prince had assumed Agent Osric would be a man: nothing they’d told him in England had given him cause to believe otherwise. He was worried his obvious surprise might be seen as disapproval. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, more or less the same age as him. She had dark eyes, which darted around, a noticeable turn to her lips, and jet-black hair. She spoke with a cultured Copenhagen accent, and as friendly as she appeared, there was an almost familiar authority to her voice. She was, unquestionably, someone who was accustomed to telling people what to do.

Chapter 6

Copenhagen, November 1942

‘We need to have a proper talk.’ Agent Osric leaned back in her armchair, relaxed but alert, her eyes carefully working him out. She’d propped her right elbow on the arm of the chair, holding it upright so her lit cigarette pointed to the ceiling, a spiral of grey-blue smoke looking as if it came from her forefinger.