He couldn’t worry about that right now though. Hall wasn’t interested in grain—or at least that’s not what he’d sent him here to investigate. He moved down another row, calling for the dog now and then, until the black words he sought filled his torch’s circle of light.

Tungsteno.

Wolfram.

Yes! Drake flashed the light along the row, counting how many crates there were, making note of the weight stamped on them. He’d have to do the actual math later with paper and pencil, but a quick estimation was sufficient to confirm that this tonnage was enough to tempt the Germans to try to obtain it—and to tempt England to let them, so that they could then confiscate it.

Drake rounded the corner of the stack to make sure there were no more crates hidden behind what he could see. He’d done a bit of research on wolfram after Hall mentioned it—enough to know that it was crucial not only in armor plating but in weapons themselves. It was rather impressive, having the highest boiling and melting temperatures of any known metal, and had first been identified right here in Spain some hundred and thirty years before.

More importantly, it was here now, in this warehouse.

A scuffing sound made him pause. It was not coming from the front of the warehouse, where the guard presumably still stood sentinel, but from the rear. Another guard? He’d have thought the first would have mentioned if there were someone else who could help him search for the dog.

It almost sounded like a dog. Or some sort of animal, scraping and shuffling. Drake eased forward, switching off his torch and sliding it back into his pocket. Gripping the handle of his pistol instead, he pulled it out of his waistband. He’d never actually had to use it—but he would, if necessary.

It was probably just a big rat, scrounging for spilled grain. Or a cat. A dog. Nothing to warrant his alarm. He’d not assume so, though. He picked his foot up and set it silently back down, moving stealthily along until he could see the bar of afternoon light spilling through the scanty inches left open by the massive door at the rear.

Not an animal. A man, squeezing through the space, as Drake had considered and then dismissed doing. Someone out to liberate a few pounds of grain?

No. As the bloke squeezed through and stood, Drake caught a glimpse of his face. A face he’d seen before, skulking about much like he himself tended to do. Thus far he hadn’t found a name, but he was all but certain the man was a German agent—Drake’s opposite number.

In the same instant, the man spotted him and apparently recognized him just as quickly. In a flash, he’d whipped something from his own waistband and squeezed the trigger.