Saffron waited patiently while the lieutenant completed his inspection.

  ‘Don’t mind me asking, ma’am, but are those for real?’ he asked, nodding towards her medal ribbon and badge.

  ‘Quite genuine,’ Saffron replied. She could see now that he was at least six feet two. She had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. She felt the need to impress him. ‘I was mentioned in dispatches for fighting off some Italians in the Western Desert when I was driving a general around. And this . . .’ she pointed at the George Medal, ‘was for gallantry in the face of the enemy . . . but that’s a long story.’

  The lieutenant gave a long, low whistle. ‘Not bad,’ he said, grinning. ‘But apart from that, what have you done for the war effort?’

  Saffron knew he was joking, but she gave him a straight answer. ‘A lot . . . and in places you wouldn’t believe. But I’m afraid I’m not allowed to discuss that. Now, if you could get me to the ship before we all die of old age, I’d be eternally grateful.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’ The lieutenant picked up the heavy case as if it was a shopping bag and swung it on to the back seat of the Jeep beside his own kitbag and a black briefcase. He looked at the driver and said, ‘Hey, Jimmy, get in the back.’

  ‘Sure thing, Doc.’ Jimmy grinned, and took up a position perched on top of the kitbag.

  The lieutenant waited until Saffron was settled in the passenger seat before getting behind the wheel and starting up the engine. ‘Might take a while,’ he said, easing the car into the sluggish stream of men and machinery, ‘but we’ll get you there before she sails.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Saffron replied. ‘By the way, I need Gangway A.’

  ‘Well, there’s a coincidence – so do I.’ The lieutenant grinned. ‘Maybe we’ll have the same bunk, too. I want to go on top.’

  ‘So, you’re a doctor?’ Saffron asked, ignoring the innuendo.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Dr Clayton Malachi Stackpole the Third, if you want the whole dang thing. But most folks just call me Clay, or Doc.’

  ‘I’m Saffron Courtney.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘I suppose I’m Saffron the Second, because my grandma’s Saffron Courtney, too.’ Stackpole was turning out to be less irritating than his first impression suggested, so she decided to reward him with a friendly smile. ‘My close friends call me Saffy. But as you say “ma’am” so charmingly, do feel free to continue.’

  Stackpole laughed. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘What kind of medicine do you practise?’

  ‘Orthopaedic surgery.’ Stackpole’s voice became more seri-ous. ‘Broken bones, traumatic injury, that kinda thing. I studied at the University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston, qualified as a doctor three years ago. Figured I’d spend my time dealing with busted-up oilmen, cowboys who fell off their horses . . . Ha! Turned out my first big job would be putting wounded fly-boys back together.’

  ‘Will you be sailing with us to New York?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve got a few patients on board, mostly aircrew injured in raids over Europe, so I’ll be looking after them on the voyage.’

  ‘Poor boys,’ Saffron sighed.

  ‘Yeah, some of them are beat up pretty bad. But I guess you could say they’re the lucky ones. At least they’re going home. So many of our guys never will.’

  ‘I know, it’s the same with our Bomber Command. An awful lot of aircraft don’t come back.’

  ‘Hey, let’s not get all gloomy here,’ said Stackpole, making an effort to sound cheery. ‘I got a few days’ leave, so figure I’ll spend ’em in New York. How about you?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I’ve got a few days in New York, too. Then I’m off to Washington.’

  The soldiers and civilians in front of them were pressed so tight that the Jeep had come to a dead halt. Stackpole switched off the engine and turned to Saffron with a quizzical look in his eye. ‘That stuff you said about doing things you couldn’t tell me about. You weren’t kidding, were you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, why are you going to the USA?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, either. But you could say it’s a diplomatic mission.’

  ‘You sure don’t look like a regular diplomat.’

  ‘I think that’s rather the point.’

