The driver nodded and scrambled upstairs. Forrester stepped back down. The door was still closed, but she double-checked that no one else had come through. Then she eased open the door. Footsteps, running up the corridor towards her. Someone coming around the corner. Forrester levelled her gun, taking careful aim. A shape came hurtling round.

'Freeze!' she yelled. It was the target, and he didn't even hesitate. Neither did she. Forrester fired once, missed, the bullet shattering the tiling at the end of the corridor and ricocheted off. The target didn't break his stride until he reached her, and he grabbed her right wrist and slammed it against the wall. And again. Roz's grip on the revolver loosened and it clattered to the floor. The target bent down, moving for the gun, so Forrester kicked him very hard on the small of his back. He sprawled, but recovered quickly, rolling over onto his front. Forrester kicked the gun away from his reach, then crunched her heel on his hand, before stepping back. He didn't make a sound, but effortlessly pulled himself upright. Roz hit him very hard in the stomach. And again. He didn't flinch. Roz had been an Adjudicator for over twenty years, but until that moment had a.s.sumed that things like that only happened in the movies. Was this man human? She hesitated for a fraction of a second, unsure how to carry on.

The target took full advantage of the lull, and delivered a savage blow just below her ribs. Roz tried very hard not to flinch, but couldn't stop herself from doubling up. She tried very hard not to cry out, but couldn't stop herself from yelping. She tried very hard to breathe, and found she couldn't manage that, either.

The gun. Roz dived for it, and succeeded in catching the target off-balance as he was about to reach it. Once again, the pistol flew from his grasp. Roz was upright. So was the target.

They faced each other. He was a foot taller than her, and probably seventy pounds heavier. He was combat-trained.

He was also over-confident. He underestimated her, even though she was still standing. Roz realized that at some point in the last five seconds she had started breathing again.

Reed and any other police or soldiers down here would have heard the shot. They'd be coming. Time was on her side.

Amazingly, he straightened up, relaxing.

'Go on, you little black witch. Give it your best shot.'

'Are you sure?' Roz kept him talking while she worked on her strategy.

'One free punch. Show me what you're made of.' He oozed confidence. Who could blame him? Her arm loose against her side, Roz squeezed the first and index fingers of her right hand together, folding the other two fingers back.

Her thumb held them flat against her palm.

'Are you absolutely sure?'

'You can't harm me, little n.i.g.g.e.r girl.'

Roz thrust her hand up to his face, her outstretched fingers thrusting straight into the target's right eye. She felt the jelly of his eyeball give way, she felt the retina detach beneath her fingertips, she felt droplets of blood splash against the back of her hand as his eyelid ripped. While he sank to the floor, screaming, clutching his face, she recovered the gun and placed it at the back of his head.

Footsteps behind. Reed's voice. Followed by other policemen.

'That was only my second-best shot, sport.' Roz c.o.c.ked the revolver. 'Care to try my best?'

'I've got him covered, Roz. Well done.' Reed was behind her. In front of her, a dozen Military Police and regular soldiers were edging forward, pistols and rifles aimed at the huge fallen figure. Roz stepped back, holstering her gun, wiping her fingers on her skirt.

The adrenalin kept on flowing.

'What's your name?' Reed was asking.

'I am Standartenfuhrer Wolff, J.' He gave his serial number, then fell silent. Reed obviously recognized the name.

'You know him?' Roz asked.

'Joachim here is notorious. Try asking one of the French exiles about him.' One of the policemen had produced handcuffs, and was securing Wolff s hands behind his back.

The huge man was offering no resistance. His right eye was a mess.

They led him away.

Interlude II

The flash powder ignited, the camera clicked.

Mel blinked a couple of times, but when she opened her eyes again, there was still a red after-image. They were standing just away from the pit lane, racing cars roaring past them on a practice run. The photographer, Jarvis, had wanted a picture of her with Emil, and they were happy to oblige. Jarvis asked Mel her name, then scurried off to find something else to photograph. Emil was laughing. 'You'll be a star, tomorrow - a.s.suming the car starts.'

'The Doctor will find a way,' Mel a.s.sured him. They walked back over to the garage, where the Doctor was fiddling underneath the bonnet of Hartung's racing car.

