‘Once British intelligence knew the Germans were going to take control of France, we started recruiting agents who’d stay and work behind enemy lines. We don’t know how – a double agent, torture or whatever – but the Germans got hold of the names and addresses of every British agent working in Europe, including mine.

‘The Nazis captured and killed more than two dozen agents when they invaded Belgium and Holland. Our people in France had time to escape, but our cupboard is now bare. As far as I’m aware, I’m the only operational agent left in France.’

‘Sounds bad,’ Marc said, nodding.

‘What about Mannstein?’ Henderson asked. ‘You said his name cropped up.’

‘They mentioned a hotel where he was staying. The Etalon, I think. And the Oberst – the head Gestapo guy – he said he was going there to commandeer the hotel.’

Henderson sounded excited. ‘The Oberst! Oberst Hinze was here?’

Marc shrugged. ‘They just called him Oberst.’

‘Tall guy,’ Henderson said. ‘Slicked back hair and a funny kind of lump on the side of his neck?’

‘That’s him exactly,’ Marc said. ‘He’s the bastard who ripped my tooth out.’

‘You’re lucky that’s all he did,’ Henderson said. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. Mind you, you can say that about most of the men you see in a black uniform.’

‘Why black?’ Marc asked.

‘Green uniforms are worn by ordinary German soldiers. Most of them were called up to fight for Germany just like French and British boys were called up to fight for the allies. Black uniform is the SS. That’s the elite Nazi regiments, which includes the Gestapo. They’re fanatics. Hardcore Nazis who answer only to Hitler.’

‘He certainly strutted round here like he owned the place,’ Marc said.

‘And Mannstein is at the Hotel Etalon?’

‘That’s what they said.’

Henderson smiled. ‘That’s one of the most useful pieces of information I’ve heard all week. What else?’

‘There was a phone call as they were leaving. Some kids in Tours, trying to contact you.’

Henderson looked mystified. ‘I don’t know any kids.’

‘Potente pretended that he was you. They were talking about plans and he was going down south to meet them or something.’

‘Digby Clarke?’ Henderson asked.

Marc nodded. ‘Yeah, they mentioned that name. He’s dead apparently. It was his daughter that telephoned and Potente is going down to this place in Tours to collect the plans and interrogate his kids about you.’

Henderson slapped his hands against his cheeks. ‘Shit,’ he shouted, standing up and lashing out at a waste-paper basket. ‘I can’t believe Clarke’s dead. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

‘We can’t stay here,’ he continued – calmer, but only slightly. ‘If the Gestapo find the guard I killed they’ll kill you out of spite, along with anyone else who happens to be in the neighbourhood. How are your legs? Are you up for a walk?’