  ‘Yeah, I can dig that. You ask some old senator, “Won’t you give poor little England another aircraft carrier?” And he’ll say, “Sure thing, honey,” and throw in the aircraft for free.’

  Saffron laughed, thinking to herself that it might be an interesting voyage with Dr Stackpole on board. ‘“I can dig that . . .”?’ she asked. ‘I understood what you meant, but I’ve not heard that phrase before.’

  ‘It’s what the jazz cats say, the kind that make my old man go, “You listening to that damn racket again?”’

  ‘If you’re a Texan, shouldn’t you be listening to . . . I don’t know . . . cowboy music or something?’

  ‘Huh . . . Guess I deserved that, giving you that old “aw, shucks” routine. But no, I don’t listen to hillbilly music, or old-time dances, any of that hayseed stuff. See, I caught the jazz bug when I got to Galveston. It was just a couple hours’ drive up to Houston, then catch the Sunset Limited overnight to New Orleans. Heard music there that changed my life. Never looked back since.’

  ‘I love Dixieland jazz,’ Saffron said. ‘Such fun to dance to.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty good . . . for beginners.’ Stackpole gave a sly half-smile. ‘But you should hear the new stuff. Charlie Parker blowing his sax, Art Tatum on piano, Dizzy Gillespie on trumpet. Man, those cats are cool.’ He saw the blank look on her face. ‘Don’t feel bad you never heard of them. These guys have got a sound that’s so new, it’s never even been recorded yet. They call it bebop, and I promise you, it’s like no other music mankind has ever played.’

  ‘It sounds interesting.’ Saffron was struck by the genuine enthusiasm in Stackpole’s voice.

  ‘Well, then, I tell you what, Miss Saffron Courtney the Second,’ Stackpole said. ‘I won’t let you leave New York City till you’ve come to hear this music with me. We won’t go to the regular jazz clubs on 52nd Street. I’ll take you way uptown to Harlem, joints like Monroe’s, where Bird and Dizzy play their hottest licks. Believe me, baby, it will change your life.’

  Before Saffron could reply, Stackpole restarted the engine, said, ‘Hold tight,’ and thrust the nose of the Jeep through a narrow gap in the crowd and onto an open stretch of tarmac at the edge of the dock, in the shadow of the looming ocean liner. There was a gap of about twelve feet between the hull and the dock – enough room for the Jeep to fall into – but Stackpole didn’t seem to care as he raced along until he came to a halt by the main gangway leading up to the ship.

  Jimmy jumped down from his perch. He took the kitbag out of the back of the Jeep and gave it to Stackpole. He then handed over the doctor’s black bag.

  ‘You want me to carry the lady’s bag?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘No, we’ll manage,’ Stackpole said. He looked at Saffron. ‘That all right by you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Then in that case, Jimmy, you can head down to the base. And, uh . . .’ Stackpole reached into his greatcoat and pulled out a wallet. Saffron watched as he extracted a handful of ten-shilling and pound notes. ‘Guess I won’t be needing these any more. Here, you take them.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Doc,’ Jimmy said. ‘Appreciate it.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Stackpole watched as Jimmy got in the Jeep and awkwardly begin to reverse the vehicle back along the dock, then he turned his attention to the men on the gangway.

  ‘Well now,’ he said. ‘No son of Texas would ever allow a beautiful woman to stand in line with such a gang of scoundrels and ruffians. Can you carry my medicine bag?’

  ‘Of course,’ Saffron replied. ‘I can take my case, too.’

  ‘No need.’ A moment later Stackpole had her suitcase in his left hand and the kitbag on his right shoulder. ‘Follow me, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Saffron buttoned up her coat, so that her face was framed by the glossy black fur of the collar and her dark, lustrous hair. She reached into her canvas shoulder bag, pulled out a lipstick and applied two confident swipes.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Stackpole said, grinning. ‘That’ll do it.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  Clay Stackpole got to the foot of the gangway and called out, ‘Hey, fellas, make room for the lady.’

