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is Professor Stacey.’

      ‘Professore.’ He bowed slightly.

      ‘We’ll have coffee in the library later,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to the drinks.’

      ‘Of course, Contessa.’

      He turned away and paused and spoke to her in Italian. She shook her head and answered fluently in the same language. He went through a door at the rear of the hall.

      ‘Contessa?’ I asked.

      ‘Oh, don’t listen to Vito.’ She dismissed my query politely, but firmly. ‘He’s a terrible snob. This way.’

      The hall was cool and pleasant. Black and white tiled floor, a curving staircase and two or three oil paintings on the wall. Eighteenth-century seascapes. She opened a double mahogany door and led the way into a large library. The walls were lined with books, and French windows looked out to the garden. There was an Adam fireplace with a fire burning brightly in the basket grate and a grand piano, the top crammed with photos, mostly in silver frames.

      ‘Scotch all right for you?’ she asked

      ‘Fine.’

      She crossed to a sideboard and busied herself at the drinks tray. ‘How did you know who I was?’ I asked. ‘Canon Cullen?’

      ‘I’ve known about you since you started work on Harry.’ She handed me a glass.

      ‘Who told you?’

      ‘Oh, friends,’ she said. ‘From the old days. The kind who get to know things.’

      It made me think of Tony Bianco, my CIA contact at the embassy, and I was immediately excited. ‘Nobody seems to want to answer any of my questions at the Ministry of Defence.’

      ‘I don’t suppose they would.’

      ‘And yet they release the body to you. You must have influence?’

      ‘You could say that.’ She took a cigarette from a silver box, lit it and sat in a wing chair by the fire, crossing slim legs. ‘Have you ever heard of SOE, Professor?’

      ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Special Operations Executive. Set up by British Intelligence in 1940 on Churchill’s instructions to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe.’

      ‘“Set Europe ablaze,” that’s what the old man ordered.’ Sarah Drayton flicked ash in the fire. ‘I worked for them.’

      I was astonished. ‘But you can’t have been more than a child.’

      ‘Nineteen,’ she said. ‘In 1944.’

      ‘And Martineau?’

      ‘Look on the piano,’ she said. ‘The end photo in the silver frame.’

      I crossed to the piano and picked the photo up and her face jumped out at me, strangely unchanged except in one respect. Her hair was startlingly blond and marcelled – that’s the term I think they used to use. She wore a little black hat and one of those coats from the wartime period with big shoulders and tight at the waist. She also wore silk stockings and high-heeled shoes and clutched a black patent-leather bag.

      The man standing next to her was of medium height and wore a leather military trenchcoat over a tweed suit, hands thrust deep into the pockets. His face was shadowed by a dark slouch hat and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The eyes were dark, no expression to them at all, and his smile had a kind of ruthless charm. He looked a thoroughly dangerous man.

      Sarah Drayton got up and joined me. ‘Not much like the Croxley Professor of Moral Philosophy at Oxford there, is he?’

      ‘Where was it taken?’ I asked.

      ‘In Jersey. Not too far from here. May nineteen forty-four. The tenth, I think.’

      ‘But I’ve been in Jersey long enough to know that it was occupied by the Germans at that time,’ I said.

      ‘Very much so.’

      ‘And Martineau was here? With you?’

      She crossed to a Georgian desk, opened a drawer and took out a small folder. When she opened it I saw at once that it contained several old photographs. She passed one to me. ‘This one I don’t keep on top of the piano for obvious reasons.’

      She was dressed pretty much as she had. been in the other photo and Martineau wore the same leather trenchcoat. The only difference was the SS uniform underneath, the silver death’s-head badge in his cap. ‘Standartenführer Max Vogel,’ she said. ‘Colonel, to you. He looks rather dashing, doesn’t he?’ She smiled as she took it from me. ‘He had a weakness for uniforms, Harry.’

      ‘Dear God,’ I said. ‘What is all this?’

      She didn’t answer, but simply passed me another photo. It was faded slightly, but still perfectly clear. A group of German officers. In front of them stood two men on their own. One was Martineau in the SS uniform, but it was the other who took my breath away. One of the best-known faces of the Second World War. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. The Desert Fox himself.

      I said, ‘Was that taken here too?’

      ‘Oh yes.’ She put the photos back in the desk and picked up my glass. ‘I think you could do with another drink.’

      ‘Yes, I believe I could.’

      She got me one, handed the glass to me, and we moved to the fire. She took a cigarette from the box. ‘I should stop, I suppose. Too late now. Another bad habit Harry taught me.’

      ‘Do I get an explanation?’

      ‘Why not?’ she said, and turned as rain drummed against the French windows. ‘I can’t think of anything better to do on an afternoon like this, can you?’

LONDON

       2

      It started, if one can ever be certain where anything starts, with a telephone call received by Brigadier Dougal Munro at his flat in Haston Place, ten minutes’ walk from the London headquarters of SOE in Baker Street. As head of Section D at SOE he had two phones by his bed, one routed straight through to his office. It was this that brought him awake at four o’clock on the morning of April 28, 1944.

      He listened, face grave, then swore softly. ‘I’ll be right over. One thing, check if Eisenhower is in town.’

      Within five minutes he was letting himself out of the front door, shivering in the damp cold, lighting the first cigarette of the day as he hurried along the deserted street. He was at that time sixty-five, a squat, powerful-looking man with white hair, his round, ugly face set off by steel-rimmed spectacles. He wore an old Burberry raincoat and carried an umbrella.

      There was very little of the military in either his bearing or his appearance, which was hardly surprising. His rank of brigadier was simply to give him the necessary authority in certain quarters. Until 1939, Dougal Munro had been an archaeologist by profession. An Egyptologist, to be more precise, and fellow of All Souls at Oxford. For three years now, head of Section D at SOE. What was commonly referred to in the trade as the dirty tricks department.

      He turned in at the entrance of Baker Street, nodded to the night guard and went straight upstairs. When he went into his office, Captain Jack Carter, his night duty officer, was seated behind his desk. Carter had a false leg, a legacy of Dunkirk. He reached for his stick and started to get up.

      ‘No, stay where you are, Jack,’ Munro told him. ‘Is there any tea?’

      ‘Thermos flask on the map table, sir.’

      Munro unscrewed the flask, poured a cup and drank. ‘God, that’s foul, but at least

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