Martin kept his tone light. “When did they break it off?”

  “What? About a year ago.”

  The taxi was slowing. Rudi had asked to be put down in the Leipzigerplatz.

  “What’s Hedda doing now?” Martin asked him.

  “She’s a nurse, at the University Hospital.” His smile was cynical. “I think she went into nursing to avoid her National Labor Service.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s a fine profession. Think of the pride, the responsibility ”

  Rudi’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing. When the taxi drew in to the curb he got out at once, without offering his hand. “It was a pleasure to see you again,” he said with cool formality. “You must try to keep your country out of the war. We should remain friends, don’t you agree?” His heels came together smartly. “Heil Hitler!"

  LONDON, 15 AUGUST 1939

  The three men had come together in the small stuffy room at the top of the house in St. James’s Street: a king’s equerry, a military officer and an American. They were a few minutes early, and the fourth man had not yet arrived. It was evening, and the sunset cast a ruddy glow across the rooftops, so that the whole city looked as if it were on fire.

  “Just how important is this operation?” the American asked. This time last evening he had been in Washington.

  “It’s hard to say,” the officer told him, “specifically.” He stood at the lattice window, watching the silent conflagration of the sunset. “But it goes right up through the hierarchy of British Security Coordination and the man we call Intrepid. And ultimately, of course, to the king.”

  “I don’t see how this whole thing works,” the American said in slight exasperation. “I mean, where does Chamberlain come into it? And what about Kennedy?”

  The equerry swung around to look at him, speaking before the officer. “It isn’t a question,” he said with careful articulation, “of whether England is prepared to go to war with Hitler. It’s a question of whether a few key people—Churchill, Intrepid, yourself and certain others—are prepared to out maneuver Chamberlain and his appeasers, and indirectly your own ambassador, and try to stop the Nazis from invading and overrunning this island.” His voice was quiet with worry and fatigue; in the past few weeks he had slept only a few hours each night. “So Chamberlain doesn’t come into it at all, and neither does your ambassador. They are being kept totally uninformed of our plans, and we are working, in fact, against them. We have to. We want England to survive. Without the ultimate authority of the king, of course, our acts would be treasonable.”

  The American lit a cigar, throwing the match into the ashtray with a jerk of frustration. “But Jesus, how can a democracy with a parliament do things like this? I mean, I’m delighted—it wouldn’t work otherwise, but . . .”

  “We are also a monarchy,” the equerry said, “and by ancient charter the directors of British secret intelligence are confirmed in their appointments by the monarch. And thank God for it, because otherwise we could do nothing except stand by and watch the Prime Minister and his appeasers scuttle the kingdom—and the rest of the free world with it.” He looked reflectively at the American. “In just the same way, you are directly responsible to Roosevelt, and in the utmost secrecy, leaving the State Department totally uninformed. So you shouldn’t really find our methods so surprising. These are desperate times, and we must choose desperate measures.”

  “Churchill,” added the officer, “has very limited powers without the king’s authority, even as First Lord of the Admiralty. Of course, if he ever becomes Prime Minister he can take over the whole thing himself, quite legitimately.” He said slowly as an afterthought, “As a matter of fact I think it’s the only hope we’ve got.”

  They turned suddenly as the door opened and a civilian in a gray alpaca suit came in. “Am I late?” he asked, and moved energetically to the end of the table, the carnation in his buttonhole glowing as he switched on the lamp.

  “No, sir,” the equerry told him. “We arrived a little early.”

  “Splendid.” He dropped his black briefcase on the chair next to him and took out some papers. “Then let’s get on.”

  The meeting lasted over three hours, and it was past ten o’clock when the American and the king’s equerry left together, going down the rickety stairs and out through the narrow door by the tailor’s shop. In the room at the top of the house, now full of tobacco smoke and littered with papers, the officer said to the civilian:

  “There’s one last matter, sir, if you have a moment.”

  “Very well. But for heaven’s sake let’s open a window. Not a cigar man, myself.”

  “Quite so, sir. But fortunately, it’s the worst thing we can say about him.”

  “Oh, absolutely. Stout fellow, yes. So Roosevelt’s in with us, providing they re-elect him.” He banged one of the windows open, disturbing a pigeon outside. “You know, there is just a chance for us all. One in a thousand, but a chance.” He came back to his chair and began putting the papers into his briefcase. “But you were saying—?”

  “We’ve had a signal from Brooks, sir, at the Embassy in Berlin. He’s got a man for us.”

  “A man?”

  “For ‘Damocles.’ ”

  “Oh.” The man in the gray suit looked up quickly. “I’m listening.”

  “Educated Tonbridge and Oxford. He left—”

  “Is he any relation to Sir Thomas Benedict, by the way?”

  “Yes, sir. His son.”

  “Thank you. Please go on.”

