T-Force was the invisible wasp of the army, gobbling prey then dying away. Top secret. The bigwigs on the ground didn’t know. John couldn’t blow that cover, even with Arthur’s recommendation. He’d be in worse trouble than he already was.

He stared into the distance, willing her to appear, sauntering between the tables, sitting with her skirt tucked tight around her thighs. Not ruched around her waist. Not raped. Murdered. Lieselotte. Who was she? He knew nothing about her. She had been expendable. No more than an object, like her clock, or this glass. He picked it up, swirling the drink around so it rose and fell, coating the sides with an amber sheen. He stared at it, at her eyes reflected there. He gulped it down, her image dissolving.

John stood up and threw the glass onto the ground, where it shattered into a thousand shards.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Berlin: July 1945

She woke up, startled by the birdsong, by an unease, as if there’d been an explosion, or a door banging. Lieselotte’s side of the bed was empty. Bette flung back the cover but the sheet was smooth, the pillow plumped up. Lieselotte had not returned.

Bette swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, going to the window, leaning out. The bedroom faced the back courtyard and the place was deserted. Lieselotte had said she’d never leave her. But she had. She’d run off. That’s why she hadn’t let Bette go with her yesterday, because she was eloping. With her soldier.

Or Boris. Boris. She was carrying his baby, after all, and he’d said he would marry her.

She fingered her nightdress, scrunching it between her fingers, staring into the early-morning silence. What should she do? Who could help her? Frau Weber? Frau Weber had changed. She was drunken, coarse, played up to Greta’s father, told Bette she wasn’t wanted.

Bette sat down on the side of the bed. Lieselotte wouldn’t leave her to marry Boris, or anyone. She just wouldn’t. She’d said she knew a doctor who would fix the baby. Perhaps that’s where she was going yesterday. Something had happened to her. She’d had an accident. Or died. How would Bette know? Who would tell her? Her sister was missing, but there were so many in the same boat, there was no point in adding Lieselotte to a list, even if she knew where to report her. Perhaps she’d joined the refugees, the people finding a way home or running to safety. She’d heard about them, though they hadn’t seen so many in Mitte, not coming into the heart of Berlin. Only leaving. Would the Americans know? Or the British? She wouldn’t do that without Bette. Unless she’d gone ahead to pave the way, would send for her later.