He was right, but John was in no position to plead with him, Keep quiet, please.

They had entered the Kurfürstendamm. The barman from the Blaue Engel was serving tables on the street.

‘We have transport back, sir,’ Arthur said. ‘In a while.’

John heard the words, nodded. Arthur beckoned the barman over as they came close.

‘Two brandies.’ He was walking and pointing to an empty table in the farthermost reach of the forecourt. John followed him over, sat down.

‘I should have listened to you,’ John said.

Arthur pulled out his cigarettes, took one and lit it, putting the pack away without offering it to John.

‘You’re on your own, sir,’ Arthur said.

The barman brought two large bulbous glasses filled to the brim, and a carafe of water and tumblers. He put them on the table, waited, his hand outstretched.

John reached for his wallet, pulled out the money, gave it to him. ‘Keep the change.’

Keep the change. A pittance.

John stared at the glasses, at the brandy refracting the light from the setting sun into a rainbow. How could he have been so idiotic? Mixed up Arthur in the whole business. He was about to be demobbed, to go back to civilian life, to his wife and little boy whom he’d never seen. He’d been fighting for five years. That was enough for any man. And he, John, had put that at risk.

‘I’m not asking for your help, sergeant,’ John said. ‘I’m thinking how I can extricate you from my mistakes.’

Lieselotte. Had he loved her? It had felt real. Had his feelings for her been reciprocated? Had she, too, wanted a quiet spot where they could be together? Even so, he should have kept her safe, been a man. She’d died as if by his own hand.

They knew a lot about him, those Russians. Who he was, what he did. They knew where to stick their stiletto in, where to turn it. How did they know that?

He took a long sip of the brandy, its warmth gliding across his tongue and down his throat, his brain coming alive as the alcohol hit. Too much would leave him with a thick head and a thundering pain, and he might welcome that later, but for now it lifted him, made his senses more alert, acute. Arthur’s face was in sharp focus, his ginger hair and freckles like a halo shedding gold dust. He hadn’t noticed how his hair was wavy, how his eyes were a deep, Atlantic blue.

‘Captain Thornton,’ Arthur was saying, ‘GSO3 in the Berlin Garrison. Perhaps best to make a clean breast of it.’ Adding, ‘Sir.’

John heard the name, leaned back in the chair, fingering his brandy, avoiding Arthur’s eye.

‘See what he can advise.’ Added, ‘Tell him I sent you.’