The major smiled. ‘On the other hand, if we think they’re getting suspicious, we’ll try and pull you out in time. Don’t worry.’ The major waved his hand, dismissing him. ‘Your handler will take you through it. Operation Birdcage. That’s its name from now on. Rather good, isn’t it? What with the sighting of that roller…’ He checked his watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

John pushed his chair back, saluted.

‘Good chap, that officer,’ Major Buchanan said, once the major had gone.

‘I’m sorry,’ John said. ‘What was his name again?’

‘Goodfellow,’ Major Buchanan said. ‘Appropriate, eh? Major James Goodfellow.’

‘Sir.’ John tipped his forehead, turned on his heel and left. He’d have liked to have had a drink with Arthur, but Arthur was already back home, and this new task was top secret. Arthur hadn’t given him advice, not in so many words. Just a name that in the end Major Buchanan called in. But the implication had been clear. Face up to it, and take the consequences.

John went into the mess, bought himself a beer, retreated to a corner. His stomach gurgled, juices and adrenalin storming inside him, while his mind saw her body, sacrificed for him.

He wasn’t cut out for the murky world of intelligence. He couldn’t lie to save his life. It wasn’t right. He gulped his beer, swallowed too hard so it clogged his gizzard. This pain was how he felt, choked and angry. He’d been pushed into a corner by the Russians, he knew that. His idiocy had led to Lieselotte’s death, and now his damned weakness had been manipulated by his own side. He slammed his fist on the table, making the glass tilt. He grabbed it before it toppled, ignored the scowls of the bartender. He didn’t want to do this. He should have accepted demotion, imprisonment, or any other punishments the army meted out to those who broke the rules. Risked the wrath of his father, sullied the family reputation. Could he run away? Go AWOL? Desert? Join the French Foreign Legion? Did he have the courage? No. He was a coward, drifting flotsam swallowed by any strong-armed current. He couldn’t even say no. Perhaps he could pretend he was a refugee and hide out in some DP camp. They’d shoot him if they found out. He’d prefer that.

He swallowed his beer, went up to his room, lay face down on the bed, pulling the pillow over his head. Screwed up his eyes and wept.

§

The lieutenant said his name was Anatoly.

‘One Minox camera. Two cartridge. Our list.’ He handed John a slim package. ‘There is kiosk by the Kochstrasse U-Bahn. Every Friday at 5 p.m. on time you pick up copy of the Deutsche Volkszeitung. You slip cartridge inside, hand seller money, he give you paper. New instruction. New film.’