She peeked around the front of the pickup to make sure the Russian hadn’t ventured out from his refuge. She couldn’t see him, but she fired two more shots at the window anyway. She opened the driver’s door, crawled onto the seat and was suddenly showered with glass as the windscreen exploded. Five shots.

  How many has he got left? If he’s using a Remington, like the others, it’s only one. But it could be a different gun, with a bigger magazine. No . . . why would he have a different gun? All right, it’s one round – just one. Then he’ll have to reload.

  Saffron reached across the cabin and rummaged through the glove box for the keys: nothing. She ran her hand across the top of the dashboard and only encountered chunks of laminated safety glass. Then she glanced up at the sunshade folded against the cabin roof. She reached up and yanked the shade down.

  The sixth shot was a bullseye. It punched a hole through the dead centre of the shade as Saffron snatched her hand away, and the keys clattered into the footwell. She grabbed them and stuck them in the ignition. Now for the riskiest part of her plan. She slid into the driver’s seat, her feet on the pedals and her body down as low as it would go while still being able to drive.

  Saffron turned the key.

  The engine fired.

  She disengaged the handbrake, slammed the car into gear and floored the accelerator. Her mind flashed back to the Queen Mary, just as the torpedoes were racing towards it. Momentum is mass times velocity . . . and this is a heavy truck.

  As it began to move, Saffron turned the wheel to the right, then straightened back up. She risked a glance to make sure she was going in the right direction and changed up into second as the truck picked up speed.

  Still in the driver’s seat, Saffron opened the door beside her . . . watched the hand on the speedometer inching around the clock . . . heard the sound of the gun firing . . . then slammed the truck into neutral and threw herself out of the cab.

  Lewandowski had been trained to fight, shoot and drive when drunk. All Russian agents were. But that was a long time ago, and now he found he was badly out of practice. The vodka had slowed his reactions. He had wasted too many seconds wondering what a woman was doing here, rather than the men from the embassy, and that had prevented him from taking the initiative. His aim had been affected. He had only missed by fractions, but those fractions were the difference between him killing the woman, and her killing him. He’d been clumsy. When he opened the carton to get another six rounds to reload his .44 Magnum, his fingers had struggled to loosen the tightly packed ammunition and load the chamber.

  The last shots he fired as the truck barrelled towards him were too late to stop it. As it smashed into the office in an explosion of glass and wood, he was too slow to get out of the way. He was in mid-air, diving to his left as the nose of the truck hit him below the waist, shattering both his thigh bones and pulverising his legs. The impact drove him against the wall and crushed his shoulder and right arm. Lewandowski was still alive when he hit the floor. But death was close . . . he could feel its dark chill seeping into him.

  Saffron picked herself up from the floor, wincing at the stabbing pains in her elbows and knees. She would be a mass of bruises in the morning, but there were no broken bones or sprained joints. Like all SOE agents, she had been taught how to parachute jump, and leaping from a moving truck required similar skills on landing.

  The front of the office had been obliterated and the gun had fallen silent. Saffron hesitated, wondering whether the truck might explode, but there were no flames or smoke, so she headed into the wreckage.

  When she found the man, he was lying in a widening pool of blood against the far wall, to one side of the truck. He still had his gun in his right hand, but the arm above it was badly fractured.

  ‘Hello, Shadow,’ Saffron said.

  He managed a faint ghost of a smile. His voice was a croaky whisper, forced from a face grey-white with pain. ‘You have Foxglove?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the bomb?’

  ‘It went off . . .’ Saffron saw what she thought was a flicker of hope in his eyes, and added, ‘In the ambassador’s swimming pool.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  ‘The gate was open. You were waiting for someone.’

  ‘My own people.’

  ‘No loose ends.’

  ‘No . . .’ He looked at her and spoke so quietly she could barely hear him, until she realised he was pleading. ‘Kill me. I’m dead anyway. But the pain . . .’

