It was a warm day and Marc sat in an armchair with his shirt thrown on the floor beside him. When the news turned to music he closed his eyes and became engrossed in his tank commander fantasy: conquering countries in his smart German uniform by day and conquering pretty girls like Livia by night. Hitler would award him medals for bravery. He’d have a pretty wife in the country and a mistress or two in the city. One day he’d return to Beauvais in his officer’s uniform with a massive horse whip. He’d haul Director Tomas into the village centre and thrash him until he passed out. Then he’d run over the old fool’s legs in his tank.

The thought of Director Tomas with squashed legs made Marc laugh aloud. But his mirth was curtailed by a thunderous knock on the front door. He dived out of the armchair and crawled up to the bay window, where three men stood on the doorstep. One wore a pale suit, the other two wore the black uniform of the Gestapo – Hitler’s feared secret police.

When they didn’t get a response, the younger Gestapo officer ripped a pistol out of his holster and shot the lock off the front door. Marc jumped with fright, then switched off the radio and ran into the hallway as one of the Germans barged the front door open with his shoulder. This forced him to double back and squeeze into a gap between the wall and an armchair.

‘Henderson has left for the south,’ the man in plain clothes said irritably to one Gestapo officer, as another ran to search upstairs. ‘He knows we compromised all the leave-behinds in France. He’s got no reason to remain in Paris.’

‘No,’ the Gestapo officer said firmly. ‘Henderson will remain and try to set up a new spy network. I’ve questioned the British suspects myself and they all say that he’s most determined.’

‘Questioned – or tortured?’ the plain clothes man snorted. ‘People just say what you want to hear if you push them like that.’

‘I know my job, Herr Potente,’ the Gestapo officer snapped. ‘This is no longer your command. I have orders to run counter-intelligence operations in occupied Paris, and Henderson is our top priority.’

A second crash came at the rear of the house, as a Gestapo officer who’d been sent around the back kicked in a door and entered the kitchen.

‘Herr Oberst5,’ the black-uniformed man said, clicking his heels obediently and giving a Nazi salute. ‘Nobody tried escaping out the back. The houses on either side appear to be unoccupied.’