‘How utterly grim, after Bermuda.’

  ‘Yes, but if she ends up where I think she will, she’ll find her mind being stretched in ways no other place on earth can match. And for a mind as brilliant as hers, that matters more than sunshine and beaches.’

  ‘I can well believe that,’ Saffron agreed.

  She sat back, waiting for Stephenson to continue the conversation. Instead, he rose to his feet and said, ‘There’s something I want you to see. Follow me.’

  He led her out of the office, back down the hall to the elevators, and when one arrived, they took it to the top floor. Stephenson pushed open a door and Saffron was almost blinded by a sudden blast of dazzling sunlight, closely followed by the buffeting of a cool, fresh breeze. She blinked and realised she was standing in the middle of a roof garden – a green oasis five hundred feet in the air. Saffron heard the distant sound of a car horn coming from the avenue below. She looked out beyond the garden and gasped at the sight that met her eyes.

  To her right, the even taller RCA building rose sixty-five storeys from Rockefeller Plaza. To her left, she could look down at the tops of the twin cathedral spires. But in front of her, the whole of lower Manhattan was laid out, avenue by avenue, street by street, block by block, progressing down the island in geometric ranks towards the sea.

  ‘The skyscrapers of the Rockefeller Center have the best views in the city,’ Stephenson said. ‘Even better than the Empire State Building, because from here you can actually see the Empire State Building.’

  Sure enough, there it was, twenty blocks downtown.

  ‘And that’s the Chrysler Building,’ Stephenson said, pointing to a gleaming silver art deco spire, much closer. ‘One good thing about the war – there are no tourists in town, and no one else up here to bother us. Let’s take a stroll around the garden. We can talk as we go.’

  Stephenson set off without saying anything more, and to break the silence Saffron asked, ‘Can you tell me about the German code even Miss Keswick can’t break?’

  Stephenson grimaced. ‘I’m afraid not. Jerry hardly ever says anything that gets past our best people these days. But on this one, they’re completely stumped.’

  Saffron was never one to take no for an answer. ‘Surely, if you know where the messages are going, can’t you intercept them, or the person who picks them up?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. But a lot of intelligence officers in London resent the fact that I have Mr Churchill’s ear, and they don’t like the influence that my outfit has here in the States, any more than they like the things that you SOE people get up to. It required a lot of persuading and a word from Number 10 to make the Secret Intelligence Service take these Gerald letters seriously. Finally, in March, they sent someone up to Östersund from Stockholm. Of course, we knew that there was a risk of tipping German intelligence off, but we couldn’t just sit on our backsides doing nothing. We were damned if we did and damned if we didn’t. But the head of SIS assured me personally that their man was highly competent and half-Swedish, so he spoke the language like a native. I gave them the go-ahead.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The SIS agent went to the address on the letters. It was to a tobacconist’s shop with two flats above it. One was where the shopkeeper and his family lived. The other was rented out to a couple. They had a child, but she was a little girl, aged three, called Magda. The agent spoke to both families. He explained that he was an official from the local school board, and had been informed that a boy called Oskar, living at that address, had been missing school. Now he was trying to find out what was going on. Naturally, he had all the appropriate paperwork. Both families said they knew nothing about any child called Oskar, so our man said that there must have been a mistake, thanked them for their time and departed.’

  ‘Isn’t the obvious explanation that the shopkeeper himself was Oskar Nykvist?’

  ‘Yes . . . except that SIS checked out all the people in that building, and they were, without exception, genuine Swedish citizens, born and raised in Östersund, with proper jobs and no connection to any known Nazi sympathizers. Just decent, law-abiding people.’

  ‘Except that they aren’t,’ Saffron said. ‘At the very least, one of them is acting as a courier, passing the messages on to the next person in the chain.’

