'Don't worry, we're only a quarter of an hour away from Whitehall. Less if I phone for a car.'

'No it's - It's too late to get over to the TARDIS and see if the Doctor has turned up today. 'Look, George, I'm sorry. I don't normally oversleep.'

'No. Look, I need a bit of a scrub. Er...' George was grinning like a schoolboy. He made some arcane hand-gesture over his chest and left. Roz frowned, trying to puzzle out this latest English ritual. Then she glanced down at her blouse, which had come unb.u.t.toned in a couple of places. It must have happened overnight, because George had been a perfect gentleman when things had got a little more intimate last night. His loss. And don't you dare pretend you were drunk, Roslyn Forrester, because you are not even slightly hungover. She b.u.t.toned herself up, tucked the blouse back into her skirt and adjusted her petticoat. One of her stockings had come unhitched overnight. She did it back up. There was a knock, and George peeked round the door.

'The bathroom's free,' he said nervously.

'George, I enjoyed last night - I enjoy your company - but anything we do out of office hours can't affect our work, OK?'

'I understand, Roz. No office romance.'

'I'm not a romantic person, George, we better get that straight right now. And I'm not going to be here very long. If you ask me to marry you, then I'll bite your nose off, is that understood?'

George looked down at his feet. 'Understood, Captain.'

'Good boy.' Forrester went to freshen up.

Gunfire.

Frantically, Armand pulled the radio set from under the bed, looped the headphones over his ear and pinned up the aerial. He spoke in English. He had been chosen because he was the most fluent English-speaker left. Another burst of submachine-gunfire, upstairs this time.

'Raven Calling London. Raven Calling London. Over.'

'Receiving you, Raven. Status Tomato. Over.' If he wasn't used to it, the surrealism of the conversation might have been comical. He hadn't much time. He dropped the codebook into the ashtray, then set it alight with a match.

'Tomato Compromised. Repeat: Tomato Compromised.

Over.'

The door burst open. Shouts in German.

'Hugin. Munin. Hugin and Mun- '

Gunfire. Footsteps. The last page of the codebook curled and blackened.

'Please confirm, Raven.'

Gunshot.

'Your moustache makes you very distinctive.'

'Thank you.' Chris glowed with pride, stroking his top lip.

Monique was the young daughter of Monsieur Gerard, the farmer who owned the barn. They had found him, but luckily they had wanted to identify him before shooting. After initial suspicions, they'd welcomed him in, made up a bed for him.

Now they sat around the breakfast table. Monique had told him something of her family's history. Her mother, Monsieur Gerard's wife, had died in childbirth and his two sons had served on the Maginot Line. Monique was pretty, with long, black hair. She was about five foot six, and looked a little older than her fifteen years. Last year, she had been planning to join a religious order, a nunnery near Mont St Michel. The war had changed all that. Now, she helped her father at the farm because his sons and all the other farmhands had been killed or captured during the invasion. Chris would not have described her father as pretty, however. 'Hulking', perhaps.

He had clearly been a farmer for the whole of his life. His face was lined, his huge hands were callused. He was forty-one, 'as old as the century', as he put it. He looked older.

'It is not a good thing to be distinctive these days, Christophe,' he mumbled.

'No?' Chris was disappointed.

'Don't worry, you might not have to shave it off.' Monique giggled. She handed him a gla.s.s of wine, and a hunk of bread.

Her father's voice was grave. 'Mr Cwej, I am glad you have not forgotten our country, but you must understand that your presence here puts us at risk.'

'I'm quite willing to leave now, I - ' Chris replied hurriedly.

'Sir, I did not mean that. I want to help. I have no contact with the Resistance. I can do little more than save the best of my produce for my fellow countrymen and keep my eyes and ears open. I am willing to help you in my limited way.'

'Thank you, sir. I will avenge your sons.'

'Avenge?' The farmer chuckled. 'You make it sound so melodramatic. Michel and Luc were soldiers, defending their country. I sometimes wonder why people have this notion that wars are such an adventure. I fought in the last war, the Great War. I was fifteen, so eager to join up that I lied about my age. I learnt then that it wasn't a place for heroism, it was just war. I spent most of my time marching and waiting. Lying in cold ditches, not sure whether my friends were still alive, or when the enemy would attack. I wasn't able to sleep, and my latrine was a bucket in the corner of my quarters, which I shared with five other men. I've never seen a novel or a film where the hero did that! They miss out all those bits.' He paused to sip his wine and gave a little chuckle. 'So, Mr Cwej, what exciting mission brings you here?'

'I was making my way towards the airfield. I'm looking for Emil Hartung.'

'The racing driver?' asked the farmer, but his daughter was already speaking.

Not the new base?' she enquired.

'The what?'

'My daughter means the new fence fence. I don't think there is a base there yet.'

'Where is this?'

'South-east of here, about two miles.'

'The British have no photographs of this base. Could you take me?'

Monsieur Gerard shrugged. 'It is the least I could do.

