'Inform Standartenfuhrer Wolff that I have arrived.'

'At once, Oberst Steinmann.' The secretary pressed a switch on the intercom. Steinmann looked around. A great deal of construction work had been completed since he had last been here, a fortnight earlier. When finished, the complex would serve as a bomb-proof administrative centre, command post, prison and even a hospital. That was still a few months away yet but, when finished, the base would provide a concrete symbol of n.a.z.i power. A modern medieval castle, complete with dungeons and torture chambers.

The secretary stood. 'I shall take you to Herr Wolff, sir.'

'It must be difficult to find your way around this place,'

Steinmann joked.

The secretary took him seriously. 'No, sir, your architectural skill is unsurpa.s.sed. You have created an ordered - ' Steinmann cut the flattery short with a wave of his hand. He had designed this place, but was not proud of the fact. He hadn't the skill to create anything as beautiful as the townhouse in Granville. La.s.surance - now, he was a genius. The corridor they were walking through had not been painted yet, and was drab and grey. However, there was no doubt that his subterranean building would last forever. It had been built out of reinforced concrete precisely so that not even high explosive charges could dent it. After the war, when this place was no longer needed, and the Channel Islands were being run as a holiday camp by the KdF, it would prove impossible to demolish. At least it was underground, unlike all those watchtowers and gun emplacements on the coastline.

Wolff was sitting outside the cell block waiting for him.

His huge frame seemed perfectly at home in the brutish place Steinmann had designed. They saluted one another. A blonde nurse was just bringing in a jug of coffee. She seemed unsure whether she ought to salute before or after she had put the tray down. Steinmann magnanimously told her not to worry about it. She poured him a cup of black coffee.

'You were right to bring the Doktor to me, Joachim,'

Steinmann began, 'and he is just what we need. Who have you got in there?'

'That is the woman who killed the German soldier. Her name is Bernice Summerfield. She's a civilian, but she's from the mainland. I've questioned her and she told us everything she knows. She's delirious now. Kitzel here suggested we torture her with electric shocks, but I decided to be more humane.'

'Sir, that misrepresents my 'An angry glance from Steinmann silenced the young nurse.

'Joachim, you couldn't be humane if you tried. I saw what you did to the Doctor. Thankfully, I've managed to salvage the situation. Show me this woman.' Kitzel scurried to the door, unbolting it.

Steinmann stepped inside. In the corner of the cell, an emaciated figure sat crouched, its eyes staring wildly, but not focused on anything in particular. Her face was bruised and cut. She seemed to have registered his presence.

Awkwardly, she pulled herself upright. She was tall and skinny, and couldn't quite straighten herself. Her brunette hair was greasy and unkempt. She mumbled something.

Steinmann inspected her. She had clearly not changed her clothes for some time; there was a urine stain running down her trouser-leg. Her feet were covered in cuts and her right hand was in a splint. Two of the fingernails on the other hand had been torn off. Steinmann instructed her to turn around and lifted up her shirt. As he had suspected, her back was covered in red weals where she had been whipped.

'Joachim! Get in here!' he shouted. Wolff appeared, framed in the doorway, arrogance written all over his face.

'Is there a problem, sir?'

'How can you have done this? I wouldn't treat a dog like this.

What did you hope to achieve?' The prisoner was swaying slightly. Steinmann caught her before she fell.

'Nurse. Bathe this patient, then place her in another cell, one with a bed. Provide her with a light meal. I shall join you shortly.'

Kitzel hurried forward and relieved Steinmann of his load.

The patient was mumbling something, and Steinmann had to concentrate to catch it. 'Doctor, Doctor, you saved me. I love you, Doctor.'

It had been staring him in the face. This woman was the Doctor's accomplice: while he was down on the beach, she had been on the clifftop. She would provide an additional incentive for the Doctor to co-operate with him, if an additional incentive should prove necessary.

'Joachim, this prisoner is valuable, and I am taking over the interrogation.' Once Summerfield had been led from the room, Steinmann continued. 'It is the declared policy of the Reich that we keep all spies we capture alive.'

'Summerfield is alive, sir. I remind you that she killed one of my men.'