  ‘Of course, but good luck finding them without some kind of freak stroke of luck. Take that Joe K case. The FBI had their best people on the job. But they didn’t have a thing until out of the blue, a man who called himself Don Julio Lopez Lido was hit and killed by a New York cab. It was an accident – Lido was jaywalking. But when the police went to the hotel room where he was living, they found a hoard of suspicious documents containing information about the US military, all written in German. This “Señor Lido” was an Abwehr agent called Ulrich von der Osten. The FBI joined the dots between Von der Osten and Joe K, alias Ludwig, and they rolled up a whole network. But if Von der Osten hadn’t tried to beat the lights on Seventh Avenue, they’d still be in business today.’

  ‘But this time, you can’t even talk to the FBI,’ Saffron said, ‘so the chance of catching the spy is even smaller.’

  ‘Not entirely. At least we know we’re looking for an Englishman.’

  ‘But how do you know he works at the embassy?’

  ‘We don’t, not for sure. But the embassy’s by far the biggest employer of British citizens in Washington DC. And there’s another thing. We intercepted ten messages. Eight contained postcards, but the first two contained original photographs. One of the photographs was of the British embassy, and it showed the classical portico at the front of the ambassador’s residence. That portico is not visible from the street. You have to be in the embassy grounds to see it.’

  ‘Presumably the embassy has lots of receptions and things like that. I seem to remember seeing newsreels of a tea party there for the King and Queen when they visited Washington before the war. Any guest could take a picture of the residence.’

  ‘Sure,’ Stephenson agreed. ‘That’s what the letter said. “I went to a party here, aren’t I lucky?” or something like that. Except there was no sign of a party in the photograph. No guests in smart clothes. No bar or buffet. Just a couple of men in suits walking in front of the building. Whoever took it was there during working hours.’

  ‘But that would be crazy, wouldn’t it? I mean, giving such an obvious clue.’

  ‘Yes and no. After all, look at it from Gerald’s point of view. You’re sending innocent messages, with no suspicious content, to a neutral country. If you’re working at the embassy, you probably know that your letter is going to be one of many, many thousands that our people sift through every week. Why should they pay any attention to it? And even if they do, your real message is coded inside a microdot, hidden in an image. So, irrespective of what the image portrays, what are the odds of anyone finding the message? We wouldn’t have done so if it hadn’t been for pure luck – an entirely unpredictable association of ideas inside Miss Keswick’s brilliant mind.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Saffron tried to put herself into the mind of the agent. ‘You said it was one of the first two messages. What if Gerald was new to this game and made a beginner’s mistake?’

  ‘They call that a rookie error over here. But I don’t think this is one. You see, I believe we’re dealing with someone who thinks he’s better than us. I’ll bet he doesn’t think we’re smart enough to intercept his messages. But in case we are, he wants to have a laugh at our expense. He’s taunting us, saying, “I can show you where I am, and you still won’t find me.”’

  ‘That makes sense. And if he was like that, the risk of exposure would be exciting, like a private thrill. So, what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Keep your ears open and your eyes peeled when you’re in Washington. I’ve been in touch with the ambassador, Lord Halifax. He knows that you’re with SOE, here to liaise with OSS and muster support on Capitol Hill. But there’s no need to tell the other embassy staff. None of them will be present at your private briefings or be invited to the social events you attend. And in any case, they’ll have their hands so full dealing with the conference, they won’t have time to waste wondering about you.’

  ‘Our usual procedure at Baker Street is to tell people that we work for an outfit that sounds so tedious that no one would ever want to talk about it,’ Saffron said. ‘The Joint Technical Board is one name we use. That sort of outfit might send someone to talk to their equally boring opposite number in Washington.’

  ‘That sounds perfect . . . Anyway, I suggested it would be nice if someone could put you up, so you didn’t have to be alone in a hotel, or sitting by yourself in a restaurant. There won’t be any room at the residence itself this week, for obvious reasons. Lady Halifax is, apparently, asking for volunteers.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better wish her luck! But, sir . . .’ Saffron stopped. There was a question she’d been wanting to ask, but she was worried it might sound as if she was teaching Stephenson to suck eggs.