'Try it now,' he suggested.

Emil did so and the car revved into life.

'You are a genius, Herr Doktor. My engineers just couldn't find the fault.' He grabbed the little man firmly by the hand.

'Well, yes, I am a genius,' the Doctor admitted modestly, wiping the oil from his hands, 'but I only started the car, you built it. It's a magnificent machine.'

'If you excuse me, Doktor, I have to put in a couple of practice laps.' Emil kissed Mel on the cheek and jumped into his car, which had been chugging quietly away to itself all this time. Emil dropped the handbrake and shot away.

'It doesn't look very safe. He's not even wearing a proper helmet.'

'It isn't. Dozens of drivers die every year. The sport is still pretty amateur, and there's certainly no regard for personal safety.'

Mel shot him an angry look; it wasn't what she wanted to hear.

'Relax, Mel. I've modified the brakes, improved the steering and reinforced the cha.s.sis a little. He might also find that his car has a little more pep than normal.'

'Isn't this interfering in history?' Mel asked as she watched the huge vehicle power off around the track, effortlessly pa.s.sing his opponents.

No.' The Doctor was still grinning broadly. 'I know for a fact that Emil Hartung wins the Cairo 500 tomorrow, and he couldn't very well do that unless his car started.' He winked conspiratorially.

11 Peace In Our Time

They were alone together in the manager's office at Paddington. George Reed had just finished phoning his report through to the SID.

He wrapped his arms around Roz, and they held each other. Roz's heartbeat might have slowed, but her eyes were full of fire and she remained poised, ready to pounce. It had been twenty minutes since Wolff was led away, but she still hadn't calmed down. He caught just a hint of her scent, the same jungle musk as the night before. He leant over, kissing her softly on the nape of the neck, where she liked it.

Last night her ebony skin had been invisible in the darkness. After they had finished their brandy, Roz had held his hand and led Reed to his own bed. Unable to see her, he had traced an elaborate tactile map of her body with his fingertips as they lay alongside each other. In turn, Roz had done the same, caressing him with long black fingers, exploring him. They had talked, and that had been just as intimate. He'd listened to her low, sonorous voice, uncovered some of her secrets, learnt about her family and their expectations. How she was a disappointment to them, and to herself. They talked of empires and wars and making history.

All the time they had pressed themselves as close together as they could be, never wanting to lose each other. At last they had exhausted themselves mentally and physically and they fell asleep curled around one another.

They'd made a difference this morning. So much of this war had been fought at a distance. Not for centuries had generals led their troops into battle, except in stories; Reed knew that. Even in the last war, though, they had been forced to ride through the blasted wastelands and ruined towns of France. Reed had been to Granville with his family as a young man. He remembered the bullet-riddled buildings, all that levelled ground. You couldn't see those details on aerial photographs. You couldn't see the people picking through the wreckage. War became a comparison of casualty statistics, a list of dead men's names.

Just one look at Wolff's face, though, was enough to remind a soldier that they were fighting evil, hate-filled men.

Men that had to be destroyed, whatever the cost. He still didn't agree with the Cabinet's decision, but he understood now why it had to be made.

Reed stood straighter, becoming more formal. Roz did the same, and now they were soldiers again, not lovers.

'Kendrick says that there's no point us going in this morning,'

he reported. 'There are hardly any photographs from Granville, because of the fog. Initial estimates put the dead at fifteen hundred; we know the airfield there was completely wiped out. That's all they really need to know. It's going to take a couple of hours to clean up Wolff's eye. He expects us back at midday. I think he's guilty about getting us out of bed.'

Roz raised an eyebrow. 'He knows about us?'

'Heavens, no. I meant that he woke us up this morning.'

Reed stepped back, releasing his hold on her. He had been caught off-guard. 'I would never tell anyone. Your reputation is safe with me.'

She smiled. 'George, I'm from a different civilization, one that's more open about s.e.x.'

He blushed at the word. 'Well, here, we're not. People here aren't meant to do... what we did last night until after they're married.'