But I have to warn you that there isn't much to see. I will take you there this evening.'

As soon as they arrived at their office, George could tell that something was wrong.

Kendrick and Lynch had been joined by three more men.

Two of them were RAF, the other wore a double-breasted blue suit. He was either a civil servant or MI5, he was too smartly dressed to be a boffin. All five were bent over a map of the English Channel. One of the RAF men was drawing on it with a thick red pen. Reed glanced at Roz, who flashed back a look of concern.

'What's the matter, sir?' he asked.

'It's a disaster, George. Forrester, could you come over here?' She was the shortest person present, and Kendrick was allowing her a better vantage point. George stood on the other side of the table. Surrounded by half a dozen drab Englishmen, Roz looked all the more exotic.

'What, precisely, is the problem?' she asked, apparently sensing Kendrick's new-found acceptance of her, and warily trying not to break the spell.

'We've lost the whole "Tomato" network.'

'The Channel Islands,' said Reed.

'Exactly. And some of France, the area around Granville.

Jersey and Guernsey should be totally secure, the network was entirely made up of British citizens. But it looks like the collapse started in Guernsey.'

'When?' Forrester was businesslike, and Kendrick seemed to appreciate it. One of the RAF men spoke up. 'Just this morning. In one day, thirty of our people were rounded up. It happened so quickly, we couldn't even warn them.'

'...so the Germans have known about the network for a while,' concluded the civilian.

'Is there anyone left?'

'Not one. The last was apparently killed at 08.24 this morning while he was calling London. A member of the Raven cell in Granville.' There was consternation around the table. Reed looked down at the map, examining it properly for the first time. The red lines traced the collapse of the network. The Germans had eliminated the spies in less than a day. They had known exactly where to strike. It was a clear message to London.

'That last thing we got was rather cryptic: "hoogin end mooning". It means nothing to any of us. It came from that Raven cell. It's certainly not French or German. It must be a codephrase.' He looked up, hopefully, but it meant nothing to Forrester either.

George's brow was furrowed. 'How is it spelt, sir?'

'Well,' he handed Reed a slip of paper, 'that is what our operator made of it. Even allowing for the French accent, it makes no sense.'

Everyone around the table tried mouthing the words.

'That middle word, it's probably either "und" or "and". It's not "et" is it?'

'So we're dealing with two things. "Hoogin" and "Mooning".'

'Are they names?'

'If they are, we don't have them on file. They are not place names, and they are not the names of people either.'

Reed, like most Englishmen, had little ability with foreign languages. 'Sir, doesn't hugel hugel mean "hill" in German? Could mean "hill" in German? Could mooning mooning be the word for "mountain"?' There was a murmur round the table. be the word for "mountain"?' There was a murmur round the table.

'Sorry, Lieutenant, the German for "mountain" is berg berg, as in iceberg,' said one of the RAF chaps. Reed found it difficult to hide his disappointment. The murmuring died down.

'Could it be a name. "Hugh Ghin" and er, "Moon Inn". A hotel?' offered Lynch.

Kendrick's disbelieving expression was sufficient answer.

'Perhaps it's chinese, Lynch, but I very much doubt it.'

'Just a suggestion, Admiral, but why don't we ask a German linguist?' Roz asked.

Kendrick shook his head. 'The network has been compromised. These words are obviously vitally important.

They should not be breathed to anyone who isn't around this table. Ray here is going to look through the files to see if the words have ever cropped up in reports before, but I'm pretty sure they haven't.' The civilian nodded thoughtfully.

'Sir, I understand the need for security, but someone else might know straight away what these words mean.'

'Forrester, we've lost our eyes and ears in a whole section of northern France. The Germans mustn't find out that we know about this message, so we can't risk telling anyone else. My hunch is that this has something to do with the superbomber that Lynch proposed. We were getting close, and the German's knew it.'

'Cwej,' Roz said suddenly. The others looked at her.

'Another mystery word. Is it Welsh?' said the civilian.

'It sounded more like Polish,' offered the other RAF man, who had a touch of a Welsh accent himself.

'Cwels my partner. He's been sent into the middle of all this,' Roz explained, indicating the map.

'He's trying to make contact with Hartung,' said Kendrick.

'At the moment, he's the only operative we have in the Granville area, and he's maintaining radio silence. So we have only two things left: Cwej, and the cryptic message.'

Roz spoke. 'Sir, this message means nothing to us. We don't have any advantage.' A murmur of a.s.sent swept around the table. Kendrick caught the mood of the meeting.

'Forrester, you don't seem to understand the need for secrecy.'

Roz shifted. 'Gentlemen, at the moment we have a clue, but none of us can shed any light on it. What use is it? From the Germans' point of view, it doesn't matter whether we've heard the words or not, it matters whether we understand them.'

Kendrick had been listening carefully, and now he nodded. 'I think we can risk bringing in someone else. Those two words are not to be uttered outside these walls, but I want everyone in this room to focus their attention on them.'