'Yes. The torturer.'

'The art collector. The professor of philosophy. The chess grand master. The family man. Steinmann is many things.'

'I don't doubt it. Just as you don't deny it.'

Wolff smiled. 'Steinmann wants to talk to you about what was down on the beach. Your plane leaves at six-thirty. It's only a short trip to Granville. You'll find out there exactly what Steinmann is.'

George Reed glanced out of the window. It was getting dark again: it was nearly time to pull down the blackout curtains, ready the searchlights, brace oneself for the air-raid sirens.

Soon, on both sides of the Channel, the bombers would leave their concealed hangars, setting out on carefully prearranged flight patterns with their fighter escorts. They wouldn't pa.s.s each other mid-Channel. The British squadrons would head out over the North Sea to the industrial centres of the Ruhr and the Rhine; the German bombers would head across the Channel, targeting the ports and the factories of the Midlands. On the great round table in the centre of this room, lines of toy planes marked the routes of the German bombers as they flew straight through the grey hatched areas of radar coverage, past the antiaircraft batteries marked by red pins and the airfields marked in yellow. Their targets were easily visible on this map, green pins indicating where cl.u.s.ters of barrage balloons were concentrated. The same went for the British, little model Wellington bombers lining the route to Europe, but on this side the pins only marked where defences had been discovered by spies, reconnaissance flights or bitter experience. Next to the huge map, tally charts mapped the estimated damage to industrial sites and compared the number of lost planes on each side. The rows and rows of statistics on those sheets reminded George a little of Wisden's Almanac. The great round table was almost a huge watch face - its hands wave after wave of bombers, sweeping across the map with the precision of clockwork - or maybe one of those carefully ch.o.r.eographed production numbers in an MGM musical.

Admiral Kendrick was over by the far wall, plotting something on a vast wallchart. Forrester was staring into the middle of the tabletop map, as though she were trying to find her own place on it.

'What's the matter, Roz?' he whispered.

'I'm worried about Chris,' she said, distracted.

'It looked like Cwej could handle the Bentley.'

'I'm not worried about that, he's got a car in every port.

I'm worried about him in France,' she snapped.

'Well, yes, I know. Sorry, that line about the Bentley, it was meant to be a joke.'

'I don't like jokes.'

Reed tried to suppress a smile, but couldn't quite manage it. He turned away, only to face Kendrick, who had stepped over to the map. His face fell quickly, and he winced as he saw Kendrick's disapproving look.

'Smile when you've worked out the solution, George, and not a moment before. Do try to remember that there are lives at stake here.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Forrester, could you make a jug of coffee?' Reed heard her acknowledge the order and turned to watch her head for the small kitchen just outside their office. Kendrick was bent over the map.

'How can we defend against this? We've got radar, a string of observers. There must be a way of predicting what the Luftwaffe will do, and reacting in time to stop the bombs falling. When I was on the Atlantic convoys, we could second-guess the U-boat captains, and we should be able to do the same with Hartung and Steinmann now.'

Kendrick was right, George thought. It ought to be possible to trace the flights of individual bombers by the trail of destruction that they left. Untangle the web, and you could tailor your defences accordingly, find out which planes were targeting which sites. At this rate it would take them months to work it out, by which time there wouldn't be any factories left to defend. George looked at the map again. Sometimes he thought their task was hopeless.

As it was all my fault, I thought I might sacrifice myself.

For the rest of my life, I will regret that I never got the chance. It was all over so quickly. I tried to dive into the path of one of the bullets, but they only fired six, all at once. It was eerie: people just got up afterwards and carried on to work.

They were glad that it hadn't been them, I suppose, and didn't want to hang around. I was a little shocked. I didn't stay either, I didn't want to arouse too much suspicion, and I know what a dead body looks like. I went straight to the town hall, finished my rounds, ate my lunch. All around me were islanders who had been lined up with me, but no one discussed what they had been through. Everyone chatted at lunch, as usual, but no one spoke about what the Germans had done. Everyone just kept their head down and avoided eye contact with each other. I did the same, I'm not claiming I didn't.

Slowly, as the day went on, I managed to shut up the rage inside me. So, when I opened up Room 214 and found Marie Simmonds on the bed underneath some sweaty little Hauptsturmfuhrer, I didn't kill them there and then. I could tell that Marie had recognized me, I saw her expression, and I could hear it in her breathing: Oh, I'm all right, Celia, I was Oh, I'm all right, Celia, I was already up here at nine o'clock, safe and sound. Oh yes, I've already up here at nine o'clock, safe and sound. Oh yes, I've been here all day. Very safe, and, oh, so very sound. I did been here all day. Very safe, and, oh, so very sound. I did hear some shooting, though, somewhere in the distance hear some shooting, though, somewhere in the distance. I felt a primal urge to kill them both that transcended law and consequence. I wanted Marie to watch me kill her lover, then hear her scream as I tore her apart. I could have done it, I know I could have done, but instead I mumbled my apologies and left. I closed the door and walked away. Cleaned some rooms, scrubbed some wash-basins. As I left the town hall, my rage had dissipated into a vague sense of annoyance.

