Chapter Three

The crew busied themselves tying up and Hare and Osbourne went over the side and walked along the cobbled quay.

“The houses all look pretty much the same,” Craig observed.

“I know,” Hare told him. “The whole place was put together in one go by the lord of the manor, a Sir William Chevely, in the mid-eighteenth century. Cottages, harbour, the quay, everything. According to local legend, most of his money came from smuggling. He was known as Black Bill.”

“I see. He created this model fishing village as a front for other things?” Craig said.

“Exactly. This, by the way, is the pub. The boys use it as their mess.”

It was a low squat building with high gables, timber inserts and mullioned windows which gave it an Elizabethan look.

Craig said, “Nothing Georgian about that. Tudor, I’d say.”

“The cellars are medieval. There’s always been some sort of an inn on this site,” Hare said and clambered into a jeep which stood outside. “Come on, I’ll take you up to the manor.”

Craig looked up at the inn sign over the door. “The Hanged Man.”

“Rather appropriate,” Hare said as he started the engine. “Actually, it’s a new sign. The old one was falling apart and pretty revolting at that. Some poor sod swinging on the end of a rope, hands tied, tongue popping out.”

As they drove away Craig turned to look at the sign again. It depicted a young man hanging upside-down, suspended by his right ankle from a wooden gibbet. The face was calm, the head surrounded by some kind of halo.

“Did you know that’s a Tarot image?” he said.

“Oh, sure, the housekeeper at the manor arranged it, Madame Legrande. She’s into that kind of thing.”

“Legrande? Would that be Julie Legrande?” Craig asked.

“That’s right.” Hare glanced at him curiously. “Do you know her?”

“I knew her husband before the war. He lectured in Philosophy at the Sorbonne. Later he was mixed up with the Resistance in Paris. I came across them there in ’42. Helped them get out when the Gestapo were on their backs.”

“Well, she’s been here since the beginning of the project. Works for SOE.”

“And her husband, Henri?”

“From what I know, he died of a heart attack in London last year.”

“I see.”

They were passing the last of the cottages. Hare said, “This is a defence area. All civilians moved out. We use the cottages as billets. Besides my crew, we also have a few RAF mechanics to service the planes.”

“You have aircraft here? What for?”

“The usual purpose. To drop agents in or bring them out.”

“I thought Special Duties Squadron at Tempsford handled that?”

“They do or at least they handle the normal cases. Our operation is a little more unusual. I’ll show you. We’re just coming up to the field.”

The road curved through trees and on the other side was an enormous meadow with a grass runway. A prefabricated hangar stood at one end. Hare turned the jeep in through the gate, bumped across the grass and stopped. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

“What do you think?”

A Fieseler Storch spotter plane taxied out of the hangar, the Luftwaffe insignia plain on its wings and fuselage and the two mechanics who followed it wore black Luftwaffe overalls. Behind, in the hangar there was a Ju88 nightfighter.

“My God,” Craig said softly.

“I told you things were a little unusual here.”

The pilot of the Stork clambered out, exchanged a word with the mechanics and came towards them. He wore flying boots, baggy, comfortable trousers in blue-grey as worn by Luftwaffe fighter pilots, very unusual, with large map pockets. The short Fliegerbluse gave him a dashing look. He wore his silver pilot’s badge on the left side, an Iron Cross First Class above it and the Luftwaffe National Emblem on the right.

“Everything but the bloody Knight’s Cross,” Osbourne observed.

“Yes, he is a bit of a fantasist, this lad,” Hare told him. “Also something of a psychopath if you want my opinion. Still, he did pull in two DFCs in the Battle of Britain.”

The pilot approached. He was about twenty-five, the hair beneath the cap straw blond, almost white. Although he seemed to smile frequently, there was a touch of cruelty to the mouth and the eyes were cold.

“Flight Lieutenant Joe Edge—Major Craig Osbourne, OSS.”

Edge smiled charmingly enough and held out his hand. “Brigandage a speciality, eh?”

Craig didn’t like him one little bit but tried not to show it. “You’ve got quite a set-up here.”

“Yes, well the Stork can land and take off anywhere. Better than the Lysander in my opinion.”

“Rather unusual camouflage, the Luftwaffe insignia.”

Edge laughed. “Useful on occasions. Had a weather problem the other month so I was running short of juice. I landed at the Luftwaffe Fighter base at Granville. Got them to refuel me. No problem.”

