"She'll take you to her house, then put you in touch with the head of the Bollinger circuit, whose code name is Monet." She was talking about her husband, but Brian did not need to know that. "Don't mention the address or real name of Bourgeoise to other members of the circuit when you meet them, please: for security reasons, it's better they don't know." Flick herself had recruited Bourgeoise and set up the cut-out. Even Michel had not met the woman.

"I understand."

"Is there anything you want to ask me?"

"I'm sure there are a hundred things, but I can't think of any."

She stood up and came around the table to shake his hand. "Well, good luck."

He kept hold of her hand. "I never forgot that weekend you came to our house," he said. "I expect I was a frightful bore, but you were very kind to me."

She smiled and said lightly, "You were a nice kid."

"I fell in love with you, actually."

She wanted to jerk her hand out of his and walk away, but he might die tomorrow, and she could not bring herself to be so cruel. "I'm flattered," she said, trying to maintain an amiably bantering tone.

It was no good: he was in earnest. "I was wondering... would you... just for luck, give me a kiss?"

She hesitated. Oh, hell, she thought. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips. She let the kiss linger for a second, then broke away. He looked transfixed by joy. She patted his cheek softly with her hand. "Stay alive, Brian," she said. Then she went out.

She returned to Percy's room. He had a pile of books and a scatter of photographs on his desk. "All done?" he said.

She nodded. "But he's not perfect secret agent material, Percy."

Percy shrugged. "He's brave, he speaks French like a Parisian, and he can shoot straight."

"Two years ago you would have sent him back to the army."

"True. Now I'm going to send him off to Sandy." At a large country house in the village of Sandy, near the Tempsford airstrip, Brian would be dressed in French-style clothes and given the forged papers he needed to pass through Gestapo checkpoints and buy food. Percy got up and went to the door. "While I'm seeing him off, have a look at that rogues' gallery, will you?" He pointed to the photos on the desk. "Those are all the pictures MI6 has of German officers. If the man you saw in the square at Sainte-Cdcile should happen to be among them, I'd be interested to know his name." He went out.

Flick picked up one of the books. It was a graduation yearbook from a military academy, showing postage stamp-sized photos of a couple of hundred fresh-faced young men. There were a dozen or more similar books, and several hundred loose photos.

She did not want to spend all night looking at mug shots, but perhaps she could narrow it down. The man in the square had seemed about forty. He would have graduated at the age of twenty-two, roughly, so the year must have been about 1926. None of the books was that old.

She turned her attention to the loose photographs. As she flicked through, she recalled all she could of the man. He was quite tall and well dressed, but that would not show in a photo. He had thick dark hair, she thought, and although he was clean-shaven, he looked as if he could grow a heavy beard. She remembered dark eyes, clearly marked eyebrows, a straight nose, a square chin... quite the matinee idol, in fact.

The loose photos had been taken in all sorts of different situations. Some were news pictures, showing officers shaking hands with Hitler, inspecting troops, or looking at tanks and airplanes. A few seemed to have been snapped by spies. These were the most candid shots, taken in crowds, from cars, or through windows, showing the officers shopping, talking to children, hailing a taxi, lighting a pipe.

She scanned the photos as fast as she could, tossing them to one side. She hesitated over each dark-haired man. None was as handsome as the one she recalled from the square. She passed over a photo of a man in police uniform, then went back to it. The uniform had at first put her off~ but on careful study she thought this was him.

She turned the photograph over. Pasted to the back was a typewritten sheet. She read:

FRANCK, Dieter Wolfgang, sometimes "Frankie"; born Cologne 3 June 1904; educ. Humboldt University of Berlin Koin Police Academy; mar. 1930 Waltraud Loewe, 1 son 1 dtr; Superintendent, Criminal Investigation Department, Cologne police, to 1940; Major, Intelligence Section, Afrika Korps, to?

A star of Rommel's intelligence staff this officer is said to be a skilled interrogator and a ruthless torturer.

Flick shuddered to think she had been so near to such a dangerous man. An experienced police detective who had turned his skills to military intelligence was a frightening enemy. The fact that he had a family in Cologne did not prevent his having a mistress in France, it seemed.

Percy returned, and she handed him the picture. "This is the man."

"Dieter Franck!" said Percy. "We know of him. How interesting. From what you overheard of his conversation in the square, Rommel seems to have given him some kind of counter-Resistance job." He made a note on his pad. "I'd better let MI6 know, as they loaned us their photos."

There was a tap at the door, and Percy's secretary looked in. "There's someone to see you, Colonel Thwaite." The girl looked coquettish. The fatherly Percy never inspired that sort of behavior in secretaries, so Flick guessed the visitor must be an attractive man. "An American," the girl added. That might explain it, Flick thought. Americans were the height of glamour, to secretaries at least.

"How did he find this place?" Percy said. Orchard Court was supposed to be a secret address.

"He went to number sixty-four Baker Street, and they sent him here."

"They shouldn't do that. He must be very persuasive. Who is he?"

"Major Chancellor."

Percy looked at Flick. She did not know anyone called Chancellor. Then she remembered the arrogant major who had been so rude to her this morning at Monty's headquarters. "Oh, God, him," she said in disgust. "What does he want?"

"Send him in," said Percy.

Paul Chancellor came in. He walked with a limp that Flick had not noticed this morning. It probably got worse as the day wore on. He had a pleasant American face, with a big nose and a jutting chin. Any chance he might have had of being handsome was spoiled by his left ear, or what remained of it, which was the lower one-third, mostly lobe. Flick assumed he had been wounded in action.

Chancellor saluted and said, "Good evening, Colonel. Good evening, Major."

Percy said, "We don't do a lot of saluting at SOE, Chancellor. Please sit down. What brings you here?"

Chancellor took a chair and removed his uniform cap. "I'm glad I caught you both," he said. "I've spent most of the day thinking about this morning's conversation." He gave a self-effacing grin. "Part of the time, I have to confess, I was composing wittily crushing remarks I could have made if only I had thought of them in time."

Flick could not help smiling. She had done the same. Chancellor went on. "You hinted, Colonel Thwaite, that MI6 might not have told the whole truth about the attack on the telephone exchange, and that played on my mind. The fact that Major Clairet here was so rude to me did not necessarily mean she was lying about the facts."

Flick had been halfway to forgiving him, but now she bridled. "Rude? Me?"

Percy said, "Shut up, Flick."

She closed her mouth.

"So I sent for your report, Colonel. Of course the request came from Monty's office, not me personally, so it was brought to our headquarters by a FANY motorcyclist in double-quick time."

He was a no-nonsense type who knew how to pull the levers of the military machine, Flick thought. He might be an arrogant pig, but he would make a useful ally.

"When I read it, I realized the main reason for defeat was wrong intelligence."

"Supplied by MI6!" Flick said indignantly.

"Yes, I noticed that," Chancellor said with mild sarcasm. "Obviously, MI6 was covering up its own incompetence. I'm not a career soldier myself, but my father is, so I'm familiar with the tricks of military bureaucrats."

"Oh," said Percy thoughtfully. "Are you the son of General Chancellor?"

"Yes."

"Go on."