  The gangway was solid with men and baggage. But somehow they stood aside to reveal a clear path all the way to the entrance to the ship. Saffron walked up it, smiling graciously at the men who were watching her with slack jaws and dumb grins as the wolf whistles rang out around her. Stackpole followed behind, weighed down by luggage like a devoted servant.

  ‘That was fun,’ she said as they entered the gaping hole in the Queen Mary’s steel flanks and went aboard.

  A handful of US military police – all non-commissioned officers with pistols holstered on their webbing belts – were positioned by the entrance, telling the boarding men where to go. One of them took Stackpole’s travel pass and identity papers and checked them. He reached into a box behind him, pulled out a red card and said, ‘Follow the red signs, sir. They’ll take you right to where you want to go.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Stackpole handed over Saffron’s suitcase and gave her one of his cheeky grins. ‘I’ll see you later. Don’t get seasick, now.’

  ‘I won’t, doctor,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you sure you’re supposed to be here, ma’am?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Yes, quite sure. Here are my papers.’

  The sergeant scanned them and handed them back. ‘Well, these are okay. But I sure as hell don’t know where to send you.’

  ‘I was told to ask for Colonel Warden’s party.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help you there, ma’am.’

  A new voice entered the conversation: ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant. I can.’

  A young man, not much older than Saffron, had materialised at the sergeant’s side, apparently out of thin air. He had dark hair and a strong brow shading direct, piercing eyes. But these very masculine features were offset by full, almost feminine lips. He was wearing a beautifully cut charcoal-grey suit and held a clipboard in one hand.

  ‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said, in an upper-class English accent. He looked at Saffron. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Saffron Courtney. My CO is Brigadier Gubbins, but it was Sir Charles Hambro who mentioned Colonel Warden.’

  The Englishman nodded. ‘Ah yes . . . we know Sir Charles very well. So, let me see . . .’ He examined his clipboard. ‘Courtney . . . Courtney . . . Ah, yes, there you are. My name’s Colville. Christened John Rupert, but everyone calls me Jock. So, just follow me . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Saffron asked, ‘but could you possibly give me a hand with my bag?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll send a man down for that.’ Colville looked at the military policeman. ‘Guard it with your life, Sergeant.’

  Colville led Saffron towards a flight of stairs. Two Royal Marines, armed with pistols, like the American MPs, were standing guard at either side of the bottom flight. ‘Miss Courtney is with me,’ the man said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said one of the Marines.

  The other grinned and added, ‘Lucky you, sir.’

  Colville nodded. As he and Saffron climbed the stairs, he said, ‘Actually, we’re both rather lucky. Almost all the original cabins have been stripped and converted into troops’ accommodation. This ship was built to carry just over two thousand paying passengers. Can you believe they can cram fifteen thousand men in here for some voyages? Poor chaps are packed in tighter than sardines.’

  ‘How many are there on this voyage?’

  ‘About eight thousand, including us, the Americans and fifteen hundred Jerry prisoners, captured in Tunisia. I gather they’re being taken to camps in the wilds of Texas and New Mexico.’

  ‘Are we all crammed in together, too?’ Saffron asked.

  Colville laughed. ‘Good Lord, no! The finest suites and staterooms on the main deck were left as they were, in case of need. You’re going to be travelling in style.’

  They emerged from the stairs into a large hallway in the heart of the ship. Though the mass of humanity was less dense here, the air of activity was equally palpable. Three young men hurried by, arguing about their bosses’ cabin assignments. ‘I’m sorry,’ one insisted, ‘but a permanent under-secretary is at least as senior and as deserving of priority as a presidential envoy.’

  Two older men in uniform strolled past more slowly, deep in conversation. Both wore the red collar tabs that indicated they were senior staff officers. Saffron snapped to attention and saluted as they passed, but neither man seemed to notice her presence. More suits and uniforms scurried by in every direction.