'Would you have treated a man the same way? Did you really need to break the neck of that poor girl at the docks?

Wipe that expression off your face: I've read your file. You are a s.a.d.i.s.t and a bully, but you focus your aggression on women. An unhappy childhood, perhaps?'

'Psychoa.n.a.lysis!' spat Wolff. 'I expected better from you than Jewish science. You've done worse to prisoners, sir.

Water treatment, the merry-go-round, the dentist's drill.'

Steinmann wasn't listening. 'That will be all, Standartenfuhrer. I will question the prisoner myself when she is able to speak. Joachim, we need need the Doktor, don't doubt that. Without his knowledge, everything we have planned might collapse around us.' the Doktor, don't doubt that. Without his knowledge, everything we have planned might collapse around us.'

'I look forward to seeing you at work, sir.' Wolff remained defiant.

'You may attend the first session, but you will be leaving this afternoon.'

Wolff frowned. 'So soon? I had thought that - '

'You don't play chess, do you, Joachim? We have to think ahead. At the moment we have the advantage, but one lucky move from our opponents could decide this. They might find a c.h.i.n.k in our armour; they might work out what Hartung has built. The Doktor did. I've neutralized him, for the moment, but we are still vulnerable.'

Wolff stood to attention. 'What are your orders?'

'We shall proceed with the plan.'

Kendrick read through the notes for a third time. Roz glanced nervously at Reed, but his attention was fixed on the admiral.

For the first time, Forrester had her doubts about what she had done. Kendrick was an expert in the field of raid a.n.a.lysis, and in her book that made him superior to any machine, even the TARDIS computer. If he were to challenge her on a point of detail, then she might not be able to answer him. It would become clear very quickly that she hadn't written the report.

'This is incredible.' Kendrick whistled. In credible? Not credible?

'In what way, sir? she asked, trying to keep calm.

'You've cracked it, Captain Forrester. You've done it! I have to tell the Cabinet. You'll get the Victoria Cross for this, Forrester, and if you work another miracle and find von Wer, then they'll probably make you a peer of the realm!'

The Doctor was getting restless. Keller watched him as he paced the room. The Doctor was constantly moving. One minute he would be looking around, then he'd scrutinize the contents of the bookcase, before moving on to examine the ornaments on top of the fireplace.

'When do I meet Hartung?' the Doctor asked again.

'In good time. Doktor, please sit down.' The Doctor continued to prowl around.

There was a knock at the door and a young private came in. Keller didn't recognize him, although he was expecting a messenger sent from Oberst Steinmann. The soldier was tall and broad, with a thick moustache and cropped blond hair.

Once inside, he just stood there.

'Salute when you enter the room,' Keller ordered.

Instead, the private raised his pistol, an SS-issue Mauser with a long, bulbous silencer.

'No, Chris!' shouted the Doctor. Before Keller could react, the Doctor had flown past him, pulling down on the tall man's arm. There was a m.u.f.fled shot. Keller felt a hot sensation in his leg: spreading, agonizing pain. The Doctor had turned away from the private, and was examining Keller's leg. He was saying something.

'Don't worry, it's. .h.i.t your thigh-bone. It will hurt, and will take a while to heal, but you'll be all right.'

'Come on, Doctor,' insisted the big man, pulling the Doctor away. The Doctor shrugged apologetically, and disappeared.

'My cell hasn't got a window.'

'We're underground, Fraulein Summerfield. None of the rooms here have windows.'

Steinmann watched as the prisoner pondered this new information. Summerfield was more presentable now. She had bathed, eaten a meal, then slept for a couple of hours and was beginning to look human again. Now, she wore a fresh prison uniform and her shoulder-length hair had been brushed straight. Summerfield was an attractive woman, with high cheekbones and a full mouth. The cut on her forehead was covered with a sticking plaster. The bruising around her face would be there for a couple of days yet, though. Her hand might never heal properly, although the dressing had been changed.

