‘They’ll be upriver, close to open sea by now,’ Henderson reckoned, after a glance at his watch. ‘There’s U-boats1 prowling and the captain will want to reach the English Channel before daylight.’

A courthouse spanned one side of the square, with a domed church opposite and a couple of gendarmes2 standing watch, their main purpose apparently to stop refugees settling on the church steps. The British consulate stood in a neat terrace of offices, jewellers, pawnbrokers and banks.

One end of this row had suffered structural damage from a bomb meant for the docks. Even in moonlight you could see the dramatically warped façade above a jeweller’s shop and broken roof slates swept to a tidy pile at the side.

With low-flying bombers and the German forces expected to reach Bordeaux within the week, the Union Jack flag had tactfully been removed from the consulate, but nothing could be done about the British lions woven into wrought-iron gates padlocked across the front door.

Several of His Majesty’s subjects gathered on the front steps, with noticeably better clothing and luggage than the refugees scavenging food along the dockside, but Henderson was wary. The Gestapo3 were still after him and they could easily have spies watching what remained of Bordeaux’s British community.

Henderson would stand out amongst the other Brits in his peasant clothing and Marc spoke no English, so rather than join the queue and wait for nine a.m., he led Marc around the rear of the terrace and was pleased to find that it backed on to a sheltered alleyway. The bombing had fractured a water pipe beneath the cobbles and their boots swilled through several centimetres of water.

‘Have you still got my torch?’ Henderson whispered, when they reached the rear door of the consulate.

The batteries were weak and the beam faltered as Marc scanned the brickwork. After snatching his torch Henderson squatted down and aimed light through the letterbox.

‘Nobody home,’ he said, as the metal flap snapped shut. ‘No sign of an alarm, no bars at the windows. If I give you a boost, do you reckon you can get yourself through the small window?’

Marc craned his head up as Henderson aimed the torch so that he could see.

‘What about the two cops in the square?’ Marc asked. ‘They’ll hear if the glass goes.’

Henderson shook his head. ‘It’s a sash window; you should be able to force it open with a lever.’

Henderson stepped back out of the puddle and found dry cobbles on which to lay and open his case. Marc noticed shadowy figures passing the end of the alleyway, then jolted at the distinctive click of Henderson loading his pistol.