Naked, with a shaved scalp, the corpse was pale and virtually hairless, except for a patch of light brown pubic hair. There was a large entry wound in his abdomen that had been cleaned up. The boy had been shot at point-blank range. His eyes had been closed. It was nothing she hadn't seen before; a lot of young men had died in this war, but it shocked her anyway. Summerfield was sitting down on the autopsy table.

'I'd forgotten. I forgot all about him.'

'This is your friend?' Kitzel had expected someone older.

'No, this is the man I killed. Gerhard.'

'You are feeling guilty, now?' she said reprovingly.

'I felt pretty d.a.m.n guilty when I did it,' Summerfield snapped. Abruptly she stood, and pushed her hip against the drawer until it slammed shut. Gerhard vanished. Kitzel moved to Drawer 7 and unlocked it. Summerfield pulled it open.

Together, they peered in.

The contents were twisted, blackened. So much so that it took Kitzel a moment to realize that the object had once been human, and wasn't some sculpture or tree trunk. It must have happened quickly: the skin had been carbonized. She glanced at the face. It was grinning, with pearl-white teeth. Its dark eyes were open. It smelt of roast pork. Kitzel was sick over it.

'It's no improvement, Kitzel, he still looks a mess.' Kitzel shot Summerfield a glance, and it was enough to make her blush and apologize.

'Is this your friend?' Kitzel asked, wiping her mouth.

Summerfield shook her head, but checked the name-tag tied to what remained of the corpse's left foot.

'No,' she confirmed. 'Could you close it up?' Kitzel did as she asked, grateful that the burnt body was no longer in sight. As she did this, she heard Summerfield opening up a third drawer. The tall woman grasped Kitzel's shoulder.

'How tall are you, nurse?'

'Five feet, four inches.'

'Nearly six inches,' Summerfield cursed.

'What do you mean?'

The knife was suddenly jabbed between her ribs. 'I mean you're six inches too short. Where I come from, women are taller than they are here. You'll have to do. Strip.'

Kitzel hesitated, but not for very long. She had to step back to take off her jacket That done, she began unb.u.t.toning her blouse. Kitzel watched as Summerfield looked across at the unconscious attendant. This would have been her last chance to resist, but Summerfield kept the knife poised above Kitzel's midriff. Kitzel watched as the taller woman scooped up the blouse and began to put it on over her prison uniform. Kitzel pulled down her skirt, and was beginning to unclip her bra before Summerfield motioned her to stop.

'I draw the line at second-hand underwear. Sit down.'

Kitzel fell back, the drawer buckling under her weight.

Summerfield had pulled off her uniform trousers and shrugged herself into the skirt. Kitzel glanced down at her arm, which was p.r.i.c.kling with goose b.u.mps. Not just from the cold. Summerfield leant over and patted Kitzel's wrist.

'I'll have the wrist.w.a.tch, please,' she said. It was gold, an expensive present from her father on her sixteenth birthday.

Kitzel undid it, and pa.s.sed it over.

'Christ, is that the time?' the tall woman joked as she put it on. Kitzel didn't react.

'Do you think I'd pa.s.s muster?' Summerfield asked. The skirt was loose, but it was barely below her knee. The blouse fitted, just, but the jacket was pinched at the shoulders and was almost ridiculously short.

'No,' said Kitzel.

Summerfield laughed. At least you're honest. When I put the coat on it won't look quite as bad.' Summerfield reached over for the coat and umbrella.

'What happens now?' Kitzel said nervously, her arms crossed over her chest. It was cold in here.

'Now I pose as a n.a.z.i nurse, march out of the base unchallenged and go to the docks. No guards will stop me, but I'll get wolf-whistled. Then, I convince a fisherman to take me to the mainland. He'll think I'm a n.a.z.i, I'll point out that the uniform is obviously stolen and I've got two black eyes. I'll say that if he takes me I'll give him this wrist.w.a.tch. He'll agree. I'll cross the Channel in his fishing boat, which will take about seven hours. I'll use that time to catch up on my sleep. I'll arrive in Dover at,' she checked the watch, 'about two-thirty this afternoon. Then I'll catch the 14.57 to Waterloo, I'll catch the tube and meet up with my friends at Portland Street. One final question, before I go: do you think these drawers are airtight?'

Before she could react, Summerfield's palm had shoved against Kitzel's shoulder, pushing her flat on her back. With her knee, Summerfield slammed the drawer shut. Kitzel felt herself slide backwards, watched the crack of light at her feet vanish and gasped for breath. She was facing the wrong way, there wasn't enough room to turn around. It was dark and cold. Was any air getting in? There wasn't a c.h.i.n.k of light from the opening. If she screamed would she just use up her air? She heard the key turn in the lock of the drawer. A moment later, the door to the morgue slammed shut. She kicked out at the drawer door, but it didn't budge. Kitzel screamed.

