Maybe she would be all right in this new position. Maybe it would stretch her just enough. Maybe the firm but fair authority of Hall and Hambro would be just what she needed.

Maybe he’d have only simple things to worry about while he was away . . . like the German agents out to identify and eliminate him. Far more easily managed than a sister who was afraid to leave her flat.

Water. It closed in around him. Rushing, thundering, filling his vision and his lungs and his every sense. Black and turbulent and overpowering. He thrashed against it, trying to find his way to the surface. But the depths sucked at him as the ship went down. They reached greedy fingers toward him.

He could hear only the roar of the water, but he could imagine the rest. The screams of the other passengers. The shrill whistles. The hundreds of feet pounding toward the lifeboats.

He sucked in a breath and coughed. Coughed until the blackness cleared and blinding white replaced it and he convulsed his way off the pillow. His hands found not the wood of the lifeboat’s sides, nor the life vest he’d snatched, but rather the cot of the hospital bed he’d been in . . . how long now? A day? A week?

Boynton. He coughed again and cursed the very name in his mind. Cursed the blasted U-boat that had fired its torpedoes at it. Cursed the order that had told him to be on it.

Another cough came from the bed beside his. He peeled his eyes open to see his neighbor wiping at his mouth. Their eyes caught. The other fellow jerked his head toward the game board he’d set up on the rickety table between their beds and lifted his brows in question.

They hadn’t told each other their names. What did it matter? They’d play a few rounds while they were both in hospital, then they’d go their separate ways. The end.

Anonymity. His best friend.

He nodded and, after convincing his diaphragm to relax, swung his legs over the side of the cot.

How long before he could get out of this place? He had to get back to his flat. Check for messages. Get word to the Continent that he would be delayed.

Try to determine if the High Command had purposefully tried to kill him.

“You take black today.”

He nodded and accepted the little velvet bag of game pieces. He’d always preferred black. Something about making the first move made the whole game seem more conquerable.

“I usually prefer black,” his neighbor said. With what might pass for a smile on his lips, he shoved a handful of disheveled hair out of his eyes. “But you seem a good bloke.”

“Do I?” His voice sounded scratchy and hoarse to his own ears. And his lungs still burned.