  “Well, these are the salient points of the information we’ve gathered so far. I’ll run through it briefly. He speaks faultless German, according to Major Brooks. He was in Berlin from a very early age and has made nine later visits in all, perfecting the language at the University in 1934. He is now thirty-two years old.” The officer swiveled his chair to get more light on the papers. “He was on the London stage for two years, mainly feature parts but playing the lead in Cyrano de Bergerac for six weeks—a success with good reviews. Before he applied for a commission in the Intelligence Corps he took a group of people on safari in Africa, and another group along the Amazon for research in tropical diseases. He then—”

  “Is he medically qualified in any way?”

  “There’s nothing mentioned, sir, no.”

  “Go on.”

  “He then started racing at Brooklands, but crashed and gave it.up at his parents’ request—he was nearly killed when the car rolled over, flinging him clear. Among his other exploits was a tussle with a burglar at his father’s country house in Surrey—he came close to injuring the man fatally, because the burglar was disturbed in his mother’s bedroom and Benedict thought she was in some danger—he had a knife. Benedict threw him against a wall and broke his back.”

  “He’s a big chap?” asked the civilian.

  “No, sir. Six feet tall, but rather thin. It was just that he was afraid his mother might get hurt.”

  “He’s not normally irascible?”

  “Apparently not, though he once challenged another actor to a duel in Richmond Park, during the time when Cyrano was running. Something about a girl. The police broke up the duel before anybody got hurt.”

  The civilian fingered his iron-gray moustache contemplatively. “Sounds rather a fidget. What about actual brains?”

  “The official and confidential intelligence ratings are very high. The psychologist’s report describes him as reflective, observant and intuitive. Self-confident, slow to take offense.”

  “Girls?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s perfectly—er—conventional.”

  “He’s not engaged?”

  “No, sir. He saw rather a lot of a girl named Hedda in Berlin, but when he returned to England the relationship faded out. She was herself engaged to be married.” The civilian got up and stretched his legs a little. “What about the other four candidates?”

  “Only one of them speaks perfect German, and he’s only twenty-five years old. Too young for the particular mission we’re thinking of.”

  “Too young for the rank.”

  “Quite so.”

  The man in the gray alpaca suit stopped his pacing in front of the open window, feeling the cool air on his face and listening to the quiet murmur of the city, thinking how peaceful it was, and doubting that it would long remain so. “The reports from Danzig are not reassuring. The roads are blocked with barriers and tank traps. Light artillery and machine guns are being brought across the Nogat from East Prussia, by night. The city itself is jammed with German lorries and troop transports. In other words, Danzig is under intensive militarization.” He turned away from the window. “So there may not be much time left to us, to establish our man in Berlin. Please get hold of this chap Benedict as soon as possible and ask him if he’s willing.”

  BERLIN, 16 AUGUST 1939

  “Give me a number 5.”

  The circulating nurse selected the catheter from the unit.

  “That’s a 5?”

  “Yes, Doktor.”

  “It’s bigger than I want.”

  She handed him a number 6. The new line of catheters was numbered in reverse proportion to their size.

  “A 6?”

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  He cut into the artery wall and made the insertion, feeling the pulse after pressurizing. “Better. Much better.”

  The ulnar artery had been partially severed: it was a crushed forearm case, a munitions worker. The surgeon began making fine sutures. The time was now 10:31 at night; they had begun operating just before 5:00 p.m. Two
  The surgeon next began suturing the tendons.

  “The grafting will have to wait for a few days. The tissues are too swollen. My main concern at the moment is infection.” He was speaking chiefly to the trainee nurse standing next to the anaesthesiologist. She had been very good, except once when an instrument had fallen and she’d stooped to pick it up. “Kick it aside,” the senior scrub nurse had told her sharply.

  “All right,” the surgeon said now. “We’re going to begin closing.”

  At 11:47 he dropped the last needle on to the bloodied tray and walked away from the operating table, standing for a moment near the basins and lifting his shoulders and head as high as they would go, his eyes clenched tightly; then he slumped suddenly, relaxing.

  “Very good, Fräulein. You were very good.”

  “Thank you, Doktor.”

  The smell of the antiseptic was making her sick, but it would be another fifteen minutes before she could leave here. The surgeon was speaking again.

  ‘Take him to Recovery. And watch for signs of infection. Watch like hawks. Like eagles.” He bent over the basins and knocked a tap on with his elbow, moving his feet slowly up and down like a tame bear, to get the circulation back. It was 11:51.

  “Who?”

  “A Herr Benedict,” the desk nurse said.

  “I don’t know any Herr Benedict.” She didn’t want to know anyone at all; she wanted to get home and drop onto the bed and sleep, and sleep. It had been her first operation.

  “An Englishman,” the desk nurse told her.

  “What?” She looked along the corridor to the waiting room and saw a man with fair hair, pacing. Then she remembered, and went toward him, thinking she should hurry, and try to look more pleased to see him.

  “Martin!” she said, but it sounded false, too bright. It was just because she was tired.

  He stood holding both her hands, watching her eyes.

  “I came at a bad time,” he said quietly.