  She felt those eyes bore into her. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I was wondering . . . why don’t you block this month’s letter? Don’t let it get to Sweden. As Miss Keswick said, wartime mail is unreliable. So, it would take two or three weeks at least for the Germans to be sure that their communications have been intercepted. You’d be buying some time.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Stephenson bluntly. ‘There was no message on April eighteenth. Not to Oskar Nykvist, anyway. I made the wrong call about sending a guy to Östersund. That just told the Germans we were on to them. Now their man here knows that, too.’

  Stephenson sighed, and for the first time Saffron sensed the pressure he was under. ‘Two of the most powerful men on earth are about to begin the talks that will determine British and American military strategy for the next two years,’ he said. ‘And there’s a very real danger that the Germans will have the whole thing served up to them on a plate.’

  ‘What about SIS? Can’t they look at the embassy staff?’

  ‘They claim they already have. They insist their men in the embassy have checked everything out, and there’s nothing to worry about. And they’ve persuaded Winston’s people to tell the old man that, too, but I don’t believe it for a second.’

  Saffron said nothing, caught up in the thoughts that Stephenson’s words – ‘checked everything out, and there’s nothing to worry about’ – had just triggered. Maybe I should tell him . . .

  He looked at her with a concerned frown. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just something that happened. I wasn’t going to tell you, but—’

  ‘Does it have anything to do with Gerald?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you tell me and I’ll be the judge?’

  So Saffron described the man on the motorbike who’d followed Stephenson’s limousine on the drive from the dock to the St. Regis.

  ‘Yes, Dalton told me about him,’ said Stephenson. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I’m sure I saw him again – at the St. Regis, when I was going to my room. I’d been out all evening. He was coming the other way, dressed in overalls, like a maintenance man. The way he looked at me, he wanted me to recognise him. And he’d definitely been in my suite, but the concierge’s desk had no record of any of their chaps being there while I was out. So he was working for someone else, presumably someone hostile. But I absolutely tore my suite apart, and I couldn’t find anything remotely suspicious. I was up half the night thinking about it.’

  ‘And what do you conclude now, in the light of day?’ Stephenson asked.

  ‘Well, I may just be going a bit mad. All the stress of being undercover in the Low Countries ruining my nerves.’

  ‘Or . . .?’

  ‘That maybe this whole Washington business is just like my room. That I’ll go round the bend trying to find something that just isn’t there.’

  ‘Or . . .?’

  ‘That someone knows I’m here . . . and they want me to know it.’

  ‘Why would they want that?’

  ‘To unsettle me, I suppose. Put me on edge. Get me doubting myself.’

  ‘Which they seem to have done quite successfully,’ Stephenson said. ‘But do you know what I think? This seems to me like a sign that we’re on to something. Otherwise, why would anyone bother going to all the trouble they’ve taken over you?’

  ‘I thought about that last night. But in that case, why not just kill me?’

  ‘History suggests that you’re not an easy woman to kill. But still, that is a good question.’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to get to the bottom of all this,’ said Saffron. ‘I’d better get to Washington right away.’

  ‘No, don’t. The embassy’s expecting you tomorrow evening, off the Congressional Limited. Stick to that schedule. The last thing we want is the woman who’s putting you up to complain to a friend that you’ve turned up unexpectedly.’

  Saffron nodded. ‘The friend tells another friend, Gerald hears about it. He starts asking around about me. The next thing I know, I’m a target, and I don’t even know who’s targeting me.’

  ‘So, the schedule stays.’

  Stephenson led Saffron back to the elevators. ‘Oh, one other thing,’ he added, as he pressed the button. ‘An army air force doctor, Lieutenant Stackpole, pitched up at our offices first thing this morning, just as we were starting work for the day. He said you’d met on the Queen Mary and agreed to meet in New York. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, because I told him he could reach you at the St. Regis. Now, I am under strict orders to look after you, from both your CO and your father. I even had a message from young Jock Colville first thing this morning, telling me that you’d made quite an impression on the PM. So, the least I can do is to invite you to join my wife, Mary, and me for dinner at the Copacabana club tonight.’

