He wasn’t much older than John, but he was confident, assured. He handed over the slim package and John slipped it inside his pocket. Anatoly nodded. The evidence was out of sight.

‘No talk. No questions. You pay man at kiosk, you go. Understand?’

John had been assigned a driver, Corporal Baxter, from Arbroath.

‘My orders, sir,’ he said, handing John a sheet of paper. Fridays. 16:15 pick-up. 16:30 collect Birdcage as instructed. 17:00 transaction. 17:05 return barracks. ‘Until further notice.’

The meetings with the handler came later. John never knew where or when. A shadow from a portico, an unexpected companion at the bar, a do you have a moment? at the end of the day. Certainty. Uncertainty. It blanked his mind so only memories remained, piled high in the rubble of his life.

Lieselotte. Had she been recovered from the canal? Buried with a name? Or was she fished from the water and dropped in a communal grave? Not knowing chewed at him, grieving drowned him, tear by tear. And all the time. This mission. His official job hadn’t changed, appearances were being kept up, except there was probably a handwritten note of it in some War Office file and a duplicate in MI6. At what point would the Russians realise he was spinning them along? That he was passing them duds? How long before the garrotte tightened round his neck too? How long before his body was tossed into the slurry of the Landwehr canal?

Fear was a gale that blew his breath away. Fridays it was a tornado, spinning him round, John caught in its eye, not knowing where he’d land.

The film was in its envelope, the checklist marked up. He had no idea what it contained, what messages were sent. It was in his breast pocket, ready to be whipped out and inserted in the newspaper. He could feel that final rush of adrenalin as he prepared to step out of the car. Corporal Baxter slowed down. The kiosk was shut.

‘Don’t stop,’ John said. ‘Drive past.’

‘Round the block, sir?’

5 p.m. on time.

‘No,’ John said. ‘Return to barracks.’ Baxter did a U-turn, and they passed behind the back of the kiosk. Anatoly was leaning against it, lighting a cigarette, hands cupped over the match, eyes focused down. He looked up as John drove past, shook the match dead and threw it into the gutter.

§

Orders were orders. Major Buchanan didn’t waste time.

‘Your translation duties are terminated with T-Force,’ he said. ‘You’ve been reassigned. International Military Tribunal. Nuremberg. Start Monday. Leave tomorrow. Thank you, Second Lieutenant.’ He held out his hand, and John took it. ‘It’s been a pleasure working with you. Good luck.’ He saluted, turned, walked away.