“We have these wonderful forged credentials from Himmler, countersigned by the Führer which indicate that we’re on special assignment for SS security. Nobody dares query that,” Hare said.

“They even gave me dinner in the mess,” Edge told Craig. “Of course, my dear old mum being a Kraut, it does mean I speak the lingo fluently which helps.” He turned to Hare. “Give me a lift up to the manor will you, old boy? I hear the boss might be coming down from London.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hare told him. “Hop in.”

Edge got in the back. As they drove away, Craig said, “Your mother? She’s over here, presumably?”

“Good God, yes. Widow. Lives in Hampstead. Greatest disappointment of her life was when Hitler didn’t manage to drive up the Mall to Buckingham Palace in 1940.”

He laughed hugely. Craig turned away, disliking him even more and said to Hare, “I’ve been thinking. You said Section D of SOE was running this thing. Isn’t that the good old dirty tricks department?”

“That’s right.”

“Would Dougal Munro still be in charge there?”

“You know him, too!”

“Oh, yes,” Craig said. “I worked for SOE from the beginning. Before we came into the war. We’ve had dealings, me and Dougal. A ruthless old bastard.”

“Which is how you win wars, old boy,” Edge commented from the rear.

“I see. You’re an anything goes man, are you?” Craig asked.

“Thought we all were in our business, old son.”

For a moment, Craig saw General Dietrich’s frightened face through the confessional grille. He turned away, uncomfortable.

Hare said, “He hasn’t changed—Munro. The motto really is anything goes, but I expect you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

He turned in through cross gates and braked to a halt in a flagged courtyard. The house was grey stone, and three storeys high. Very old, very peaceful. Nothing to do with war at all.

“Does it have a name?” Craig asked.

“Grancester Abbey. Rather grand, eh?” Edge told him.

Hare said, “Here we are then.” He got out of the jeep. “We’ll beard the ogre in his den if he’s here.”

BUT AT THAT precise moment, Brigadier Dougal Munro was being admitted into the library at Hayes Lodge in London, the house which General Dwight D. Eisenhower was using as temporary headquarters. The General was enjoying coffee and toast and an early edition of The Times when the young Army Captain ushered Dougal Munro in and closed the door behind him.

“Morning, Brigadier. Coffee, tea—anything you want is on the sideboard.” Munro helped himself to tea. “How’s this Cold Harbour project working out?”

“So far, so good, General.”

“You know war is a little like the magician who fools people into watching his right hand while his left is attending to the real business of the day.” Eisenhower poured more coffee. “Deception, Major. Deception is the name of the game. I had a report from Intelligence which tells me that Rommel has done incredible things since they put him in charge of the Atlantic Wall.”

“Quite true, sir.”

“This E-boat of yours has taken engineer officers in by night to the French coast to get beach samples on so many occasions that you must have a pretty good idea where we intend to go in?”

“That’s right, General,” Munro said calmly. “All the indications would seem to predict Normandy.”

“All right. So we’re back with deception,” Eisenhower said and walked to the wall map. “I’ve got Patton heading a phantom army up here in East Anglia. Fake army camps, fake planes—the works.”

“Which would indicate to the Germans our intentions to take the short route and invade in the Pas de Calais area?” Munro observed.

“Which they’ve always expected because it makes military sense.” Eisenhower nodded. “We’ve already got things moving to reinforce that idea. The RAF and 8th Air Force will raid that area frequently, considerably closer to the invasion, of course. That’ll make it look as if we’re trying to soften things up. Resistance groups in the region will constantly attack the power cables and railways, that sort of thing. Naturally, the double agents we’re running will transmit the right, false information to Abwehr headquarters.”

He stood there, staring at the map and Munro said, “Something worrying you, sir?”

Eisenhower moved to the bow window and lit a cigarette. “Many people wanted us to invade last year. Let me now be explicit with you, Brigadier, as to why we didn’t. SHAEF has always been convinced that we can only succeed with this invasion by having every advantage. More men than the Germans, more tanks, more planes—everything. You want to know why? Because in every engagement fought in this war on equal terms, facing either Russian, British or American troops, the Germans have always won. Unit for unit, they usually inflict fifty per cent more casualties.”

“I’m aware of that unfortunate fact, sir.”

“Intelligence sent me details of a speech Rommel made to his Generals the other day. He said if he didn’t beat us on the beaches they’d lost the war.”

“I think he’s right, sir.”

Eisenhower turned. “Brigadier, I’ve always been sceptical of the exact worth of secret agents in this war. Their material is usually sketchy at the best. I think we get better information from the decoding of cyphers by Ultra.”