And I managed to walk a full hundred yards past the flowers resting on those peculiar new circles of sawdust in Smith Street before I remembered why they were there.

I'm a strong person. I've faced death before. I've laughed in the face of fear, as they say. I've been surrounded by evil - not just crime and injustice, but pure, stark evil. I've gone through a lot in the last couple of years: I've been stabbed, tortured, starved, blasted, mauled, betrayed, absorbed, poisoned, possessed, lacerated, bruised, conscripted, electrocuted, impregnated, drugged, abandoned, abused, battered, probed, burnt. Blown up, shot down, kicked in, thrown out. I've done it all. I even died once. But I always bounced back within a couple of weeks, ready for my next exciting new adventure. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but bones mend if you're young enough and you've got a good doctor. This time it's different.

'It's over.'

Celia had been crying for the last hour. Sobbing, trying to speak but unable to form the words. Ma Doras had cradled her in her arms, and Celia had sobbed like a baby. Now, Ma watched as the younger woman wiped her eyes and sat up.

'I have to go, I'm putting you at risk.'

'Nonsense, dear.' Ma Doras poured herself another cup of tea. 'Besides, where would you go?'

Celia unfurled a small piece of paper. 'I got a note this morning. It was pressed into my hand in Smith Street after the shooting. I didn't see who gave it to me. It's from the Resistance.'

'There isn't a Resistance. Not one of us likes the Germans, you know that, but there isn't a Resistance. In France there might well be groups hiding out in barns, blowing up chateaux and sabotaging factories, but there's nothing so romantic here. Celia, there isn't even a railway line to sabotage yet. The best we can manage is to water down the Germans' beer a bit more than our own, or to huddle together and listen to the BBC News when we think the Germans won't be looking.'

Celia seemed shaken, and said uncertainly, 'They've promised me pa.s.sage back to Britain.'

'And then?' Ma knew she didn't need to remind her of the threat of betrayal, of mines and naval patrols, the plain fact that she almost certainly wouldn't get as far as the mainland.

'I've got some friends in London. I should be able to trace them.'

'London's a big place. Have you got valid papers?'

'I can get hold of papers, and Roz and Chris are pretty distinctive. If I can't find them, there's a house outside Canterbury. I'd go there and wait for the Doctor.' Celia paused, then, 'Ma, I killed Gerhard. I did it to protect you.'

The old woman considered this revelation for a moment.

'Yes. Yes, I thought you must have. This morning, you already knew about it when Franz came to tell us. Luckily, Hauptsturmfuhrer Rosner didn't notice. You took Gerhard to the beach last night, too, didn't you?'

It's probably just as well that he died. He'd have been able to identify us all.' Benny didn't sound convinced.

'Why did you take him in the first place, for heaven's sake? I know you're spying on the airstrip for the Doctor, so why on Earth did you take a German with you?'

A couple of nights ago I was nearly caught by a patrol there. You know the curfew rules: I'd have been shot if they had seen me, especially there. The night before last someone else was shot up there, or so I heard. I led Gerhard on. That way, if we'd been caught up there he would have covered for me - he genuinely thought we were on a date.

That was the plan, anyway. To be honest with you, I was scared I was going to be caught, it was a snap decision, if I'd had a couple of days to think about it I'd have chosen differently, and I made a mistake.'

'Yes.' The word hung in the air for a moment. Ma looked at Celia - Bernice, she corrected herself. This woman didn't look like a killer. Then again, neither did the young soldiers, nor the Doctor. Bernice had stood, ready to leave.

'I'm going first thing in the morning. Don't worry, I won't wear my wig, so they won't recognize me. Say goodbye to Anne for me.'

Ma stared after the young woman as she closed the door behind her, listened to her footsteps climb the stairs, then turned to the window. The evening was drawing in, a chill was heading up from the sea as it did every night. A transport plane flew overhead, probably bound for France, or perhaps Alderney. Ma watched its running lights recede into the evening sky. Someone was leaving the island, at any rate.

She wondered who it might be. Across town, the church bell rang six-thirty. A tear ran down Ma's cheek, as she thought of Celia, and what she had done.

5 Things to Come

The patrol had spotted the dark-haired woman as she entered the harbour at ten past six, and had notified Standartenfuhrer Wolff by telephone. Within five minutes, Wolff had intercepted her as she made her way to the quayside and the fishing boats moored there. She was unarmed and didn't struggle as she was handcuffed and gagged with thick adhesive tape.