  Apparently oblivious to these goings-on, Colville looked around at his surroundings, then said, ‘Right-ho, you should be just along here.’

  ‘When will I meet Colonel Warden?’ Saffron asked him as he led her to her cabin door. ‘I feel I ought to say thank you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid that may not be possible – not for a few days, at any rate. The colonel will be very busy.’ Colville unlocked the door and handed Saffron the key. ‘But don’t worry, I have a feeling he’ll make a point of meeting with you before we get to New York.’

  • • •

  I

  n a squat, reinforced concrete building outside Hilversum, in the Netherlands, a young woman in her early twenties took off her headset and put it down on the desktop beside her typewriter. She pressed a switch on the radio monitor fixed to the wall above the desktop and removed a single sheet of paper from the typewriter. Rising to her feet, she walked across the room that was about ten metres square, filled with other women glued to more radio sets, towards a man seated at a raised desk.

  ‘Excuse me, please, Herr Kranz,’ she said. ‘This was just sent from the British Special Operations Executive in London.’ She added, ‘It is in clear.’

  Her supervisor, Hauptmann Marius Kranz, reached out to take the piece of paper. ‘Thank you, Lise, you may return to your post.’

  Kranz did not speak English with any degree of fluency. But he understood enough to know that Lise was right. This was an unencrypted message, sent in plain English. Then again, Kranz smiled to himself, it would not have made any difference if it had been encrypted. The Englandspiel project, under Oberstleutnant Hermann Giskes of the Abwehr, the Reich’s military intelligence agency, had long since broken all of SOE’s codes. As a result, almost all the British agents who had been parachuted into the Low Countries – more than fifty in total – had been captured and then imprisoned or killed.

  Until, that is, one agent – a woman – had managed to survive for months undercover and then escape back to England, leaving a trail of destruction behind her. And here was her name, COURTNEY, in the message in Kranz’s hand. So what should he do with it?

  This was not a serious question. ‘My girls’, as he liked to call his staff, were not cryptographers. Their job was to transcribe encrypted messages, not decipher them. But they had learned to recognise the particular ‘hands’ or Morse code tapping skills of individual operators, and could thus identify where messages were coming from, even when they could not decipher what they said. It was Kranz’s job to prioritise those messages that needed the most urgent attention of the Abwehr’s code-breakers. He was like a traffic cop at an exceptionally busy intersection, determining which intercepts could move and in what direction.

  This particular message, which required no decryption, should obviously go straight to Giskes. But it seemed to Kranz that there were others who would want to read it, too. For what the Abwehr did not know was that while Marius Kranz had been a devoted Nazi Party member since 1935, a fierce patriot and a devoted admirer of the Führer, he was also a double agent.

  Kranz sent a constant stream of confidential information to another intelligence agency that was both more hostile to, and more detested by, the Abwehr than Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service or the Soviet People’s Commissariat for State Security. Its name was the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD. It was part of the larger SS apparatus, and it served as the intelligence service of the Nazi Party.

  In the Darwinian culture of Nazi Germany, in which both people and organisations were encouraged by the Führer to compete with one another as savagely as possible so that only the fittest survived, the Abwehr and SD were mortal enemies. The Abwehr regarded the SD as crude Nazi fanatics. The SD, in return, considered the Abwehr to be a nest of turncoats, whose loyalty was to the old, pre-Nazi Germany, not to the Third Reich.

  Both agencies, Kranz reasoned, would be intrigued by this message between two very senior men in separate enemy intelligence agencies, apparently linked by a woman. So he discreetly copied it, word for word, on to a sheet from his own notepad. He sent the original direct to Oberstleutnant Giskes. Then he picked up the phone on his desk, called a number and said, ‘Good afternoon. This is Herr Schmidt from the post office. I have a telegram for Frau Müller from her son.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Schmidt,’ came the reply. ‘I will ask her to come and collect it.’

  • • •