“I agree, sir,” Munro hesitated. “Of course, if major information isn’t processed by Enigma in the first place, the facts aren’t there to be decoded and they could well be the most important facts.”

“Exactly.” Eisenhower leaned forward. “You sent me a report last week I hardly dare to believe. You said that there was to be a Staff Conference headed by Rommel himself quite soon now. A conference concerned solely with the question of Atlantic Wall defences.”

“That’s right, General. At a place called Château de Voincourt in Brittany.”

“You further stated that you had an agent who could penetrate that conference?”

“Correct, General.” Munro nodded.

Eisenhower said, “My God, if I was a fly on the wall at that meeting. To know Rommel’s thoughts. His intentions.” He put a hand on Munro’s shoulder. “You realise how crucially important this could be? Three million men, thousands of ships, but the right information could make all the difference. You understand?”

“Perfectly, General.”

“Don’t let me down, Brigadier.”

He turned and stared up at the map. Munro let himself out of the room quietly, went downstairs, picked up his coat and hat, nodded to the sentries and went to his car. His aide, Captain Jack Carter, sat in the rear, hands folded over his walking stick. Carter had a false leg, courtesy of Dunkirk.

“Everything all right, sir?” he asked as they drove away.

Munro pulled the glass panel across, cutting them off from the driver. “The de Voincourt conference has assumed crucial importance. I want you to get in touch with Anne-Marie Trevaunce. She can go on another false trip to Paris. Arrange a Lysander pick-up. I need to talk with her, face-to-face. Say three days from now.”

“Right, sir.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“Message came in concerning Cold Harbour, sir. Seems the OSS had problems yesterday. One of their agents knocked off General Dietrich, the SD chief in Brittany. Due to bad weather, their Lysander pick-up had to be aborted, so they asked us for help.”

“You know I don’t like doing that, Jack.”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, Commander Hare got the message direct, went across to Grosnez and picked up the agent concerned. A Major Osbourne.”

There was a pause and Munro turned in astonishment. “Craig Osbourne?”

“Looks like it, sir.”

“My God, is he still around? His luck must be good. The best man I ever had at SOE.”

“What about Harry Martineau, sir?”

“All right, point taken, and he’s another bloody Yank. Is Osbourne at Cold Harbour now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Stop at the nearest phone. Call the CO at RAF Croydon. Tell him I want a Lysander within the next hour. Priority One. You hold the fort here, Jack, and handle the Anne-Marie Trevaunce affair. I’ll fly down to Cold Harbour and see Craig Osbourne.”

“You think he could be useful, sir?”

“Oh, yes, Jack, I think you could say that,” and Munro turned and looked out of the window, smiling.

CRAIG OSBOURNE SAT on a chair by the sink in the large old-fashioned bathroom stripped to the waist; Schmidt, still in his Kriegsmarine uniform, the medical kit open on the floor, sat beside him and worked on the arm. Julie Legrande leaned on the doorway, watching. She was in her late thirties and wore slacks and a brown sweater, blonde hair tied back rather severely, a contrast with the calm sweet face.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“So-so.” Schmidt shrugged. “You can’t tell with gunshot wounds. I’ve got some of this new penicillin drug. It’s supposed to work wonders with infection.”

He primed a hypodermic and filled it from a small bottle. Julie said, “Let’s hope so. I’ll get some coffee.”

She left as Schmidt administered the injection. Osbourne winced slightly and Schmidt put a dressing pad in place and bandaged the arm expertly.

“I think you’re going to need a doctor, guv,” he said cheerfully.

“We’ll see,” Craig told him.

He stood up and Schmidt helped him into the clean khaki shirt Julie had provided. He managed to button it for himself and went into the other room as Schmidt repacked his medical kit.

The bedroom was very pleasant, a little shabby now and much in need of decorating. There was a bed, mahogany furniture, and a table and two easy chairs in the bow window. Craig went and looked out. There was a terrace with a balustrade below, beyond that an unkempt garden, beech trees, a small lake in a hollow. It was very peaceful.

Schmidt came out of the bathroom, his medical kit in one hand. “I’ll check you out later. It’s me for the bacon and eggs.” He grinned, a hand on the door knob. “And don’t bother reminding me I’m Jewish. I was corrupted by the great British breakfast a long time ago.”

As he opened the door, Julie Legrande entered with a tray bearing coffee, toast and marmalade, fresh rolls. Schmidt left and she came and placed the tray on the table at the window. They sat opposite each other.

