‘Is that fair?’ Saffron asked. ‘The poor woman lost her fiancé.’

  Playfair lit another cigarette. ‘I know, and I feel for her,’ he said, exhaling smoke with every word. ‘I just can’t bear the way she uses her loss as a stick with which to beat any man of more or less fighting age who happens not to be in uniform.’

  ‘Charlie did try to join up, you know,’ Mavis said, coming to his defence. ‘Trouble was, no one would have him.’

  Playfair nodded. ‘Absolutely true. It was a matter of age. I was thirty-five when the war broke out, and the army’s looking for fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds. My service to king and country must thus be conducted as a member of the diplomatic corps. So here I am . . . And here you are, Miss Courtney, with your remarkably well-cut uniform and your intriguing decorations. So, what outfit do you serve in?’

  ‘The Joint Technical Board,’ Saffron answered.

  The fake name didn’t fool Playfair for a second. ‘Oh, you’re one of Gubbins’ Baker Street irregulars. Of course, should have guessed. And that explains your brief sojourn with Stephenson in New York. He’s frightfully hugger-mugger with SOE. So what on earth are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be parachuting into France pour encourager our French Resistance chums?’

  ‘France isn’t my territory. And my assignment in Washington is really a sort of rest cure.’

  Playfair’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Saffron. ‘And what assignment is that, exactly?’

  ‘Chatting up generals and senators to get them to look favourably on our efforts.’

  ‘Ah, yes . . .’ Playfair smiled. ‘But what’s the real reason you’re here, eh? Why did Gubbins send you off to see Stephenson?’ He exhaled slowly, and then his eyes brightened and his smile reappeared as he came up with the answer to his own question. ‘Oh, wait . . . Of course, silly me. You’ve been lent to Stephenson, haven’t you? He’s got you chasing up that ludicrous spy fantasy of his.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Saffron deadpanned.

  ‘Oh yes you do . . .’ Playfair gave an exhausted sigh. ‘I can’t believe this is all being dug up yet again. Listen, Saffron . . . Washington is the most important embassy we have, and there’s more than one person in it qualified to handle counter-intelligence operations. Please believe me, I implore you, that they are entirely satisfied that Stephenson is barking up the wrong tree with his belief that we have a spy in our midst.’

  ‘You seem very well informed about intelligence matters,’ Saffron said.

  ‘People are always saying that Charlie’s really a spy,’ said Mavis casually. ‘And they’re not wrong.’

  ‘Yes, they are, my dear, and you know it,’ Playfair said, with an edge of indignation. ‘Look, Miss Courtney . . .’

  ‘Please . . . call me Saffron.’

  ‘Well then, Saffron, the truth is, I have at times done the odd favour for the intelligence bods. Lots of diplomats have. When I was in Spain, my travels took me to places and I met people that were of interest to SIS. I snapped the odd photograph, borrowed a document or two. All pretty innocent stuff, part and parcel of my job as a diplomat.

  ‘Likewise, here in the United States, my role as political counsellor inevitably means that I pick up the odd bit of useful information. You know . . . an Irish Catholic congressman from New York is raising money for the Irish Republican Army. Or a Midwestern state governor with large numbers of German-American voters is privately expressing a worrying tendresse towards dear Adolf. That sort of stuff. Naturally, I pass it on.’

  ‘Does anyone ever pass things back to you?’ Saffron asked.

  ‘Well, one has the odd chat, and, after all, the whole point of conversation is that information passes in both directions.’

  Before Saffron could respond, the telephone inside the house started ringing. ‘Oh, bugger!’ Playfair muttered, before striding off to answer it. He reappeared a few seconds later and looked at Saffron. ‘It’s for you. And they called collect, so I’m paying.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Saffron said, getting to her feet.

  ‘The phone’s in the kitchen, of all ludicrous places.’

  Saffron went in, closing the garden door behind her, and picked up the handset. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Miss Courtney, my name is Jarvis. I work at the embassy. That is why I reversed the charges. It meant Playfair spoke to an operator, rather than me. He’d . . . um, know my voice at once.’

  ‘I see,’ said Saffron, wondering why Jarvis was so keen not to be identified by Playfair. His manner seemed hesitant – oddly nervous.

