T

  here was a white Bakelite telephone in Saffron’s cabin. At the front, where the dial would normally be, a round piece of card had been stuck to the set, on which the words YOU CAN TELEPHONE TO ANY PART OF THE WORLD WHILST AT SEA, were printed in neat capital letters. In pre-war days, this had been one of Cunard’s proudest boasts, but now the line was dead. All the pleasures that the boat would have provided for a young woman – from the swimming pool, steam baths and beauty parlour to the restaurants, bars, nightclub, ballroom, and the lounge that converted into a cinema – had been stripped away. Not that Saffron cared. She had a first-class suite with a blissfully comfortable double bed, and a bathroom in which to take hot, deep baths – extravagant indulgences after two years of rules stipulating no more than four inches of hot water in a bath, no more than once a week. There was even the choice of fresh or sea water.

  Three times a day, an elderly steward called Clancy arrived with simple but edible meals, accompanied by sensationally good wines. ‘Still got some of the pre-war stuff in the ship’s cellar,’ he told her. ‘Save it for when we’ve got proper VIPs on board.’

  That gave Saffron the opening to ask, ‘So what’s going on here? On this voyage, I mean.’

  Clancy frowned. ‘What do you mean, miss?’

  ‘Well, I’m basically stuck in my room, except for a bit of exercise time up on the promenade deck, morning and afternoon. But when I do get out, I keep seeing young chaps rushing about the place, some in civvies, some in uniform, and then there are the bigwigs wandering around, too. I’ve seen at least one field marshal and a couple of admirals, and all sorts of important-looking chaps in suits.’

  Clancy looked puzzled. ‘You mean, you’re not with them?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve got one of their cabins, apparently, but I have no idea what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh . . . Well . . . Then I’m afraid I can’t say. But I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve looked after some fancy passengers in my time. But there’s one on this voyage that takes the ruddy biscuit.’ He winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘You keep your eyes peeled, miss. That’s all I can say.’

  By dinner on the second day, Saffron and Clancy were firm friends. ‘Do you have any contact with the rest of the ship, where the Americans are?’ she asked.

  ‘Not personally,’ the steward replied. ‘But I’ve got mates working on that side of the ship. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could get a message to one of their officers. I don’t know where he is exactly . . . but I don’t think there’ll be anyone else with the same name.’

  ‘I should think not, miss!’ Clancy exclaimed, casting an eye over the envelope that Saffron had handed him. ‘US Army Air Forces Lieutenant Clayton Stackpole the Third, MD . . . Blimey! What is he, American royalty?’

  ‘He does sound a bit like it, I agree.’

  ‘Well, you leave it to me, miss. The Yanks have set up a hospital bay for their wounded lads. I expect they’ll know your doctor there.’

  Shortly after noon on the following day, Clancy reappeared, bringing lunch. ‘Got something else for you,’ he said, rummaging through his food trolley. He held out an envelope. ‘Your Dr Stackpole replied,’ he said. ‘And I don’t blame him, I’d have done the same.’

  The envelope contained a short note and a Hershey’s chocolate bar.

  Hey, Saffron II, great to hear from you. But it would be even better to see you. There’s a big open space at the back of the sun deck, I think it’s called the cabin class games area. Can you meet me there, starboard side, at 1600? I think I can get away for a few minutes then. I’ve got to warn you, it won’t exactly be private. But I can bring more Hershey bars. How can you say no?

  Saffron smiled, then looked at Clancy. ‘Please tell your friends to tell my friend that the answer’s “Yes”.’

  • • •

  I

  n the Reich Main Security office on Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, in the heart of Berlin, a couple of hundred metres from Hitler’s Reich Chancellery, two officers of the Ausland-SD – the overseas intelligence service of the SS, and therefore the direct competitor of the Abwehr – had met to discuss the intercept passed to them by Marius Kranz.

  One of the officers, Sturmbannführer Hertz, represented the organisation’s Section B, whose responsibility was espionage in Western Europe. His counterpart, Sturmbannführer Preminger, worked for Section D: espionage in the American Sphere. Both were involved, because the matter at hand involved a British agent travelling from the United Kingdom to the United States.