  Saffron forced herself to smile, knowing she could hardly say no. ‘That would be lovely, sir.’

  Stephenson nodded. ‘I think you’ll like the place. There’s a young man singing there tonight who’s the talk of the town right now. Tables are like gold dust. A pal of mine called me up and offered me a hundred bucks for my reservation. Said his two daughters would kill him if he didn’t get them in to see the show.’

  ‘So, if I change my mind you can still turn a nice profit.’

  Saffron said it deadpan, and for a moment she was worried that Stephenson had taken her seriously. But then he laughed and said, ‘Ha! I guess I can. But I hope you don’t. And look, if you’d like to see that doctor fellow, I get it. So, don’t worry, he’s welcome to join us. And us old folk will leave nice and early, right after the show, so you kids will be free to go out on the town together, make a real night of it.’

  Saffron beamed. ‘Thank you, sir. That all sounds wonderful . . . and no blackout to worry about. What bliss!’

  ‘You’re welcome. Stackpole will be reporting to the St. Regis at seven this evening. You need to be at the Copa by eight.’

  There was a ping as the lift arrived. The doors slid open. ‘It’s coming up to midday,’ said Stephenson as they got in. ‘Mary will be here any minute.’

  Sure enough, when they got back to the office a diminutive but elegantly dressed middle-aged brunette was there to meet them with a sweet smile, inspecting Saffron with shrewd brown eyes. ‘The store clerks in the ladieswear department are going to love dressing you, my dear,’ she said. ‘Such a perfect mannequin figure.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Saffron replied. ‘But I feel rather guilty for even thinking about shopping, when there’s so much for me to do.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Stephenson. ‘This is meant to be a holiday.’

  • • •

  T

  he hour hand on the clock beside Saffron’s bed had just reached seven, and she was about to give herself a dab of Chanel No 5 when the telephone rang. She picked up the handset and the concierge informed her that Lieutenant Stackpole had arrived. ‘Please tell him that I’ll meet him in the King Cole Bar.’

  Then she pulled the crystalline top off the bottle and basked for a second in the pure femininity of the scent, smiling as she thought back to the moment when she had first laid her hands on it.

  ‘You can’t get proper French scent in London anymore,’ Saffron had told Mary Stephenson. ‘Not unless you have contacts in the black market, and even then, it’s almost certainly fake.’

  But the manageress of the Saks perfume department had said that she might have one or two bottles left for special customers. And since Mrs Stephenson was just such a lady, she would see what she could find. When the bottle had been presented to her in its little box, Saffron had been overjoyed. It occurred to her now that she might even have squealed, which was something she tried not to do as a rule.

  It had been an auspicious start to an afternoon that, with Mary Stephenson’s encouragement, had turned into a pampering session on an epic scale, as a result of which Saffron now had perfect red nails, an elegant new hairdo and a brand-new suitcase filled with her purchases, all wrapped in tissue paper by the Saks staff. Amongst her hoard were four pairs of nylon stockings. They were unobtainable in London, and were even becoming hard to get – and correspondingly expensive – in America as the US military discovered that this new miracle fabric was good for a lot more than women’s hosiery.

  Saffron was wearing a pair now. The feel of them against her skin was not as luxurious as her favourite French silk stockings, but the way they clung to her legs amazed and excited her. She had set aside two more of her purchases for the night ahead: a pair of black evening shoes and a dark, midnight-green velvet dress, whose fabric criss-crossed over her bust, boosting her relatively modest curves, then fell in a close-fitting sheath to her knees, emphasising her lithe waist, hips and legs.

  She dabbed on the No 5, then took one last look in the mirror. Her reflection, an image of feminine sophistication, seemed like a stranger to Saffron. How long had it been since she had dressed for a night out? Not since Hardy Amies took me to dinner at the Dorchester, then dancing at the Embassy Club, she thought. My God, that must have been eighteen months ago, maybe more.