  ‘Not to beat about the bush, Miss Courtney, I know why you’re here, and I, er . . . I have information that you should see, concerning the men at the embassy who might be of interest to you. Perhaps we could meet up for a leisurely chat with another colleague of mine. There’s a place called the Dupont Bar and Grill, off Dupont Circle. Any taxi driver will know it. I’ll meet you at seven, but no need to tell the Playfairs. Mum’s the word, and all that.’

  Before Saffron could reply, the line went dead.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘I’ve got a date,’ Saffron said, as she re-emerged into the afternoon sunshine.

  ‘Ooh,’ cooed Mavis. ‘Is he handsome?’

  ‘Very,’ Saffron replied. ‘Most of the time. But he’s not at his best at the moment. A little bit battered and bruised.’

  ‘Poor chap.’

  ‘Poor me.’ Saffron laughed. ‘I’m the one who has to look at him.’ She reached into her bag, took out her purse and extracted a dime. ‘Silly me! I almost forgot . . .’ She handed Playfair the coin and added, ‘This is for the call.’

  ‘I’ll try not to spend it all at once,’ Playfair said cheerfully. But then, almost as if he had known what the call was really about, his smile vanished. ‘You’re a lovely girl, Saffron Courtney. But you pick fights in clubs and you let Stephenson use you as a human foxhound. Your determination to get into trouble verges on the perverse.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Saffron, affecting indifference, while smarting from the fact that Playfair had hit upon precisely the thing she most feared about herself.

  ‘Does it worry you that one of these days you might get yourself into trouble that you can’t get out of?’ he persevered. ‘I mean, what if this person you’re chasing really exists? Wouldn’t he be willing to do absolutely anything to carry out his mission?’ He paused. ‘Including killing you.’

  It suddenly struck Saffron that Playfair might be talking about himself. But because she was in his house, and Mavis was sitting a few feet away, she laughed and said with a bravado she didn’t feel, ‘I’m quite hard to kill, you know.’

  Playfair looked at her with blank, poker player’s eyes. ‘Better if no one tried, don’t you think?’

  Saffron couldn’t make out whether Playfair was expressing genuine concern for her, or issuing some kind of threat. Neither his facial expression nor his body language gave anything away. But he had at least told her one thing. Behind all the banter, the core of Charlie Playfair was as cold and hard as a steel blade. And possibly as deadly, too.

  • • •

  T

  he Dupont Bar and Grill was a fifteen-minute cab ride from the Playfairs’ house. Saffron had changed into a blue polka-dot cotton dress with short sleeves, puffed at the shoulder. It was a pleasure to be out of her uniform, and dressed as she was the men she was meeting would be more likely to underestimate her, and thus give away more than they intended.

  The maître d’ led Saffron across the room to a table tucked away in a corner: the perfect spot for clandestine lovers and conspiratorial diplomats. Two men rose to greet her. One was quite small – shorter than her, even without heels. His pale, blinking, watery eyes peered at her through round gold-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a light grey, double-breasted suit. His blond hair was already receding from his forehead, though he could not have been older than mid-thirties.

  This, Saffron knew, must be Jarvis. His appearance perfectly matched the hesitant voice she had heard on the phone. The man next to him was very different. He was a head taller than Jarvis, for a start, sturdier, suntanned, and boasted an impressively full, black handlebar moustache. Though he couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than Saffron, he was wearing the uniform of a group captain in the RAF, a rank equivalent to an army colonel, with a medal collection that put hers to shame. ‘Jonathan Goodhouse,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘But my friends call me Jonty.’

  He smiled with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting women into bed, and Saffron immediately perceived he was sizing her up as another potential conquest. She was not interested in obliging him, but she smiled sweetly all the same. If that was the game he wanted to play, she was happy to join in.

  ‘Well, Saffron,’ Goodhouse began, ‘I hope you’ve got a hearty appetite.’

  ‘Oh,’ she purred, ‘I’m absolutely famished.’

  ‘That’s the spirit! Can’t bear a girl who pushes a lettuce leaf around her plate all evening.’ He raised his hand and clicked his fingers to summon a waiter. ‘I’ll order for us both.’