  ‘The message seems to be very simple,’ Hertz said. He had gone over it often enough to be able to recite it from memory. ‘“Miss Courtney is safely embarked. ETA at your end, five or six days. Hope she’s of use. But don’t work her too hard. Remember she is on holiday.” It is addressed to Stephenson. He is, as you well know, the chief of British intelligence in America, based in New York. It is signed Gubbins, who is the chief of the sabotage and espionage agency, SOE.’

  ‘The two men are known to be friends,’ Preminger observed.

  ‘Quite so. “Miss Courtney”, though, is a less familiar name. But I have made some inquiries. Now, as you know, the Abwehr have turned a small number of SOE agents who were sent into the Low Countries. It struck me that these agents may have known of, or even worked with, Miss Courtney while they were all still in London. So I asked the Abwehr to speak to their people.’

  ‘Were the Abwehr their usual helpful selves?’ Preminger inquired.

  Hertz laughed. ‘It took a little persuasion, not least because the former SOE agents were initially reluctant to co-operate – until it was made clear that if they didn’t, they’d get the same treatment as every other captured British agent. Which is to say, interrogated, tortured, sent to a camp and then killed.

  ‘So, I can now tell you that her full name is Saffron Courtney. Age, twenty-three. Height, approximately one hundred and seventy-five centimetres. Athletic build, blue eyes, naturally dark hair, almost black.’

  ‘She sounds like a very attractive woman.’

  ‘That is one way of describing Saffron Courtney. Another might be that she is a dangerous enemy of the Reich. Because the description that I have just given you is remarkably close to that of the Hatpin Girl.’

  ‘Mein Gott! . . . The hell-bitch who killed Schröder, in The Hague? Why has no one made the connection before?’

  ‘As you can imagine, that same question occurred to the Abwehr. After Schröder’s death, all SOE agents in captivity, whether they had been turned or not, were given a description of Marlize Marais and asked if she was one of their people. Not surprisingly, those agents who were not co-operating said nothing. But even the doubles said that they did not recognise the description. Yesterday, when they were asked why they had not identified Saffron Courtney, they swore that it had not even occurred to them that it could be her. This is not entirely implausible, because, for obvious security reasons, active agents do not have any idea about one another’s missions, and they often do not fraternise with one another.

  ‘Anyway, so far as the Abwehr’s people know, Courtney has never engaged in espionage duties. Her job at SOE is to liaise with the Dutch and Belgian governments-in-exile in London. One of her former colleagues admitted that he did not know her, but said she had a reputation as, quote, “a spoiled little rich girl”. Apparently she has her uniforms hand-made, and lives in a luxurious apartment bought by her father.’

  ‘So why is she going to America?’ Preminger asked. ‘Clearly it is not for a holiday. The British can be frivolous people, but surely not even they would send anyone across the Atlantic for no other purpose than rest and recreation. It must be code for some other kind of activity. Would you agree?’

  Hertz frowned. ‘Yes. But if this is an operational matter, why was the message not encoded? And what are we to make of the phrase, “Hope she is of use”?’

  Preminger shrugged. ‘That is the mystery. What kind of mission would a British spy carry out in the homeland of her nation’s greatest ally?’

  ‘What we do know,’ said Hertz, ‘is that she is “safely embarked”. It seems certain that the ship in question is the British ocean liner Queen Mary, which left Scotland on the fifth of May, the date the message was sent, bound for New York. I am reliably informed that Admiral Dönitz has ordered his U-boats to intercept it.’

  Preminger nodded. ‘Well, that would solve our problem at a stroke. But let us assume that Miss Courtney reaches New York on the tenth or eleventh of May. We have agents in New York. We can pick up Miss Courtney’s trail as she disembarks. The Queen Mary may now be painted grey, but from your description, Hertz, Miss Courtney will be easy to spot. So we will keep her under observation until her true purpose in America becomes clear.’

  ‘In the meantime, I will see if we can find more evidence linking the SOE agent Saffron Courtney to the killer Marlize Marais.’

  ‘And then,’ said Preminger, ‘if they are truly one and the same woman, our superiors can decide what they want to do with her.’

