“There’s nothing wrong with my morale.”

I sit down and raise my glass. “To Thorpe.”

“To Benedict.” She closes her eyes as she drinks and sets down the glass with a bit of a bang. “Speaking of which. The funniest thing. You’ll never guess who stopped by my desk this morning.”

“Plain fellow, pockmarked, bump on the head?”

“Exactly. Told me he’d heard the awful news about my brother, assured me they would do their best to negotiate some sort of release, which of course is absolute bollocks. Nobody gets released from Colditz, especially not intelligence agents.”

“No?”

“No. Political prisoners receive the worst possible treatment. The only reason they keep them alive is to get more information out of them.”

“Thorpe won’t reveal anything.”

“You don’t think so? Not even when they pull out his fingernails? Dunk him in water until he’s nearly drowned? Burn him with a hot—”

Slam, goes my fist on the table.

Margaret lifts her eyebrows. “I’m sorry to have to explain a few truths to you, my dear, but there it is. That’s what they do to men like Thorpe. Women too. Didn’t you know that?”

“There’s no proof—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Lulu. Don’t be stupid. Anyway, even if they don’t torture him, or shoot him after some kangaroo trial, he won’t last the winter, not in Colditz. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be unkind, but it’s true. It’s where they send the worst prisoners, the incorrigibles. The escape artists. There’s no food left, no fuel to keep them warm. The guards are all brutes. He hasn’t a chance.”

“Except for us.”

“Us? What the devil are you talking about?”

“I mean you and me, working to save him.”

“Save him? What on earth?”

“Yes. Since the War Office isn’t going to help us—this Special Operations of yours—we could join efforts and—”

“Join efforts? Are you mad? What exactly do you plan to do, Mrs. Benedict Thorpe? Parachute into Germany and break down the gates with a siege gun?”

“Of course not. I thought you’d have a much better plan than that.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you work there, don’t you?”

Margaret sets down her knife and fork. “My dear girl. I believe you’ve been laboring under what they call a misapprehension. I’ve already explained. My brother’s the chap in the field, not me. I sit at my desk and shuffle papers about. Take dictation and type up reports and translate things.”

“But why? You’re brother and sister. You’re equally capable, I’m sure.”