'I can't believe that you're talking to him,' Chris said stubbornly. The Doctor checked that Steinmann was out of earshot. He was twenty yards away, busy talking to one of the survivors who had been pulled from the rubble.

'Would you prefer me to shoot him?' the Doctor asked quietly.

'Yes.'

The Doctor gave one of his sad, flickering smiles. 'What if I told you that Generalleutnant Oskar Steinmann was one of twenty-three n.a.z.is tried at Nuremburg at the end of the war?'

'I'd say he was a war criminal.' To his credit, though, Chris paused. 'But I admit that if we were to kill him now we'd alter established history. What was his sentence?'

'Life imprisonment. He was released on medical grounds in 1969. He died in 1972, at the age of eighty-nine. A very nasty form of spine cancer.' The Doctor looked at the fifty-eight-yearold man standing a stone's throw from him, a man in the prime of his life.

Chris grunted approvingly. 'Well, at least the British won in the end.'

'Did they? I've seen a future in which the n.a.z.is did, a future that wasn't all that different. Ten years from now a swastika flew over the Festival of Britain instead of a Union Flag. The king was called Edward, not George. Tiny changes.' The Doctor leant down sadly, and tried to rest his hands on his umbrella handle, before he remembered that he no longer had it. Instead he had to look Chris in the eye.

'You changed history back.' A statement, not question.

'I changed history. Like I said, I made tiny changes, and ensured that the Allies won.' The Doctor checked Chris's reaction, watched him reach the next stage of the argument.

'But if you can do that, why can't you stop the war entirely? History's been mucked about so much, who knows what's true and what's false? And who cares, anyway? Six years of war. Everything from the Holocaust to Hiroshima, with Dresden along the way. Stop the war now, before any of those things.' Chris had that faraway look, that dangerous innocence.

'Chris, I have been doing this sort of thing for a long time.

Believe it or not, I have occasionally considered my responsibilities. It has dawned on me that my actions have implications and ramifications. I am aware that I'm treading a slippery slope. I'm afraid that this isn't a school debating society, this is a war, so you'll have to take my word that there are certain standards of behaviour that we are expected to follow. All we are concerned with here is tracking down Hartung and finding out what he has built. We have to redress the balance, not tip it over. Trust me,' the Doctor insisted.

'Just follow your orders?'

'Just fight for what's just,' the Doctor said, smiling sweetly. Chris nodded, thoughtfully. Steinmann was stepping back towards them.

The staff car arrived at Paddington at a quarter to eight, driving past the empty taxi rank to the small police hut. Roz noted with approval that the police presence here had been stepped up, two men on every door, watching the crowds.

They got out of the car, Reed identifying them to the constable who came out to greet them. The policeman led the pair downstairs, past the echoing ticket hall.

'The male prisoner's in the manager's office, ma'am.

You'll want to see him first, I take it?' Roz found it gratifying that the constable accepted her authority without question, and confirmed that they were only interested in the man.

They walked over to the gla.s.s-panelled door, which opened as they arrived. A tall blond male stepped out, bursting into a run as he saw them approach. Reed moved to block him, but the larger man shouldered him out of the way and charged down the escalator, pushing pa.s.sengers out of the way.

Reed recovered quickly, but seemed dazed.

'After him, George! I'll follow in a second,' Roz yelled.

Reed nodded, drawing his revolver. The constable who had brought them down followed the lieutenant. There was screaming from pa.s.sengers on the escalator. Roz was already checking her ammunition, confirming that her gun was fully loaded. When that was done, she poked her head around the office door. Three policemen were picking themselves off the floor. One of them had a broken nose.

'I'm Captain Forrester, from the War Office. Who's in command?'

'I am, I'm Sergeant Hood. I'm in charge.'

Roz flashed her ident.i.ty card. 'Wrong, Sergeant: I'm in charge. I want all the exits sealed off, I want the trains stopped. I'm right that none of you is armed?' They nodded, a little too bewildered for her liking. 'Okay. He's gone underground, not tried to get to the street. I want the police to evacuate the civilians from the station, and I want them to be d.a.m.n sure that they don't accidentally evacuate our target.

Check every single man, woman and child.' One of the constables left to coordinate the evacuation.

'Where's the female prisoner?'

'She's with a couple of men from Five, sir... I mean ma'am,' piped up the man with a broken nose.