As she poured coffee she said, “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Craig.”

“Paris seems a long time ago,” he said, taking the coffee cup she handed him.

“A thousand years.”

“I was sorry to hear about Henri,” he went on. “A heart attack, I understand?”

She nodded. “He knew nothing. Died in his sleep and at least he had that last eighteen months in London. We have you to thank for that.”

“Nonsense.” He felt strangely embarrassed.

“The simple truth. Would you like some toast or a roll?”

“No thanks. I’m not hungry. Another cup of coffee would go down just fine, though.”

As she poured, she said, “Without you, we’d never have evaded the Gestapo that night. You were a sick man, Craig. Have you forgotten what those animals did to you? And yet you went back in the truck that night for Henri when others would have left him.” She was suddenly emotional, tears in her eyes. “You gave him a life, Craig, the gift of those last few months in England. I’ll always be in your debt for that.”

He lit a cigarette, stood up and looked out of the window. “I left SOE after that affair. My own people were starting OSS. They needed my kind of experience and to be honest, I’d had enough of Dougal Munro.”

“I’ve been working for him down here for four months,” she said. “We use it as a jumping-off point, safe house, the usual thing.”

“You get on with Munro, then?”

“A hard man.” She shrugged. “But then it’s a hard war.”

He nodded. “A strange set-up, this place, and even stranger people. The pilot, for example, Edge, swaggering around in his Luftwaffe uniform playing Adolf Galland.”

“Yes, Joe’s quite mad, even on a good day,” she said. “I sometimes think he really imagines he is Luftwaffe. He gives the rest of us the willies, but you know Munro—always ready to look the other way if a man is truly excellent at what he does. And Edge’s record is extraordinary.”

“And Hare?”

“Martin?” She smiled and put the cups back on the tray. “Ah, Martin is a different story. I think I’m a little bit in love with Martin.”

The door opened and Edge entered without knocking. “So there we are. All very tęte-ŕ-tęte.”

He leaned against the wall and put a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Julie said wearily, “You really are a rather unpleasant little rat at heart, aren’t you, Joe?”

“Touched a nerve did I, sweetie? Never mind.” He turned to Osbourne. “The boss has just flown in from Croydon.”

“Munro?”

“Must want to see you bad, old boy. He’s waiting in the library now. I’ll show you the way.”

He went out. Osbourne turned and smiled at Julie. “See you later,” he said and followed him.

THE LIBRARY WAS an imposing room, its walls crammed with books from floor to a ceiling of beautiful Jacobean plasterwork. A log fire burned on the open stone hearth and comfortable couches and leather club chairs were ranged around it. Munro was standing in front of the fire, cleaning his spectacles carefully as Craig Osbourne entered the room. Edge leaned against the wall by the door. Munro adjusted his spectacles and looked at Osbourne calmly.

“You can wait outside, Joe.”

“Oh, dear, so I’m to miss all the fun, am I?” Edge said, but did as he was told.

“Good to see you, Craig,” Munro said.

“I can’t say it’s mutual,” Craig told him and he moved to one of the chairs and sat down, lighting a cigarette. “We go back too far.”

“Don’t be bitter, dear boy, it doesn’t suit.”

“Yes, well I was always just a blunt instrument to you.”

Munro sat opposite. “Colourfully put, but apt. Now then, what about this arm? I understand Schmidt has had a look at it?”

“He thinks I might need a doctor, just to make sure.”

“No problem. We’ll have that taken care of. This Dietrich business, Craig. Really quite something. You exhibited all your usual flair, if I might say so. It’s going to give Himmler and the SD severe problems.”

“And how many hostages did they shoot in reprisal?”

Munro shrugged. “It’s that kind of war. Not your affair.”

Craig said, “Anne-Marie used the same phrase. The exact same.”

“Ah, yes, I was delighted to hear that she was of assistance to you. She works for me, you know.”

“Then God help her,” Craig said forcefully.

“And you, dear boy. You see, you’re on the strength as of right now.”

Craig leaned forward, tossing his cigarette into the fire. “Like hell I am. I’m an American officer, a Major in the OSS. You can’t touch me.”

“Oh, yes I can. I operate under the direct authority of General Eisenhower himself. The Cold Harbour project is a joint venture. Hare and four of his men are American citizens. You’ll join me, Craig, for three reasons. First, because you now know too much about the entire Cold Harbour project. Second, because I need you here. There’s a lot happening with the invasion coming up and you can make a very positive contribution.”