  ‘Good, I’m glad it hurts. You killed my friend.’

  ‘Please . . .’

  Saffron thought a man like this would not break under interrogation. But maybe now, when he had nothing to lose, he might answer one question. ‘Tell me this . . . You’re Russian?’

  He managed to nod.

  ‘So . . . why?’

  Another flicker of the corners of his mouth. ‘Because we are at war.’

  ‘Then my friend was right.’ She raised the Beretta and put two rounds into his chest.

  Saffron reached down and took the wallet out of the inside pocket of the man’s jacket. There was a driving licence in the name of Jozef Lewandowski, complete with his home address, along with a few small denomination banknotes and two photographs: a pretty, smiling blonde woman, and two golden-haired children.

  Lewandowski had obviously been living undercover for a while. Maybe he’d married an innocent American girl who had no idea of his true identity and purpose. But more likely, his wife was also an agent, like him. They’d known what they were doing. They’d known the risks, and yet they’d brought these children into their world.

  Saffron remembered how angry she had been with Charlie and Mavis when she thought that they had betrayed Arthur and Loretta, as well as their country. As she put the wallet back in Lewandowski’s pocket, she thought, No, it was his fault. And he killed Clay. There’s no need to feel guilty. I won’t be having nightmares about this.

  • • •

  S

  affron had cut it fine. Barely three minutes after Lewandowski had died, she heard the cars driving through the gates and across the forecourt to the shed. She’d taken cover behind a pile of timber, in case the Russians turned up earlier than expected.

  Two vehicles came to a halt under the glass roof: a drab grey sedan and a much smarter, bigger black limousine with whitewall tyres. The doors opened and half a dozen men appeared. Five of them were armed, two with handguns, three with Thompson sub-machine guns. The armed men were dressed casually, their hair slicked back.

  The sixth man, however, was different. He was tall, slim, dressed in an immaculate midnight-blue suit, with a black hat, and he appeared to be at ease in his surroundings.

  ‘You reckon the damn broad’s even here, boss?’ one of the hoodlums asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ another one chimed in, ‘I don’t see her nowhere.’

  These men were not Russian agents.

  ‘The damn broad is right here,’ Saffron said, stepping out from her cover. ‘She just wanted to make sure you were the men she was expecting.’

  The man in the blue suit looked at her. ‘Are you expecting anyone else?’

  ‘Russian agents, maybe, coming to kill a man who failed them.’

  ‘I got the impression from New York that he was already dead.’

  ‘He is now. Not when I placed the call. Your men will find him over there . . .’ She pointed towards the wrecked office. ‘Right beside the truck.’

  The boss turned to his men. ‘You heard what she said – get on with it.’

  The hoodlums returned to the cars and started unloading their gear. Saffron saw a rolled-up tarpaulin and a couple of petrol cans. Their boss turned back to her and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. ‘So, you called in the clean-up crew in advance, before you’d done it?’

  ‘I wanted to save time.’

  ‘I like your style . . . Miss Courtney, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Saffron Courtney. And I’m pleased to meet you, Mr . . .’

  ‘Meyer . . . my name is Henzel Meyer. I’m an attorney. My clients have a lot of friends in Congress. It’s my job to maintain good relations with them.’

  ‘And Frank Costello is one of your clients?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘I understand,’ Saffron said. ‘So . . . let’s get down to business. There is only one body to deal with. But a lot of shots were fired. I wouldn’t want the police to find any of my rounds. I was, ah . . . working freelance, as you might say. No official authority.’

  ‘These men are good at their jobs. And they are . . . discreet.’ Meyer looked towards the truck, then back at Saffron. ‘He was over there, and you drove the truck straight at him?’

  ‘Yes. It was the only way.’

  ‘Impressive.’ Meyer glanced towards his men, busy amid the wreckage. ‘We can leave them to get on with their work. Can I give you a ride, Miss Courtney?’

  ‘Thank you.’ It was her turn to smile. ‘Would you be going anywhere near the St. Regis Hotel in New York, by any chance?’

