As she washed and dressed, Saffron realised that it was a relief to be thinking about how best to promote SOE, instead of obsessing about Nazi spies.

  There was a knock on her door.

  ‘Come in!’ Saffron called.

  The door opened and Charlie Playfair stuck his head through it, showing no signs of wear and tear after the previous evening’s whisky consumption. ‘The chef wishes you to know that breakfast is served.’ He grinned. Saffron walked down and found that Mavis had made eggs, bacon and all the trimmings. ‘I thought I’d give you a proper English breakfast,’ she said. ‘Since you can’t get one in England.’

  With the garden bathed in sunshine, Franco curled up in his dog bed and Playfair reading the Washington Post while the two women chatted, it was a scene of perfect domestic bliss. Mavis was wearing the same dungarees as she had the day before, but her pale blue shirt had been replaced by a red and white checked one, and a red patterned headscarf to match. ‘I’m all day at the shelter,’ she said, ‘but Loretta will be here soon. What time did you say your first meeting was?’

  ‘Ten forty-five, at the Pentagon.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Mavis thought for a moment. ‘You could catch a bus on Foxhall, take it to Georgetown University and then change to an Arlington bus. That should take you all the way to the Pentagon. But it’s such a lovely day. Why don’t you walk to Georgetown through the park? Loretta can come with you some of the way. She can bring Arthur in the pram, give him some fresh air.’

  ‘That would be lovely. I can’t decide whether to come back here afterwards and then change into civvies. I’ve been invited to tea by the Daughters of the American Revolution. Do you think I should put on a proper dress?’

  ‘I don’t honestly know,’ Mavis said.

  Playfair lowered his paper and said, ‘It has to be the uniform. They’ll take you more seriously. If you pitch up in a floral frock and start yakking on about killing Jerries and blowing up bridges, they won’t believe a word you say.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right, time to scarper.’ He gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Off for another gruelling day of trying to save our glorious leader from himself.’

  Saffron waited while Mavis tilted her head to receive her husband’s goodbye kiss. ‘Before you go, could you do me a favour?’ she said. ‘I’ve written out that list of appointments for Lady Halifax. I don’t suppose you could drop it off for her at the embassy?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘I’ll nip up and get it, then.’ As Saffron ran upstairs, she thought, If there is someone in the embassy who wants to come after me, that piece of paper is a tasty piece of bait – particularly if that person is Charlie Playfair.

  • • •

  L

  ewandowski was used to getting by without much sleep. That was just as well, because he was up again by six, calling his men and organising a schedule that meant between them they could have eyes on Saffron Courtney twenty-four hours a day. The more they knew about her routine, the easier it would be to capture and kill her, should the order come.

  He took the first shift, turning up at the house where she was staying shortly after seven in the morning. The location suited him, the house being close enough to the park that it was possible to watch it from the woods. There were trails through the park, but few people using them. He sat up against a tree with a book in his hands, and none of the passers-by gave him a second glance. When he’d been there a couple of hours, a man who’d passed him going one way saw him when he was coming back. He’d stopped, grinned and said, ‘Must be a good book!’

  ‘Grapes of Wrath,’ Lewandowski said, holding it up.

  The man nodded approvingly. ‘Steinbeck’s the best!’ And then he moved on.

  Charles Playfair left the house at 08.50, got into his car and drove away. Lewandowski knew that he was going to the British embassy, two miles away. He estimated the journey time at eight minutes.

  Mavis Playfair emerged a short while later, turned right, and began walking up the street towards Foxhall Road. Her drab clothing made it obvious that she was going to carry out her charity work in the slums. Washington DC was, in many respects, a city that had more in common with the old rebel South than the unionist North, and many of Lewandowski’s American friends held views about its Black population that were worthy of the Ku Klux Klan. Lewandowski strongly agreed. It was one of the few subjects on which he did not have to feign his views.