“And the third reason?” Craig asked.

“Simple. You’re an officer in the armed forces of your country just like me and you’ll obey orders, just like me.” Munro stood up.

“No more nonsense, Craig. We’ll go down to the pub, see Hare and tell him and his boys you’re now a member of the club.”

He turned and walked to the door and Craig followed him feeling curiously light-headed, despair in his heart.

THE HANGED MAN was exactly what one would have expected, a typical English village pub. The floor was stone flagged, there was a log fire on an open hearth, iron-work tables which had seen years of use, high-backed wooden benches. The ceiling was beamed and the old mahogany bar was conventional enough, bottles ranged on the shelves behind it. The one incongruous thing was Julie pulling pints behind the bar and the Kriegsmarine uniforms of the men who leaned against it.

As the Brigadier entered followed by Osbourne and Edge, Hare was sitting by the fire drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He stood up and called, in German. “Attention. General officer present.”

The men clicked heels. Brigadier Munro waved a hand and said in fair German. “At ease. Carry on drinking.” He held out a hand and said to Hare, “No need for the usual formalities, Martin. We’ll use English. Congratulations. Good job last night.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Munro warmed his backside at the fire. “Yes, you used your initiative, which is fine, but do try to clear things with me in future.”

Edge said to Hare, “Good point, old boy. For all you knew, the gallant Major might have been expendable.”

Something flared in Hare’s eyes and he took a step towards Edge who backed off, laughing. “All right, old boy, no violence if you please.” He turned to the bar. “Julie, my blossom. A very large gin and tonic, s’il vous plaît.”

“Calm down, Martin,” Munro said. “An unpleasant young sod, but a flyer of genius. Let’s all have a drink.” He turned to Craig. “It’s not that we’re alcoholics here, but as the lads work by night, they do their drinking in the morning.” He raised his voice. “Listen, everybody. As you all know by now this is Major Craig Osbourne of the Office of Strategic Services. What you don’t know is that as of right now, he will be one of us here at Cold Harbour.”

There was a moment’s silence. Julie, at the bar, paused in the act of pulling a pint, face grave, then Schmidt raised his glass of ale. “Gawd help you, guvnor.”

There was a general laugh and Munro said to Hare, “Introduce them, Martin.” He turned to Osbourne. “Under their assumed identities, of course.”

The Chief Petty Officer, Langsdorff, who had been at the wheel, was American. So were Hardt, Wagner and Bauer. Schneider, the engineer, was obviously German and as he discovered latter, Wittig and Brauch, like Schmidt, were English Jews.

Craig was feeling more than light-headed now. He was sweating, he knew that, and his forehead was hot. “It’s warm in here,” he said, “damn warm.”

Hare looked at him curiously, “Actually I thought it rather chilly this morning. Are you okay?”

Edge approached with two glasses. He gave one to Munro and the other to Craig. “You look like a gin man to me, Major. Get it down. It’ll set the old pulses roaring. Julie will like that.”

“Screw you!” Craig told him but he took the glass and drank it.

“No, the general idea is screw her, old boy.” Edge squeezed on to the bench beside him. “Though she does seem to keep it to herself.”

“You’re an unpleasant little swine, aren’t you, Joe?” Martin Hare said.

Edge glanced at him, managing to look injured. “Intrepid bird man, old boy, that’s me. Gallant knight of the air.”

“So was Hermann Goering,” Craig said.

“Quite right. Brilliant pilot. Took over the Flying Circus after von Richthofen was killed.”

Craig’s voice sounded to him as if it came from someone else. “An interesting idea, the war hero as psychopath. You must feel right at home in that Ju88 you’ve got up at the airfield.”

“Ju88S, old boy, let’s be accurate. Its engine boosting system takes me up around four hundred.”

“He forgets to tell you that his boosting system depends on three cylinders of nitrous oxide. One hit in those tanks and he ends up in a variety of very small pieces,” Martin Hare said.

“Don’t be like that, old boy,” Edge moved closer to Craig. “This kite is a real honey. Usually has a crew of three. Pilot, navigator and a rear-gunner. We’ve done a few improvements so I can manage on my own. For instance, the Lichtenstein radar set which actually enables one to see in the dark—they’ve repositioned that in the cockpit so I can see for myself and …”

His voice faded as Craig Osbourne plunged into darkness and rolled on to the floor. Schmidt ran across from the bar and crouched down as the room went silent. He looked up at Munro.