'Are you in a fit state to take a message?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Good man. You get her out of here and into a locked cell.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He scurried off.

The remaining policeman, Sergeant Hood, looked pained. 'Ma'am, do we have to stop the trains?'

Roz glared at him. 'No, Sergeant, we could let the target commute all over London. Do me a favour and stop them.'

The sergeant was already on the phone.

'When you've finished, call up reinforcements from the MPs. I'm going after the target.' The gun was in her hand; she'd already released the safety catch. Forrester left the office. She had only glimpsed the target, but had a good picture of him. He'd stand out in a crowd: he was tall, broad, blond. He looked like a n.a.z.i. He had on a dark-blue blazer, with a badge on the pocket - a yachting club, or perhaps it was regimental. Beneath that he was wearing a pristine white shirt. He wore fawn slacks.

He'd gone down the escalator heading towards the Bakerloo Line. Forrester stepped on to the same escalator, standing still, letting it carry her down. There would be plenty of time later for running around. The target probably wasn't running, he'd only draw attention to himself doing that. Her adrenalin was there already. After twenty years as an Adjudicator, you might have thought that its effect would have lessened, but as always her senses had sharpened, and she was hyper-aware of her surroundings. The breeze that always ran through the Underground tunnels wafted up from below, tickling her face and stockinged legs. She could hear every sound, smell every scent. A steady stream of pa.s.sengers was being led up the escalators by the police.

Forrester scanned the crowd for her target but, as she suspected, he wasn't there.

She stepped from the escalator as it reached the bottom.

Two directions, two identical tiled corridors. If he was right-handed and combat-trained, the target would instinctively head right. If he was human, he'd fight against the instinct and go left. She headed left. Roz began jogging along the corridor, gun held high. As she ran, she was drawing a mental map of the station, filling in her danger zones. This was going to be tricky: no hand-held communications, no bio-sensors, no surveillance cameras. On the plus side, there weren't any holographic decoys or transmat points, and the target was as blind as she was. The corridors were brightly lit: there wasn't much cover. Was the target armed? She presumed not - however lax the police search, they'd have found a firearm, and he wouldn't have had an opportunity to grab a gun from anyone except her and George. He might have a hostage. She doubted it, though: he was quite capable of getting away without a bargaining chip. This was a man capable of overpowering three policeman with his bare hands.

There were no maintenance hatches on the ceiling.

There were a couple of access points on the floor, but they clearly hadn't been disturbed for a hundred years, let alone during the last five minutes. As you'd expect, the floor was covered in oily footprints of all shapes and sizes. Roz reached the end of the corridor. Pause. Check behind.

Nothing. Look left, cover left. Nothing. Look right, cover right.

Nothing. Choose. The sign says northbound or southbound.

Head south. Right.

Roz checked her watch. It wasn't even ten to eight, yet.

The target had been loose for three minutes, maximum. If he was making contact with a known London spy, it was probably because he wasn't familiar with the city, and needed help. If he wasn't used to London, he wouldn't know his way around Paddington station. He was running around looking for an exit, not heading for an exit he knew about. Her subconscious added a warning: that's a supposition, Forrester, not a fact. Care to stake your life on it?

To the left there was a door. Staff Only. She kicked it open, checking behind her. Stairs, spiralling up, the crashing of the door reverberating upwards. Check this level first.

Nothing. Close the door behind her. Clear. Forrester mounted the first step, peering up. It was darker here and there wasn't a breeze. She clasped her revolver in both hands, held high, close to her head. Back against the wall. The staff used this to get around, so it must lead up to the surface, or perhaps the ticket hall. Maybe even to the main train station. If the target had found this door, he'd have found it ideal.

Footsteps above.

Tense, Roz listened. Footsteps coming down. Glimpse of fawn trouser leg. Roz swung her arms, clasped together around the b.u.t.t of the revolver like a club, hitting him hard where it hurt. Target down. Aim.

The train driver with the gun at his temple whimpered something. Roz relaxed, but not much. This man was not the target: he was ten years too old and a foot and a half too short. She was already heading up the stairs before he managed to shout a complaint. So the station hadn't been fully evacuated. Had the target come this way? d.a.m.n, there was an easy way to find out which she'd managed to overlook. She headed back downstairs. The driver had struggled to his feet.

'You,' she demanded, 'did anyone come up past you?'

The driver shook his head, clearly terrified.

'OK. Where does that lead?' She pointed upwards.

U-up to the ticket hall.'

'Not up to the main station?'

'No.'

'Good. Get up there, and tell Sergeant Hood that I want a policeman on the exit.'