  Other things came back to her: his quick understanding, his quietness. They had been singing together, the last time she had seen him, arm in arm with Peter and Rudi and Liese and the others, marching away from the Sportpalast with the crowds, singing Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles until they grew tired of it. At least, she remembered now, Martin hadn’t been singing. He and Peter had been arguing about the anti-Jewish posters along the railway embankment, and the way the Führer had left his box early to avoid having to shake hands with Jesse Owens, the American Negro. Peter had said it was nothing to do with that.

  “No,” she told Martin, “it’s not a bad time at all. Not to see you.” She managed a laugh of pleasure. “It’s been three years!”

  “Yes.” He kept her hands in his, watching her quietly. She looked tired, he could see, but more than that. There was a reticence, a withdrawal; he felt he was looking at her from a long way off. “Let me take you home. Is that where you’re going?”

  “Yes. It’s been a long day.”

  They began walking together to the revolving doors. “Do you still live in the Grünewald?” he asked her.

  “Yes. But a different place. A flat of my own.” He took her arm as they went down the steps to the street. “How long have you been waiting for me?” she thought to ask.

  “I came here at about seven o’clock.” He began looking for a taxi.

  “Since seven?” She looked at her watch, then up at his face, “But Martin . . ”

  “After three years,” he smiled gently, “a few hours didn’t make much difference.”

  * * *

  They swam in the Havel, all morning, and had lunch at the little cafe near the bridge.

  “Do you see Peter these days?” Martin asked her. “No. He is an SS officer.” She glanced around her.

  “I ran into Rudi yesterday. Rudi Mahler.”

  “He is in the same unit.” Her tone was curt.

  All the morning they’d talked about the times they’d shared before, and the people they’d known here in Berlin; and she’d told him something of her childhood, asking him about England and his family. They had unconsciously avoided discussing the new Germany, or the National Socialists; but this couldn’t be kept up forever, and they both knew it. So much had happened in Germany since they’d last seen each other.

  “It’s strange,” Hedda told him as they drank their coffee, “about your sister.”

  “Yes. Well, not entirely. She was always rallying to some romantic cause or other, head high and banners flying.”

  Hedda was silent for a moment, looking down. “The Nazi cause is romantic?”

  “She thinks so.”

  “Do you think so?” She didn’t look up.

  “No. They’re a pack of gangsters.”

  Now she raised her eyes, quickly. “You knew it was safe for you to say that, didn’t you?”

  He smiled. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have said it.” They were both speaking softly. The nearest people were a few tables away and they were in the open air, with the river drifting past toward the bridge. Watching her, he didn’t want to talk about the Nazis, or Vanessa’s stupid idolatry, or anything except the young woman who sat opposite him with her quiet eyes and her dark hair still wet from swimming, and the soft laugh that had sometimes come when they’d been splashing about in the water and he’d managed to make her forget whatever it was on her mind. It was something serious, he knew that now; but he wasn’t going to ask. .

  “I think,” he said slowly, still watching her, “you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She smiled briefly. “Thank you.” Then she withdrew into herself again, and so deeply that he felt she was hardly with him. “I’ve got to go soon. I’m on duty again at three.”

  “All right.” He had to control the urge to ask her what had happened in her life since they’d last met, so that he could know her a little better before he had to get on the plane for London, the day after tomorrow.

  “You’re always so gentle, Martin. I remember it so well. You never question, or insist.” She put her hands on the table, palm upward, so that he could hold them. “That was why I liked you so much. Why I like you.” Her eyes were wet, and she closed them, and said with her hands in his and her voice faltering, “Last week they arrested my brother, and I’m terribly frightened for him.”

  Martin drew a long breath. “Franz?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “He was distributing leaflets, and putting posters up, and that sort of thing.” Her voice was shaking now and he strengthened his fingers around hers, waiting for her to go on, giving her time to control herself. She wanted to break down and cry but he knew she wasn’t going to; he was remembering things about her that he thought he’d forgotten. “He’s only seventeen years old,” she said after a little while. “That’s so young.” Martin paid the bill and they left the table, walking slowly down the sloping grass to the river; it was difficult to talk with people around.

  “Where is Franz now?” he asked Hedda.

  “In one of the KZs.”

  His mouth tightened. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  They walked through wild flowers, reached the bank and sat there, watching the water. “Which one, do you know?”

  “Someone said it was Buchenwald.” She still spoke in almost a whisper, though they were alone now; it was because she was talking about something that couldn’t be true, that mustn’t be put into words. “They took me along for interrogation, for three hours. But I didn’t know anything about it.” With sudden soft impatience —“I couldn’t even have imagined how incredibly stupid he was being.”

  Martin had his arm around her shoulders, but couldn’t make her stop trembling. “Can’t your father do anything?”

  She shook her dark head. “No. He’s in disfavor already. He spoke his mind recently at a military briefing, and Hitler was there. Hitler doesn’t trust any of his generals. He’s afraid of their intelligence.”

  “And power.”

  “They haven’t got any power left,” Hedda said. “They simply have to obey orders.”

  A water bird sped from the bridge and skimmed the surface of the water, scooping up an insect and leaving ripples.