“Christ, sir, he’s got a raging fever. That’s bloody quick. I only checked him out an hour ago.”

“Right,” Munro said grimly and turned to Hare. “I’ll take him back to London in the Lysander. Get him into hospital.”

Hare nodded. “Okay, sir.” He stood back as Schmidt and two others picked Osbourne up and carried him out.

Munro turned to Edge. “Joe, get through to Jack Carter at my office. Tell him to arrange for Osbourne to be admitted to the Hampstead Nursing Home as soon as we get in,” and he turned and followed the others out.

CRAIG OSBOURNE CAME awake from a deep sleep feeling fresh and alert. No sign of any fever at all. He struggled up on one elbow and found himself in what seemed to be a small hospital bedroom with white painted walls. He swung his legs to the floor and sat there for a moment as the door opened and a young nurse came in.

“You shouldn’t be up, sir.”

She pushed him back into bed and Craig said, “Where am I?”

She went out. A couple of minutes passed. The door opened again and a doctor in a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, entered.

He smiled. “So, how are we, Major?” and took Craig’s pulse. He had a German accent.

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Baum is my name.”

“And where am I?”

“A small nursing home in north London. Hampstead to be precise.” He put a thermometer in Craig’s mouth, then checked it. “Very good. Very nice. No fever at all. This penicillin is a miracle. Of course the chap who treated you gave you a shot, but I gave you more. Lots more. That’s the secret.”

“How long have I been here?”

“This is the third day. You were quite bad. Frankly, without the drug,” Baum shrugged. “Still, now you have some tea and I’ll ring Brigadier Munro. Tell him you are all right.”

He went out. Craig stayed there, then got up, found a robe and went and sat by the window looking out at the high-walled garden. The nurse came back with a pot of tea on a tray.

“I hope you don’t mind, Major. We don’t have any coffee.”

“That’s okay,” he told her. “Do you have any cigarettes?”

“You shouldn’t really, sir,” she hesitated then took a packet of Player’s from her pocket and some matches. “Don’t tell Dr. Baum where they came from.”

“You’re a honey,” Craig kissed her hand. “First night out I’ll take you to Rainbow Corner in Piccadilly. Best cup of coffee in London and great swing to dance to.”

She blushed and went out, laughing. He sat there, smoking, staring into the garden, and after a while there was a knock at the door and Jack Carter limped in, a stick in one hand, a briefcase in the other.

“Hello, Craig.”

Craig, truly delighted to see him, stood up. “Jack—how bloody marvellous after all this time. So, you still work for that old sod.”

“Oh, yes.” Carter sat down and opened the briefcase. “Dr. Baum says you’re much better?”

“So I hear.”

“Good. The Brigadier would like you to do a job for him, if you feel up to it, that is.”

“Already? What’s he trying to do? Kill me off?”

Carter raised a hand. “Please, Craig, hear me out. It’s not good, this one. This friend of yours, Anne-Marie Trevaunce?”

Craig paused, a cigarette to his lips. “What about her?”

“The Brigadier needed to see her face-to-face. Something very big is coming up. Very big.”

Craig lit his cigarette. “Isn’t it always?”

“No, this time, it really is of supreme importance, Craig. Anyway, a Lysander pick-up was arranged to bring her out and I’m afraid things went very badly wrong.” He passed a file across. “See for yourself.”

Craig went to the window seat, opened the file and started to read. After a while, he closed it, great pain on his face.

Carter said, “I’m sorry. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“About as bad as it could be. A horror story.”

He sat there thinking of Anne-Marie, the lipsticked mouth, the arrogance, the good legs in the dark stockings, the constant cigarette. So damned irritating and so bloody marvellous and now … ?

Carter said, “Did you know of the existence of this twin sister, this Genevieve Trevaunce in England?”

“No.” Craig handed back the file. “She was never mentioned in all the time I knew Anne-Marie, even in the old days. I knew there was an English father. She once told me Trevaunce was a Cornish name, but I always thought he was dead.”

“Not at all. He’s a doctor. Lives in Cornwall. North Cornwall. A village called St. Martin.”

“And the daughter? This Genevieve?”

“She’s a Staff Nurse here in London at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. She was recently rather ill with influenza. She’s on extended sick leave staying with her father at St. Martin.”

“So?” Craig said.

“The Brigadier would like you to go and see her.” Carter took a large white envelope from his briefcase and passed it across. “This will explain just how important it is that you help us out on this one.”

Craig opened the envelope, took out the typed letter and began to read it slowly.