It was a mansion only down to ground level. Below that were two huge concrete shelters and several million reichsmarks worth of radio equipment. The electronics system had been put together by a Major Werner Trautmann, and he did a good job. Each hall had twenty neat little soundproof listening posts, occupied by radio operators who could recognise a spy by the way he tapped out his message, as easily as you can recognise your mother's handwriting on an envelope.

The receiving equipment was built with quality in mind, for the transmitters sending the messages had been designed for compactness rather than power. Most of them were the small suitcase-sets called Klamotten, which had been developed by Telefunken for Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of the Abwehr.

On this night the airways were relatively quiet, so everyone knew when Die Nadel came through. The message was taken by one of the older operators. He tapped an acknowledgment, transcribed the signal, quickly tore the sheet off his note pad and went to the phone. He read the message over the direct line to Abwshr headquarters at Sophien Terrasse in Hamburg, then came back to his booth for a smoke.

He offered a cigarette to the youngster in the next booth, and the two of them stood together for a few minutes, leaning against the wall and smoking. The youngster said. "Anything?"

The older man shrugged. "There's always something when he calls. But not much this time. The Luftwaffe missed St. Paul's Cathedral again."

"No reply for him?"

"We don't think he waits for replies. He's an independent bastard-always was. I trained him in wireless, you know, and once I'd finished he thought he knew it better than me."

"You've met Die Nadel? What's he like?"

"About as much fun as a dead fish. All the same he's the best agent we've got. Some say the best ever. There's a story that he spent five years working his way up in the NKVD in Russia, and ended up one of Stalin's most trusted aides… I don't know whether it's true, but it's the kind of thing he'd do. A real pro. And the Fuehrer knows it."

"Hitler knows him?"

The older man nodded. "At one time he wanted to see all Die Nadel's signals. I don't know if he still does. Not that it would make any difference to Die Nadel. Nothing impresses that man. You know something? He looks at everybody the same way-as if he's figuring out how hell kill you if you make a wrong move."

"I'm glad I didn't have to train him."

"He learned quickly, I'll give him that. Worked at it twenty-four hours a day, then when he'd mastered it, he wouldn't give me a good-morning. It takes him all his time to remember to salute Canaris. He always signs off 'Regards to Willi' That's how much he cares about rank."

They finished their cigarettes, dropped them on the floor, and trod them out. Then the older man picked up the stubs and pocketed them, because smoking was not really permitted in the dugout. The radios were still quiet.

"Yes, he won't use his code name," the older man went on. "Von Braun gave it to him, and he's never liked it. He's never liked Von Braun either. Do you remember the time-no, it was before you joined us… Braun told Nadel to go to the airfield in Farnborough, Kent. The message came back: 'There is no airfield in Farnborough, Kent. There is one at Farnborough, Hampshire. Fortunately the Luftwaffe's geography is better than yours, you cunt.' Just like that."

"I suppose it's understandable. When we make mistakes we put their lives on the line."

The older man frowned. He was the one who delivered such judgments, and he did not like his audience to weigh in with opinions of its own. "Perhaps," he said grudgingly.

"But why doesn't he like his code name?"

"He says it has a meaning, and a code word with a meaning can give a man away. Von Braun wouldn't listen."

"A meaning? The Needle? What does it mean?"

But at that moment the old-timer's radio chirped, and he returned quickly to his station, so the explanation never came.

The message annoyed Faber because it forced him to face issues that he had been avoiding.

Hamburg had made damn sure the message reached him. He had given his call-sign, and instead of the usual "Acknowledge, proceed" they had sent back "Make rendezvous one."

He acknowledged the order, transmitted his report and packed the wireless set back into its suitcase. Then he wheeled his bicycle out of Brith Marshes-his cover was a bird-watcher-and got on the road to Blackheath. As he cycled back to his cramped two-room flat, he wondered whether to obey the order.

He had two reasons for disobedience: one professional, one personal.

The professional reason was that "rendezvous one" was an old code, set up by Canaris back in 1939. It meant he was to go to the doorway of a certain shop between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus to meet another agent. The agents would recognise each other by the fact that they both carried a Bible. Then there was a patter: "What is today's chapter?"

"One Kings thirteen."

Then, if they were certain they were not being followed, they would agree that the chapter was "most inspiring." Otherwise one would say, "I'm afraid I haven't read it yet."

The shop doorway might not be there any more, but it was not that that troubled Faber. He thought Canaris had probably given the code to most of the bumbling amateurs who had crossed the Channel in 1940 and landed in the arms of MI5. Faber knew they had been caught because the hangings had been publicised, no doubt to reassure the public that something was being done about Fifth Columnists. They would certainly have given away secrets before they died, so the British now probably knew the old rendezvous code. If they had picked up the message from Hamburg, that shop doorway must by now be swarming with well-spoken young Englishmen carrying Bibles and practising saying "Most inspiring" in a German accent.

The Abwehr had thrown professionalism to the wind back in those heady days when the invasion seemed so close. Faber had not trusted Hamburg since. He would not tell them where he lived, he refused to communicate with their other agents in Britain, he varied the frequency he used for transmission without caring whether he stepped all over someone else's signal.

If he had always obeyed his masters, he would not have survived so long.

At Woolwich, Faber was joined by a mass of other cyclists, many of them women, as the workers came streaming out of the munitions factory at the end of the day shift. Their cheerful weariness reminded Faber of his personal reason for disobedience: he thought his side was losing the war.

They certainly were not winning. The Russians and the Americans had joined in, Africa was lost, the Italians had collapsed; the Allies would surely invade France this year, 1944. Faber did not want to risk his life to no purpose.

He arrived home and put his bicycle away. While he was washing his face it dawned on him that, against all logic, he wanted to make the rendezvous.

It was a foolish risk, taken in a lost cause, but he was itching to get to it. And the simple reason was that he was unspeakably bored. The routine transmissions, the birdwatching, the bicycle, the boarding house teas… It was four years since he had experienced anything remotely like action. He seemed to be in no danger whatsoever, and that made him jumpy because he imagined invisible threats. He was happiest when every so often he could identify a threat and take steps to neutralise it.

Yes, he would make the rendezvous. But not in the way they expected. There were still crowds in the West End of London, despite the war; Faber wondered whether it was the same in Berlin. He bought a Bible at Hatchard's bookshop in Piccadilly, and stuffed it into his inside coat pocket, out of sight. It was a mild, damp day, with intermittent drizzle, and Faber was carrying an umbrella.