'Look, that wasn't your first time, was it?' Roz rested her hand on her hip, shifting her weight onto the other foot.

Whether she realized it or not, George found her posture more arousing than indignant.

'N-no,' he admitted, not wanting to think about anyone else. As Reed spoke, Roz reached into her pocket for her packet of cigarettes. She handed him one and took one for herself. Reed found his lighter and lit them.

Roz inhaled before speaking. 'Thought not. And it wasn't mine. We don't need anyone else to tell us that last night was special. Some people wait until they are married, and perhaps they gain something from waiting.' She exhaled a column of rich grey smoke. 'I can respect that. We've made a different decision - I don't regret it, I don't think you do either. Let's not pretend otherwise.'

'You are right, of course. I certainly don't regret it.' Reed laughed nervously.

'You're like me, George. I can be a team player, but I guard my privacy, too. I'm not normally an intimate person.

With you, I am. I don't know why: I usually go for older men - or so I've been told - and you're young enough to be my son. G.o.ddess, you are almost young enough to be Cwej Cwej.

Let's not ruin it by trying to explain why.'

'Roz,' Reed began, stubbing out his cigarette, 'does this mean that I can tell Kendrick about us after all?'

Roz clearly found the prospect as daunting as he did. 'If the subject comes up in conversation,' she deadpanned.

George had decided. He knelt down, awkwardly. 'Is there something wrong with your knee, George?' Roz said. 'It had better be your knee,' she muttered to herself.

Reed looked up at her. She towered over him, an expression of concern on her lined face. 'Roz, I know you told me that you would bite my nose off - after what you did to Wolff this morning, I believe that you might literally do that - but will you marry me? Not for anyone else's sake. Just for ours.'

And to his intense relief, she broke into a wide smile.

'One thousand, four hundred and fifty dead. The figure would have been a great deal higher without your help.'

'I doubt it,' the Doctor said. He was distracted by the piece of paper Steinmann had handed him. He pa.s.sed it on to Chris, who saw that it was a preliminary report listing the names of German officers who had died. Over thirty in total.

Hartung wasn't on the list. Did he count as a civilian? Was he a casualty? Had he even been here? There was no mention of the Gerards. Chris had already realized that he couldn't ask Steinmann directly about Monsieur Gerard and Monique without implicating them.

'The town wasn't prepared. We've learnt our lesson the hard way.'

They were sitting on what had once been a pavement, outside what had once been a cafe. They drank coffee wearing tin hats, surrounded by ruined shops, schools and churches. They rested their cups on a makeshift 'table', the Doctor's briefcase resting on a tripod of breeze blocks. It was nearly dusk, now. The rescue teams had unearthed all the survivors and cleared the cellars of roasted corpses. Now the team members, men and women, army and civilians, sat in the pale early evening sun, eating their dinner. Everything was covered in a thin powder of grey dust - concrete dust, probably. Steinmann seemed ten years older than when they had first met. He looked like a tired old man.

'Why?' Steinmann asked, gesturing around.

'To end the war,' the Doctor said simply. 'They are fighting for peace. Murdering and destroying to protect their most deeply held principles. Spending every penny on bombs and bullets so that their people can be prosperous. Like your people.'

Steinmann sipped at his coffee. 'My people don't...' he began, but couldn't finish the sentence. His eyes were watering. 'We are fighting for what we believe in,' he concluded finally.

'Yes. So are the British and so am I. If you fight, though, people get hurt. People die.'

'Hartung's discoveries will minimize casualties. What he has built is so terrifying that it will end war for ever,' the German officer stated. The Doctor snorted derisively.

'Herr Steinmann,' began Chris gently, 'you fought in the last war. You rose through the ranks from a conscripted private, ending up as a Leutnant. An impressive achievement by any standard. Do you know what the British called that war?'

'"The War to End All Wars",' Steinmann noted. The Doctor was nodding approvingly.

'The English thought that their Civil War was the same, that the Napoleonic War had settled things once and for all.

Bismarck felt that there would never be a European war again. So did Chamberlain. No matter how terrible the weapon, it will be used, no matter how terrible the consequences will be, wars start,' the little man said.

'This is different. One demonstration is all that is needed.