  Around 09.30, two women came out of the house. One was the Playfairs’ servant, a Negress, in a pale lilac housecoat, pushing a pram. The other was tall, slender, dark-haired, wearing military uniform. So that was Saffron Courtney; for a moment, Lewandowski looked at her as a man rather than an agent. ‘But if the order comes . . .’ he murmured to himself as the Courtney woman helped the servant manoeuvre the pram down the steps to the street. They walked to the corner and crossed the road towards the park.

  Here we go, Lewandowski thought, and melted into the trees.

  • • •

  ‘S

  o, how did you come to work for Mavis Playfair?’ Saffron asked, as she and Loretta started off down the path that would take her to Georgetown.

  ‘We met down at the soup kitchen,’ Loretta said, and it was clear she had been in the line for free food, not helping to dole it out. Loretta’s story, it turned out, was an all too common tale of poverty, family breakdown and deprivation. She was born in Mobile, Alabama. Her father had left home when she was ten, leaving her mother and her three siblings: two younger sisters, Mary and Dionne, and a brother, Wilson, who was the baby of the family. Their mother had tried her best to support them, taking any jobs she could get. But there was little work for anyone in the Depression, and still less for those who were Black.

  They’d moved to Washington to live with her mother’s aunt, who had a tiny apartment in the north-east of the city. But the aunt had died and the landlord had evicted the family when Loretta’s mother couldn’t pay the rent. Since then they’d lived hand-to-mouth. ‘And then I met Miss Mavis, ma’am, and I guess she just about saved our lives. See, Miss Mavis, she don’t see colour, just people. It’s like the Bible says, we all have one father. The Lord is the maker of us all.’

  Talking to Loretta, Saffron could see what had drawn Mavis to her, out of all the countless impoverished, beaten-down souls who passed through the soup kitchen. She was bright, full of life, obviously capable of much more than fate had so far allowed her, if she was only given a chance. She worked at the Playfairs’ house five days a week, so that Mavis could help out at the soup kitchen whenever she was needed. The pay was two dollars fifty a day, plus bus fare, which Loretta regarded as more than generous.

  ‘Miss Mavis don’t know for sure when she be gon’ down the kitchen. Could be five days, could be one. Like this week, she worked yesterday and today. Not workin’ tomorrow, maybe the day after. Next week, could be different. That’s why I come every day, just so’s there’s always someone for Arthur. Weekends . . .’ Loretta’s voice tailed off. She asked, ‘You all right?’

  Saffron had stopped dead. She thought she sensed someone moving through the woods, as if keeping track of them. She looked around, but couldn’t see anybody. She shook her head. Evidently, she was still jumpier than she liked to admit after those incidents in New York. ‘Sorry, it was nothing . . . You were about to tell me about your weekends.’

  ‘Uh-huh . . . I work in a bar across town. It gets kinda rowdy sometimes, but I’m used to that, don’t let it bother me none, ’cos I know it’s payin’ for my night school. I go three evenings a week. Gonna get my high school diploma in a year or two. I won’t let nothing stop me from doin’ that, no matter how many jobs I have to work.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t.’ Saffron felt humbled by the young woman’s determination, and painfully aware of the privileges she enjoyed and the comforts she took for granted.

  They came to a clearing in the woods. ‘This here is Miss Mavis’s thinkin’ seat,’ Loretta said with a grin, indicating a bench. ‘When we go out together, she always says to me, “You take care of baby, Loretta. I’m just going to have a little think.”’

  Loretta’s imitation of Mavis’s accent was uncannily accurate. Saffron laughed and asked, ‘Does Mavis ever tell you what she thinks about?’

  Loretta shook her head. ‘Nope. Sometimes I ask her what’s on her mind, but she just says, “Oh, this an’ that.” All I know is this is a real peaceful spot, where a person could sit and put their mind at ease. And Miss Mavis, she needs to do that from time to time, the amount of work she does, helping folks.’

  ‘I bet.’ Saffron heard a gurgling coming from the pram. ‘Someone’s waking up.’