Wolff was hovering behind him, and was clearly making both Summerfield and Kitzel nervous. Like it or not, Steinmann thought, it was an indisputable fact that Wolff and he were two of a kind. How simple it would be to turn a blind eye to the laws of race, pretend that the Doctor, or the beautiful Miss Summerfield, were Aryans, too. Life is not like that. Such compromises could only weaken the resolve of the German people, deflect them from their destiny. There are no exceptions to a universal rule. Not just that, he thought; just looking at us, it is clear that he, Wolff and Kitzel, were a race apart. He looked at the prisoner again, and realized the contempt he felt for her and her kind.

'Start the tape-recorder, Kitzel. Prisoner F319-350042, I am Oberst Oskar Steinmann, Direktor of the regional Luftwaffe zbV.'

'I'm Professor Bernice Summerfield, no fixed abode. So, you're the nice cop, right? The acceptable face of Fascism?'

Her tone was antagonistic, but she couldn't disguise her fear.

Steinmann held the position of power here, and no amount of arrogant resolve would change that.

'I beg your pardon?'

'You know: nice cop/nasty cop. You get some bully to soften me up, then you come in and act all nice and I'm so grateful that I'll blab everything. It won't work, Oskar, I live with a nice cop and a nasty cop. I'm used to it.' She had a 'Home Counties' accent - the clipped, ever so slightly nasal tones spoken by the upper and middle cla.s.s in the south-east of England.

Steinmann had little patience with insubordination.

'Ready her arm, Kitzel.'

Kitzel brushed the prisoner's forearm with a swab.

Naturally enough Summerfield was alarmed. 'What are you doing?' Her sarcasm was clearly nothing more than a facade.

'When it come to my job, Professor Summerfield, I am not a nice man. You have killed a sixteen-year-old boy while spying for an enemy power. You have already exhausted my patience, and I do not intend to waste any more of my time.'

Kitzel jabbed Summerfield's arm with a hypodermic needle. The prisoner managed not to cry out.

'Thank you, nurse. How long does the drug need to take effect?'

'It should be effective now, sir,' Kitzel declared.

Summerfield was glaring at the nurse with unrestrained hostility. There was no such thing as a 'truth drug', but simple relaxants like the one that they were using on Summerfield would loosen tongues, break down some mental barriers. He had tried a more civilized version of the same technique on the Doctor, trying to get the little man drunk. The Doctor's metabolism didn't seem to be affected. Normally he would try to relax his prisoner in some small way, offer her a cigarette, make a joke. He didn't feel any need to tread so softly with Summerfield.

'We shall begin. Are you married, Professor Summerfield?' The prisoner shook her head. Steinmann wrote this down.

'What is your religion?' he continued.

'I'm not religious.'

Steinmann noted this down. Interrogation of this nature always started with standard questions like this. Begin by establishing a few basic facts about the prisoner's life. Learn what makes her tick.

'Have you ever belonged to a political party or trade union?'

'No.'

Steinmann made a note of her answer. 'Are you proficient in any languages other than English and German?'

'Quite a few: French, Egyptian, Hebrew, Ancient and Modern Greek, Latin, most of the Martian dialects, Old English, Old Norse. I can get by in a number of others. There was quite a heavy linguistics component of my degree, and I've got the knack.' It wasn't a boast, if anything Summerfield was apologetic.

'What do you hold your degree in?'

'Archaeology.'

Steinmann looked up from his notebook. 'Really? A friend of mine, Hans Auerbach, is writing the history of the islands. It will contain a catalogue of the prehistoric sites.'

'Yes, I've read it.'

Steinmann made a note of this lie, but didn't challenge Summerfield with it. Slips of the tongue, blatant lies, factual errors and the like could all be brought back into play later in the questioning, used to pull holes in an agent's cover story.

All these inconsistencies would mount up and come back to haunt her. For the moment, he wanted to retain the prisoner's cooperation. So Steinmann continued the interrogation with a new question. 'Where did you acquire your degree?'

'It's none of your business,' the prisoner said curtly. It would be unprofitable to continue this line of questioning, Steinmann decided. She had seemed talkative, but the last question had put her on the defensive for some reason.

'When were you born?'

'The twentyfirst of June.' This response was a little more promising. By carefully watching a subject's Adam's apple and eyelids, it was a simple matter to tell if they were lying.