  • • •

  G

  etting to the sun deck was not exactly straightforward. Saffron had to show her ID to the British military policemen guarding the VIP area and be checked off the list of passengers in Colonel Warden’s party – and she couldn’t help wondering why it was his party, when there were plainly so many officers aboard who were far above his rank. When that had been done, she was handed a pass that would allow her back in.

  A few steps later, she had to be checked into the US Army Air Forces section of the ship and be handed a second pass to allow her back out. Saffron’s cabin was on the main deck. The promenade deck was the next one up, with the sun deck above that. Saffron forced her way through teeming throngs of men who crowded each deck and all the ladders – as she had been told by Clancy to call the stairs – between them. All the men were friendly, most of them respectful, but some were a little too friendly, and even Saffron became worn down by the suggestive remarks, the whistles and the men’s hands on her arms, her body and her backside as she went by.

  ‘Follow me,’ Stackpole said when he met her at the entrance to the games area. He wasn’t wearing his cap, but his brown eyes were still hidden behind his Aviator glasses. It had been raining earlier and the deck was slick with water, but the clouds had now passed and the sun had emerged.

  Stackpole tapped the shoulder of a man wearing a khaki uniform, who was standing by the rails, looking out to sea. ‘Thanks, Mac. I’ll take it from here.’

  ‘No problem, Doc,’ Mac said.

  ‘I gave him five bucks to save me a prime spot,’ Stackpole told Saffron.

  She barely managed a smile. Stackpole looked at her, frowning. ‘Something wrong?’

  Saffron leaned against the balustrade, looking out to sea. She sighed and said, ‘Oh, it’s all right.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Stackpole nodded. ‘Guess that’s female for, “No, it’s not all right at all.” Right?’

  Saffron put on a brighter smile. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s nice to see you, Clay. Better than sitting alone in my cabin all day.’

  ‘Gee, thanks. Good to know I’m better than that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, you are. The only company I’ve had since we left Gourock is the steward, Clancy. He’s very sweet, but about a hundred and ten years old.’

  ‘Whoa! Hold up! You have a steward?’

  Saffron smiled, feeling a little better. ‘I have, and he serves me three meals a day, plus elevenses and tea.’

  ‘What? Three meals? We only get two. And we have to stand in line with our mess tins and pray that whatever gets slopped into them is edible.’

  ‘At last!’ Saffron exclaimed, delighted by the news of Stackpole’s privations. ‘For the first time in the war, there are Americans getting less food than the British. And,’ she went on, deciding to rub it in further, ‘I have a rather splendid suite with my own private bathroom.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. The Limeys are all in the lap of luxury while Uncle Sam’s boys are crammed tighter than steers in a railroad truck. Well, I gotta tell you, lady, I am calling my senator about this when I get home.’

  ‘I’d happily let you share my cabin, but I don’t think that would be allowed,’ Saffron teased.

  ‘Would you now?’ Stackpole replied with a grin.

  ‘Separate beds, of course.’

  They both laughed and turned to look out to sea.

  Stackpole fell silent. He grimaced.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Saffron asked.

  ‘Just praying a U-boat doesn’t get us,’ Stackpole said. ‘All the guys I’m looking after . . . Be kind of ironic if they survived bombing missions at twenty thousand feet over Europe, then got sent to the bottom of the ocean. I guess we’ve got a couple of little friends riding shotgun. Hope that’s enough.’

  A Royal Navy escort destroyer, HMS Ottoman, was sailing beside the Queen Mary, steaming slightly ahead of the liner and a few hundred yards off its beam. There was another, just like her, HMS Ondine, on the other side of the ship. They were both tiny by comparison to the vast ocean liner. ‘I imagine the Admiralty knows what it’s doing,’ she said, but her mind was elsewhere.

  The promenade deck on the ship, where Saffron took her daily walks, was enclosed. Tall windows ran along its entire length; they could be opened to let in the sea air, but the weather had not been good, so they had remained closed. This was her first chance to look at the sea and test Dr Thackeray’s theory that water might be a trigger for her panic attacks.