  Loretta smiled. ‘I’d best be getting back. Pretty soon this little feller’s gon’ be crying for his milk. Been a real pleasure talking to you, Miss Saffron.’

  ‘We must do it again very soon,’ Saffron replied.

  Saffron watched Loretta pushing the pram back up the path, singing softly to the baby as she went, and was about to turn around and head into the city, when a thought struck her. Mavis Playfair always liked to sit on this bench, in private. That could simply mean it was a good spot to think in peace, away from her husband, her baby and her work. Or it could mean something else.

  Saffron hoped with all her heart that she was wrong. She liked and admired Mavis, and wanted to believe she was the person she seemed. But her mission required her to suspect everybody. And her training had taught her that a park bench was an ideal place for a spy, or a trusted courier, to leave and pick up messages.

  Torn between the desire to do her job, and the fear that this might mean exposing the Playfairs as traitors, Saffron walked slowly around the bench, then got down on her haunches to give it a closer examination.

  Nothing. But that might only mean that there was no current message passing one way or the other. She said to herself, I’ll have to keep coming back.

  • • •

  F

  rom his hiding place in the trees, Lewandowski frowned as he watched Saffron examining the bench, trying to work out what she was up to. And then the penny dropped, and a grin spread across his face. When the time came to capture Miss Courtney, he now knew exactly how he was going to do it.

  • • •

  I

  n all of humanity there were two men, and two alone, the very mention of whose names made millions shudder in fear. They were both tyrants, warmongers and genocidal psychopaths, and one of them, at this moment, was sitting at his desk in his private office at the heart of a bunker protected by concrete walls several metres thick, deep in a forest in Eastern Europe. He was stroking his moustache, another feature that he shared with his counterpart, who was also his deadliest foe.

  ‘Tell me again why I should agree to this,’ he said.

  The only other man in the room was bespectacled, not particularly tall or imposing, and seemingly innocuous. He had very short, neat hair, a high forehead and unremarkable features. It was the face of a teacher or a bank clerk: an instantly forgettable, provincial nobody.

  He was, in fact, one of the greatest murderers in the history of the world. As the commander of his nation’s security apparatus, the mechanism through which all its people and those of conquered nations were observed, disciplined and oppressed, he was responsible not only for the armies of spies and secret police, but also the torturers and firing squads and the vast network of camps to which millions were sent, but from which almost no one ever returned. His master saw liars, traitors and enemies wherever he looked, and this harmless-looking henchman duly hunted down and eliminated them.

  Now, though, he had another role: that of the only man capable of standing in front of the great leader and telling him something that even approximated to the truth, instead of what he wanted to hear.

  ‘Because this is a unique opportunity,’ he said. ‘The Americans and the British are meeting, as we speak, to discuss their invasion of Europe.’

  ‘They’re taking their time about it. Why are their ships not massing in the English Channel? Why not invade this year?’

  ‘That is precisely the question the Americans have been asking the British. They wanted to be in France by now. But the British are cautious. They have been at war for a long time and learned many hard lessons. They do not want to move until the Luftwaffe has been knocked out, guaranteeing them total air superiority.’

  ‘What does Göring have to say about that?’

  ‘What he always says – that the Luftwaffe can, and will, defeat the British and American air forces.’

  The leader grunted, though whether it was in agreement with Göring’s view, or scepticism at such blithe confidence, even his most loyal lieutenant could not discern.

  ‘The British also want to build up enough men and matériel to ensure they and the Americans gain a solid foothold on the first day of the invasion.’

  ‘Do they really think they can break the Atlantic Wall? Concrete, steel and guns, all the way from the Arctic Circle in Norway to the Spanish border? It is surely impenetrable.’

  ‘Not yet, no . . . but next year, maybe. Our men in London have been sending back the current industrial production figures, in Britain and America. To take one example, the production of aircraft in both nations this year will be roughly double compared to the year before. Next year, it will double again. Between them, they will produce somewhere between one hundred thousand and one hundred and fifty thousand aircraft between now and the end of next year, and they are anticipating that the final figure will be at the high end of that scale.’