  Meyer laughed. ‘Ay-yay-yay! Such chutzpah!’ He paused. ‘Sure, why not? My driver is in the car. He can get us there, and you and I will talk. I think maybe I’ll learn some things. And who knows? Maybe you will too . . .’

  • • •

  ‘I

  gather you got a ride up from DC from one of our Italian friends,’ said Stephenson, shortly after nine the next morning.

  ‘Strictly speaking, I got a lift from a charming Jewish gentleman,’ Saffron said. ‘But, yes, he has Italian friends. How did you know?’

  Saffron lifted a delicate bone-china cup to her lips and sipped freshly brewed coffee. They were breakfasting at the St. Regis. She had arrived at two in the morning, having called from a gas station north of Philadelphia to say that she was on her way. The night manager had been entirely unruffled and admirably efficient. Her original suite had another occupant, but he promised her a large room overlooking Fifth Avenue at a significantly reduced rate. Saffron had grabbed a few hours’ sleep before being woken by a call from the receptionist to say that Stephenson was downstairs. Ten minutes later she’d joined him, having showered, but still wearing the previous day’s grimy clothes.

  All around her, wealthy New Yorkers and visitors to the city were eating and chatting, and the only hint that there might be a war on was the presence of a few scattered men in the immaculately pressed uniforms of senior officers.

  ‘Frank Costello was good enough to call me this morning to say that you were in town.’ Stephenson smiled. ‘We do a fair amount of business.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The Mafia controls the unions, and the unions control the docks. Men like Mr Costello ensure that the dockers don’t come out on strike, thereby ensuring that the convoys that keep Britain alive can run without interruption. It is a contribution to the war effort. And, of course, the Italian–American community is keen to do all it can to help free Italy from the Nazis.’

  ‘Very bad for business, I should imagine, the Nazis.’

  ‘Quite so . . .’ Stephenson paused. ‘You realise that you are now in Costello’s debt?’

  ‘Yes . . . but I needed the kind of help that only he could give me. And to tell the truth, I’m curious to find out what he asks me in return.’ Saffron reached for an almond croissant and added, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the dinner at the embassy?’

  ‘Because no one told me.’

  ‘I thought you were in charge of all British security in the Americas.’

  ‘I am – and I should have been informed from the moment the idea was first mooted.’

  ‘So why weren’t you?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He was testing her powers of analysis. Saffron pondered for a moment as she savoured her pastry, then smiled and said, ‘Everyone at the embassy knew you’d want to cancel the dinner because of the spy who didn’t exist. But the dinner was too important politically and diplomatically, so they kept you out of the loop.’

  ‘Exactly . . . but they were right about one thing. There wasn’t a Nazi spy.’ Stephenson grimaced and shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t have been so fixated on the goddamn Germans.’

  ‘Well, that’s understandable,’ said Saffron. ‘We all were. They’re the enemy.’

  ‘Yes, but not the only enemy.’ Stephenson sighed. ‘British Intelligence has been worried about the Communist threat since 1917, but Hitler came along and we took our eyes off the ball. Sure, the Americans have started talking about the “Red Menace”, as they call it. But everyone thought it would be a post-war issue, you know, once Adolf was out of the way. We had no idea it would become this real, this fast.’

  ‘So . . . what’s going to happen now . . . with the Russians?’ Saffron asked.

  ‘Nothing – not in public. Privately, the ambassador will be summoned to the White House and be informed, in very strong language, that both Britain and the United States know that Soviet agents attempted to assassinate the leaders of their two countries.’

  ‘Presumably, he’ll simply deny everything?’

  ‘Of course . . . as he would have done if they’d succeeded. We’ll pretend to accept that denial, and that, along with the fact that the president and prime minister are still alive, will be all that keeps the Allies together.’

  ‘What I don’t understand, though, is why Stalin would be willing to make enemies of us now. Isn’t he desperate for us to open a second front in Europe to ease the pressure on Russia?’