  Saffron stared hard at the rolling grey swell of the ocean waves and the creamy bubbles of the ship’s wake, but felt nothing. ‘Maybe it has to be a lake,’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Stackpole.

  ‘Oh, nothing . . . Just thinking about something a doctor said to me.’

  ‘You want to tell another doctor about it?’

  ‘He wasn’t your kind of a doctor – more interested in my brain than my bones.’

  ‘Well, I gotta admit, brains are not my specialty, but I can certainly—’

  Before Stackpole could finish his sentence there was a piercing screech from the tannoy speakers located all over the ship, a crackling sound, and then a very English voice saying, ‘Attention! Attention! This is a message for Miss Saffron Courtney . . .’

  Saffron recognised Jock Colville’s voice, as he repeated her name again. ‘Would Miss Saffron Courtney please proceed at once to the promenade deck. I repeat . . .’

  The massed American airmen on the sun deck burst out in mocking catcalls, whistles and impersonations of Colville’s very British accent. ‘I’ve got to go,’ Saffron shouted over the noise. ‘I don’t know where I’m staying in New York, but you can get hold of me through Mr Stephenson at the British Passport Control Office, Rockefeller Center.’

  ‘Stephenson . . . Passport . . . Rockefeller . . . Got it,’ Stackpole shouted back, then added, ‘Follow me! I’ll run interference!’

  Saffron frowned at the unfamiliar phrase, but its meaning became obvious as Stackpole barged his way through the crowd, clearing a path for her. He came with her all the way to the US checkpoint.

  The MP grunted and held out his hand for Saffron’s pass and ID. As the MP let her through, Stackpole shouted, ‘Stephenson, at the Rockefeller Center. I won’t forget!’

  Saffron waved back, then turned to present her papers to the English guard, a corporal. Jock Colville was standing beyond him, tense with impatience and pent-up nervous energy. ‘For God’s sake, man, let her through!’ he called as the corporal carried out the slowest, most painstaking of inspections. Finally he waved her through.

  Colville grabbed Saffron’s arm and practically dragged her after him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he snapped. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere!’ She shook herself free of his grip.

  ‘Why? What’s so important?’

  ‘Not what – who,’ Colville said. They had reached the door to the cabin class promenade. ‘Well, here we go,’ he said. ‘You’re about to meet Colonel Warden.’

  Saffron was at the stern end of the promenade deck. The man she was meeting was right up by the bow. But even at a distance of more than a hundred yards, with his back turned, wearing a navy-blue greatcoat and matching peaked cap, the silhouette was unmistakable. It was something to do with the sturdiness of his posture, the legs a little apart to support the short, stocky body. But the puffs of cigar smoke being swept away in the wind were the clincher.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Colville said. He upped his pace and went ahead. He bent his head to speak to the cigar-smoker, who turned around to observe Saffron as she approached.

  ‘This is Miss Saffron Courtney, sir,’ Colville said. ‘Miss Courtney, may I introduce you to the prime minister, Winston Churchill.’

  Saffron found herself shaking hands with her country’s leader, the embodiment of British defiance. The set jaw, the glowering eyes . . . the features of the man she was facing were so familiar to her from a myriad of photographs and newsreels that there was something strangely unreal about seeing them in the flesh. And yet, here he was, so close that she could smell the cigar smoke.

  Churchill had been in conversation with two other men: a silver-haired naval officer, who appeared to be in his late sixties, much like the prime minister, and another younger, much taller man in a smartly cut double-breasted suit.

  ‘Ah, Miss Courtney,’ Churchill said. ‘I have heard a great deal about you.’

  ‘Sir . . .’ Saffron began. ‘Prime Minister . . . I hope that what you’ve heard has not been too off-putting.’

  ‘On the contrary, it made me eager to meet you for myself. Now, may I introduce you to Sir Dudley Pound, the Admiral of the Fleet? He is the man who, by winning the Battle of the Atlantic, has made it safe for you and me to cross the ocean on this magnificent vessel. And this is Mr Averell Harriman, the president’s special envoy to Europe.’

  Harriman gave a practised smile. It was broad, but flat, Saffron noticed. The corners of his mouth barely rose above the horizontal. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Courtney,’ he said.