  ‘Those numbers are propaganda.’

  ‘No, my leader, they are the official, secret estimates, intended for the eyes of Roosevelt, Churchill and their most senior politicians and military commanders. And they are compiled by men who pride themselves on finding out the truth, however unpalatable.’

  Neither man needed to be told unspoken words: which is not the case here.

  The leader looked at his underling. Everyone who had ever had personal dealings with him knew that look, and what it meant: a decision was being made. Shall I let this man live, or order him killed?

  The man took off his glasses and rubbed them on his handkerchief, as a distraction while he waited for the verdict.

  ‘And what about tanks and ships?’ asked the leader, stretching out the moment almost to breaking point. ‘Surely if aircraft production is at this level, then other manufacturing must suffer. There is only so much steel in the world, and only so many workers.’

  The man shook his head, trying to conceal his relief that he had been given this opportunity to clinch his argument. ‘No, there is no decline. Production of everything from motorbikes to battleships is increasing, in line with their aircraft. And, of course, American factories are entirely safe. No one can bomb them. While even the British are suffering far less damage to their factories and docks than before. And Britain can call upon the natural resources of Canada and Australia, the limit-less manpower of India. Their nation may be smaller and weaker than America, but they still have their empire.’

  The leader stroked his moustache thoughtfully and the bespectacled man decided this was the moment to press his argument home.

  ‘This opportunity that we have been given to strike is one we simply cannot afford to let slip. We may never again have an asset who is in a position to remove both men with one blow. And even if another chance does present itself, it may be too late. We are very close to the point when sheer industrial power will make the victory of the Western allies inevitable, both in Western Europe and the Pacific. Once they set foot in France, they will not stop until they get to Berlin.’

  The man paused. This was the truth that everyone who had the slightest capacity for objective judgement understood – everyone except for the leader. To insist on its veracity was a huge risk – perhaps even a fatal one – but he had come too far now to turn back.

  ‘Go on . . .’ The leader’s hooded eyes gave nothing away. Was he on the point of being persuaded, or simply handing out more rope for an underling to hang himself with?

  The man took a deep breath. ‘If we strike now, then everything changes. Roosevelt and Churchill are more than just leaders. They are symbols of their nations.’

  ‘A cripple and a drunk,’ said the leader. ‘What kind of symbols are those?’

  ‘The British people are all drunks themselves. They do not think worse of Churchill for his champagne, his brandy and his cigars. And they love him for his stubbornness, his refusal to surrender. As for Roosevelt . . . Well, he brought an end to the Depression—’

  ‘No, the war did that.’

  ‘It certainly helped, yes. But when Roosevelt spoke to America after the humiliation of Pearl Harbor, he turned a nation of isolationists into one that would fight in every theatre of war from the English Channel to the Pacific.’

  ‘You sound as if you are in love with these men yourself.’

  The man bowed his head. ‘I am merely pointing out the symbolic hold these men have over their people, and the collapse of morale that will inevitably follow if they are killed. This moment of instability, on both sides of the Atlantic, will give us a unique opportunity that we must seize. If we strike with all our force, then we can win the next war before it has even begun. By the time the Americans and the British wake up to what is happening, it will be too late. We will have seized everything.’ He dared to venture a semblance of a smile. ‘Who knows, we may not just be in Rome and Paris, but in London, too.’

  Silence fell. The underling told himself to be patient. He had said all he could say. Perhaps more than he should. Now all he could do was wait.

  The silence stretched on into minutes while the leader considered. The other man could feel beads of sweat beginning to prick his forehead. Finally he spoke.

  ‘Our enemies will not simply accept their fate. They will try to take revenge. Why should I risk that?’

  ‘Let them try!’ the man said. ‘You have millions of men willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause, and the reward . . .’