It happened much quicker than he’d expected. He was toying with the idea of going into a shoe shop, from which he’d be able to look into the street, until he noticed two German officers in there. He was about to cross the road when he spotted Agent Horatio coming in his direction on the same side as him. Knudsen was much taller than he’d appeared to be from the other side of the canal, and as such he was easy to pick out in the crowd. He was dressed as before, with a dark trilby-style hat and a long raincoat. He was carrying a black umbrella and wore the kind of half-smile that seemed to be a permanent feature of naturally jovial people. Peter Rasmussen was about to find out if this was true.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

Knudsen paused, still smiling. He raised his eyebrows in response. Can I help you?

‘I was wondering if you could tell me where the Amalienborg Palace is?’

Prince had wondered whether he should add that he was from Helsingør, but Hanne had advised against it. Stick to saying what he’s been told you’ll say. If you deviate from it, he may think something’s wrong.

Knudsen bowed his head as if to indicate he was happy to help. ‘It depends on whether you’d prefer to approach it from Frederiksgade or Amaliegade.’ Another smile.

‘I’d like to approach it from whichever way is closest to the church with the big dome.’

Knudsen nodded his head and the smile faded. ‘Walk a while with me. We are actually walking away from the Amalienborg, but never mind, no one would have heard us. We obviously cannot talk now. Do you know where I live?’

Prince nodded.

‘I’ll make sure I’m back there by five thirty this afternoon. There’s a rear entrance, which you can access through Heibergsgade. I shall unlatch that door at five thirty-five. Let yourself in and reset the latch. Maybe if you carry a parcel that will help. Come straight up to my apartment.’

Prince doffed his cap and thanked Otto Knudsen very much. The older man was pointing, as if giving directions. His other hand was gripping Prince’s forearm; he could barely contain his excitement. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve finally made contact. We have so much to talk about! I was expecting to see you weeks ago. Whatever happened?’

Chapter 9

London, November 1942

It had been raining for three days and four nights and Tom Gilbey – not a religious man, despite dutifully accompanying his wife to church most Sundays – was beginning to agree with colleagues describing the constant downpour as being of biblical proportions.