Wolff examined this enemy spy. She wore patched trousers and a thick fisherman's sweater, but underneath those clothes she was a very shapely young woman. Her hair was raven-black. She had beautiful fiery eyes, with long, curly lashes. He caught a whiff of her perfume.

'Are you going to make this easy on yourself?'

The girl shrugged. Wolff released his grip, and she struggled to undo the top b.u.t.ton of her trousers. Wolff ran his finger methodically around her waistband. Finally he found a couple of sheets of cigarette paper concealed there. He motioned to the girl, who refastened her trousers. Wolff studied the sheets. Two sketch maps, a couple of sheets of gibberish: clearly some code or other. The girl stood by, waiting for him to react.

'The hospital complex?' he asked.

The girl nodded.

'And this is the airstrip?'

Again, she nodded.

'You drew the maps on cigarette paper so that you could swallow or smoke them if caught. You were pa.s.sing this on to Arthur Kendrick's Scientific Intelligence Division in London?'

The girl's sullen expression faltered for just a second.

'We know all about your operation. You are part of the so-called "Tomato" network that covers these islands and the coast of France that faces them. It is especially concerned with German defensive capability. The network comprises some thirty people. You only know the name of two other people in this chain.' He reached into his pocket, and held a typed sheet of paper up to her face. 'Those are the rest. Your name is fourth on the list. You'll see that the previous three have been crossed off. That is your name: Colette Mallard?

Occupation: Shop a.s.sistant at the greengrocer's on Smith Street?'

She nodded, the trace of a tear in her eye.

'You see, I know even more about you than you do yourself. So, I'm afraid, there would be no point interrogating you.' He paused, gesturing round theatrically. 'This street is the Rue des Vaches. Do you know why it's called that? In years gone by, cows from Jersey couldn't be unloaded on the quay, so farmers would push them into the harbour. They would be forced to swim ash.o.r.e, then they would be herded up this way to the abattoir. Those poor, pretty, long-lashed cows.'

He broke her neck.

The Doctor awoke in an eighteenth-century four-poster bed.

There was no one else in the room. He was wearing a knee-length night-shirt. Outside, overhead, were a number of bombers on descent trajectories: German planes coming back in to land after a hard night's bombing. Judging by the amount of light coming through the curtains, it was nearly dawn.

He had only been unconscious for about twelve hours, then. They'd drugged him just before putting him on the plane. So, this must be Granville. He pushed aside the laundered bedsheets, and stood. The effect of the sedative - unless he was very much mistaken, simply chloroform - had completely worn off. He peered around the room. The decoration was French, but anachronistic: most of it was about one hundred and fifty years too early, the sort of thing he would have expected to see in Napoleon's time. The Doctor ran his fingers over a delicate gla.s.s nymph, circa circa 1830. Presumably, this townhouse had been some sort of museum before the n.a.z.is had requisitioned it. 1830. Presumably, this townhouse had been some sort of museum before the n.a.z.is had requisitioned it.

He pulled one of the curtains back slightly. This house was in the centre of Granville, and the town looked much as it had the last time the Doctor had been here, a decade or so in the future. This guest bedroom was on the second floor. An armoured car drove past in the street below. The antique gla.s.s rattled. The Doctor tried to open the door out to the balcony, but as he suspected, it had been locked and bolted.

He drew open the curtains.

His clothes had been washed and ironed, and now lay neatly folded on a dresser. The Doctor crumpled up the jacket and trousers, then put them on. The pockets had been completely emptied, except for the folded hat and his abacus.

He would have to find some more dog biscuits, he reminded himself. He began searching the hatband for his TARDIS key before remembering that he had given it and the spare to Roz the morning before. The slip of paper was still secreted there. When he had finished dressing, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror by the dresser, placing his hat on his head and adjusting his scarf. The sun had almost fully risen over the horizon. The lights were going out all over Europe.

Church bells nearby struck seven o'clock. The Doctor checked his watch.

There was a knock at the door. Without waiting for a response, a young female Gefreiter stepped in, closing the door behind her.

'Herr Doktor, your breakfast is ready, in the main dining-room. Oberst Steinmann will join you shortly,' she announced in slightly awkward English.

'I speak German,' the Doctor replied. 'What is your name?'

Gefreiter Fegelein.'

'Your real name,' he said gently.

Ulrilda,' she smiled a pretty smile.

'From Falkenstein?'

'Yes, however did you know?'

'A lucky guess. Time for breakfast.' He took a last look at his reflection. 'Don't go avay!' he ordered it in a mock-German accent.

He stepped from the room. If Ulrilda had glanced back at the mirror at that moment, she would have seen the Doctor's image raise his hat, a broad grin on his face, before he slowly faded from view.