  ‘By all means,’ Saffron said, wondering why so many men seemed to think women were incapable of deciding what they wanted to eat.

  ‘Two quarter-pound cheeseburgers, medium rare, with French fries, pickles and slaw on the side,’ Goodhouse told the waiter. ‘What will you be having, Jarvis?’

  ‘I rather fancy the . . . ah, Caesar salad, perhaps with grilled chicken.’ He looked at Goodhouse somewhat nervously. ‘If you don’t mind me pushing some lettuce around?’

  ‘Not at all, old boy, push away! And cold beers all round, what?’

  It struck Saffron that she might not be the only one playing a role. Jarvis was nominally a first secretary, which made him at least as senior as an army major. He might also be an SIS agent. In both cases, someone, somewhere, held him in much higher regard than his meek and mild manner might suggest. And there was a predatory shrewdness in Goodhouse’s eyes that went beyond mere lust. To win those medals, he had either shot down a lot of German fighters or flown a great many bombing missions. That made him tough, competent and not afraid of a fight.

  She smiled to herself as she realised that they would be making the same calculations about her.

  ‘So,’ Goodhouse said, ‘I hear you spent a few days in New York. What did you make of the place?’

  ‘Oh . . . I thought the shopping was simply divine.’

  ‘And the nightlife . . . I imagine a pretty girl like you must have been out on the town every night.’

  So he knows about that damn gossip column. Saffron smiled. ‘Yes, I even saw that new singer, Mr Sinatra. He had the dreamiest blue eyes.’

  Jarvis finally entered the conversation. ‘That’s quite enough chit-chat, I think. Let us get down to business. You, Miss Courtney, have been seconded from the Special Operations Executive to pursue a theory promulgated by Mr Stephenson, who is nominally in charge of all British intelligence in the United States and Canada . . .’

  Saffron noted the emphasis on ‘nominally’. That was Jarvis telling her that neither SIS nor the diplomatic corps accepted this Canadian businessman’s dominion over them.

  ‘To the effect,’ Jarvis continued, ‘that the British embassy in Washington is harbouring a traitor. Correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Saffron. There seemed little point in denying it.

  ‘We are here to dissuade you from that task. You see, Mr Stephenson is wrong, a point we hope to prove to your satisfaction this evening. Both the diplomatic and military wings of the British mission in Washington have much more important things to think about right now. Talks are taking place over the next two weeks that will determine the outcome of the war—’

  ‘I am aware of that.’

  ‘Then you will appreciate that we cannot be distracted by someone poking their nose into our business, in pursuit of wild theories that are entirely without merit.’

  ‘That is not what the prime minister believes,’ Saffron responded.

  To her delight, Jarvis was taken aback. ‘I’m sorry . . . Are you seriously suggesting—’

  ‘We discussed the subject on board the Queen Mary. Of course, I can’t divulge the details of our conversation, but I’m sure you know that Mr Churchill places great faith in Mr Stephenson’s abilities.’

  The waiter had reappeared with their food. ‘Mmm . . .’ Saffron groaned, appreciatively, as she took the first bite of her cheeseburger. ‘What a splendid choice, Group Captain, it’s delicious. Shall we all dig in?’

  Meanwhile, you two can wonder what Winnie actually said to me, Saffron thought. Chew on that, why don’t you, you idiots?

  The food was quickly finished, the drinks consumed. Jarvis reached down to his feet and pulled up a black leather briefcase with a small royal coat of arms stamped in gold below the lock. He opened it and withdrew a foolscap manila envelope.

  ‘I am going to pay you and Mr Stephenson a compliment,’ he said. ‘When the allegations of treachery were first raised, interviews were conducted with the nine men whose positions and security clearance allowed them to see classified documents of the kind that a spy, if he existed, might find of interest.’ He paused. ‘Actually, there were ten men with that seniority. But I hope you will agree that Lord Halifax, who served with distinction on the Western Front in the first war and served his country as both Viceroy of India and Foreign Secretary, is above suspicion.’

  ‘The poor man lost his son, too,’ said Goodhouse, to underline the point.

  ‘Of course,’ said Saffron, calmly. ‘I don’t think for one moment that Lord Halifax could be a traitor.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Carry on, Jarvis.’