  ‘Yes, he is . . . or was. But ever since Stalingrad, the tide in the East has changed dramatically. Hitler will make one last push this summer. But if the Red Army can repel it, which we have good reason to believe they will, they can break the back of the Wehrmacht and begin the march on Berlin. Now . . .’

  Stephenson took a sip of coffee before continuing. ‘The assumption on all sides has always been that we will, at some point, invade France and then drive into Germany from the west, as the Russians do from the east. But suppose Stalin is thinking that he can do the whole job by himself . . . Then why stop at Berlin? Why not roll up the entire Nazi empire, all the way to the Channel?’

  ‘Would he really do that?’

  ‘Why not? Like the song says, “Wider still and wider, shall thy bounds be set.” If that was good enough for the British Empire, why not a Soviet empire?’

  ‘I suppose so . . .’ Saffron conceded. ‘And if Roosevelt and Churchill were both gone, that would rob us of our leaders, and God knows what might happen then.’

  ‘Well, disunity in the British and American political classes, for a start, as all the major players and their followers fought like cats in a sack to fill the vacancies in the White House and Number 10.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the American vice president take over automatically?’ asked Saffron.

  ‘Name the vice president,’ came the blunt reply.

  ‘I’m ashamed to say I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t blame you . . . His name is Henry A. Wallace. He was a pretty good Agriculture Secretary, but he’s no war leader, and there’s an election coming next year. So Washington would be all caught up in that when it should be thinking about beating Hitler.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can see another great leader emerging in Westminster, either.’

  ‘Exactly – so the leaders of both governments would be weaker, and as the saying goes, the fish rots from the head. Next thing you know, there’d be divisions between our two nations, each blaming the other for the disaster, and suddenly all the will and energy that is driving us to victory would just flicker and fade like a dying light bulb. Meanwhile, the Russians could do whatever they liked.’

  ‘But that didn’t happen. They lost.’

  ‘Did they? Russians are chess players. They think several moves ahead. Last night they made one that might have given them checkmate. All they risked was a couple of pawns. So now they develop a new line of attack. My guess is that Stalin will use Roosevelt’s hatred of the British Empire to drive a wedge between him and Churchill.’

  ‘You sound like Charlie Playfair.’

  ‘That’s because I read his position paper. You know, in his own way, Playfair is a real patriot. It kills him to think that his prime minister is being taken for a fool. And he’s not consoled by his certainty that America’s president is being fooled, too.’

  Saffron said nothing.

  ‘What is it?’ Stephenson asked.

  ‘I was just thinking how right Clay was,’ Saffron said sadly. ‘He said that we should already be preparing for the next war – the one between the West and Russia.’

  ‘He was right.’

  Saffron looked despondent. ‘Oh God, why can’t it just end? Why do we have to keep on fighting?’

  ‘Because that’s what people have always done.’

  ‘Well, I wish we didn’t.’

  ‘So, let’s talk about something else. What are you planning to do next?’

  Saffron smiled. ‘I was hoping you might find me a nice comfy berth on a ship home.’

  ‘How about a seat on an aeroplane?’

  ‘That would do nicely, too. But first, I’m going to buy some clean clothes to keep me going until my luggage arrives. Then I’m going to spend the day being a tourist – the Empire State Building, the Metropolitan Museum . . . you name it. This evening, I’m heading up to Harlem, looking for men with names like Bird, and Dizzy, and Thelonious.’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘Neither had I until Clay told me about them. They’re jazz musicians. He said they play in a style called bebop, like no other music on earth. It’s so new and so wild that it’s never been recorded. You have to go to tiny clubs after hours to hear it. I plan to find it, and listen to it . . . and I’ll think of Clay Stackpole – the conversations we had, how we laughed, and how it felt when he held me in his arms. And you know what?’

  Saffron looked at William Stephenson with a softness and sadness in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before.