  ‘In this envelope are the summaries of the detailed reports on all nine men,’ Jarvis said. ‘A few lines have been blacked out. You may take it from me that the information in them, while classified, contains no suggestion of guilt, or even suspicion. Four of the men are serving military officers. They include the military attaché, Rear Admiral Mostyn-Clarke, and the respective attachés of the three services, of whom Group Captain Goodhouse is one.’

  ‘All three of us have seen active service within the first years of this war, and Ken Jewell—’

  ‘Brigadier Kenneth Jewell, the army’s senior officer here,’ Jarvis interjected.

  ‘. . . won an MC at Passchendaele in ’17, when he was nineteen, and another at Tobruk in ’41. You’d get bloody short shrift if you accused him of spying for Jerry, I can tell you.’

  ‘He made his feelings very clear in his interview,’ Jarvis said. ‘You can take it from me, Miss Courtney, that all our interviewees were far from happy to have their loyalty and patriotism questioned.’

  And yet, thought Saffron, one of them is Gerald, the loving godfather.

  ‘The five diplomats who were investigated were Mr Todd, who is the deputy head of mission . . . Mr Barrington, who is the minister counsellor defence, and therefore acting as the Foreign Office representative at the current conference . . . His deputy, Mr Samwell . . . Mr Brinton, who handles trade – accurate information about arms manufacturing, convoy cargoes and so forth – would be invaluable to the enemy . . . And finally Mr Playfair, the minister counsellor political, whom you, of course, have met.’

  Jarvis handed over the envelope. ‘The summaries are quite short.’ He gave the faintest hint of a wry smile. ‘Our masters are busy men. They don’t have time for any document that takes longer than three minutes to read. But there’s no need for you to hurry. Take your time. As one’s teachers used to say . . . read, mark and inwardly digest. We gentlemen shall retire to the bar for a quiet drink. Let us know when you’ve finished. Goodhouse, perhaps you could order Miss Courtney some coffee.’

  Saffron read the summaries. They were, as Jarvis had suggested, exonerations of all nine men. None of them had ever expressed the slightest support for Nazi political ideology, nor acted in any way suspiciously. None had any personal habits or weaknesses, from gambling debts to homosexual tendencies, that made them susceptible to blackmail.

  The interviews had also covered all the journeys that the men had made around America that might have given them material worth passing to Berlin about military bases, ports, factory complexes, political rallies and so forth. The fact that they were all frequently out of town dispirited Saffron most of all. Gerald always posted his messages from Washington, but she felt sure that if she had access to all the men’s detailed travel records, none of them would have been in DC on every day on which Gerald’s messages had been sent. Of course, someone could have posted something for them. But still, she could see why Jarvis, and his superiors, were so sure that Stephenson was wrong.

  But the letters were sent, and they were in code and someone was responsible for that, Saffron reminded herself, not wanting to lose her faith in the mission.

  She saved the two summaries that interested her most for last, simply because she knew the men involved. Jonty Goodhouse, she discovered, was a fighter pilot. He had flown in the Battle of Britain, making eleven enemy kills, before being transferred to the Western Desert and from there to Washington. It never hurt to have one’s government represented by a dashing young war hero, and Goodhouse had an impressive record by any standards, as did all four of the military men.

  Goodhouse was, the report noted, a man of considerable sexual appetites. But since he was a bachelor, resolutely heterosexual and not known to seduce other men’s wives, there were no grounds for blackmail. He was judged to be potentially vulnerable to a Mata Hari-style seductress, but there was no evidence of one snaring him yet.

  I’d get him singing like a canary, Saffron thought, smiling to herself. Then she turned to the Hon. Charles Playfair.

  At first, Saffron was disappointed. There was little that Millicent had not already told her, or that she had not observed for herself. Playfair was brilliant, arrogant, sometimes charming, and yet at other times equally obnoxious. He was vehemently anti-fascist, and his undisguised support for the left-wing Republicans during the Spanish Civil War had led to him being vetted for Communist sympathies. The report did not detail the findings of that investigation, but they couldn’t have been damaging, or Charlie would not still be in his plum job.