He was halfway across the landing to the second flight when he saw the light under the door. A split-second later there was an asthmatic cough and the sound of a toilet flushing. Faber reached the door in two strides and froze against the wall. Light flooded the landing as the door opened. Faber slipped his stiletto out of his sleeve. The old man came out of the toilet and crossed the landing, leaving the light on. At his bedroom door he grunted, turned and came back.

He must see me, Faber thought. He tightened his grip on the handle of his knife. The old man's half-open eyes were directed to He floor. He looked up as he reached for the light cord, and Faber almost killed him then, but the man fumbled for the switch and Faber realised he was so sleepy he was practically somnambulating.

The light died, the old man shuffled back to bed, and Faber breathed again.

There was only one door at the top of the second flight of stairs. Faber tried it gently. It was locked.

He took another tool from the pocket of his jacket. The noise of the toilet tank filling covered the sound of Faber picking the lock. He opened the door and listened.

He could hear deep, regular breathing. He stepped inside. The sound came from the opposite corner of the room. He could see nothing. He crossed the pitch-dark room very slowly, feeling the air in front of him at each step, until he was beside the bed.

He had the flashlight in his left hand, the stiletto loose in his sleeve and his right hand free. He switched on the flashlight and grabbed the sleeping man's throat in a strangling grip. The agent's eyes snapped open, but he could make no sound. Faber straddled the bed and sat on him. Then he whispered, "One Kings thirteen," and relaxed his grip.

The agent peered into the flashlight, trying to see Faber's face. He rubbed his neck where Faber's hand had squeezed.

"Be still!" Faber shone the light into the agent's eyes, and with his right hand drew the stiletto.

"Aren't you going to let me get up?"

"I prefer you in bed where you can do no more damage."

"Damage? More damage?"

"You were watched in Leicester Square, and you let me follow you here, and they are observing this house. Should I trust you to do anything?"

"My God, I'm sorry."

"Why did they send you?"

"The message had to be delivered personally. The orders come from the top. The very top-" The agent stopped.

"Well? What orders?"

"I… have to be sure it's you."

"How can you be sure?"

"I must see your face."

Faber hesitated, then shone the flashlight at himself briefly. "Satisfied?"

"Die Nadel."

"And who are you?"

"Major Friedrich Kaldor, sir."

"I should call you Sir."

"Oh, no, sir. You've been promoted twice in your absence. You are now a lieutenant-colonel."

"Have they really nothing better to do in Hamburg?"

"Aren't you pleased?"

"I should be pleased to go back and put Major von Braun on latrine duty."

"May I get up, sir?"

"Certainly not. What if Major Kaldor is held in Wandsworth Jail and you are a substitute, waiting to give a signal to your watching friends in the house opposite?… Now, what are these orders from the very top?"

"Well, sir, we believe there will be an invasion of France this year."

"Brilliant, brilliant. Go on."

"They believe that General Patton is massing the First United States Army Group in the part of England known as Eeast Anglia. If that army is the invasion force, then it follows that they will attack via the Pas de Calais."

"That makes sense. But I have seen no sign of this army of Patton's."

"There is some doubt in the highest circles in Berlin. The Fuehrer's astrologer-"

"What?"

"Yes, sir, he has an astrologer, who tells him to defend Normandy."

"My God. Are things that bad there?"

"He gets plenty of earthbound advice, too. I personally believe he uses the astrologer as an excuse when he thinks the generals are wrong but he can't fault their arguments."

Faber sighed. He had been afraid of news like this. "Go on."

"Your assignment is to assess the strength of FUSAG: numbers of troops, artillery, air support-"

"I know how to measure armies."

"Of course." He paused. "I am instructed to emphasise the importance of the mission, sir."

"And you have done so. Tell me, are things that bad in Berlin?"

The agent hesitated. "No, sir. Morale is high, output of munitions increases every month, the people spit at the RAF bombers-"

"Never mind, I can get the propaganda from my radio."

The younger man was silent.

Faber said, "Do you have anything else to tell me? Officially, I mean."

"Yes. For the duration of the assignment you have a special bolt-hole."

"They do think it's important," Faber said.

"You rendezvous with a U-boat in the North Sea, ten miles due east of a town called Aberdeen. Just call them in on your normal radio frequency and they will surface. As soon as you or I have told Hamburg that the orders have been passed from me to you, the route will be open. The boat will be there every Friday and Monday at 6 P.M. and will wait until 6 A.M."

"Aberdeen is a big town. Do you have an exact map reference?"

"Yes." The agent recited the numbers, and Faber memorised them. "Is that everything, Major?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do you plan to do about the gentlemen from MI5 in the house across the road?"

The agent shrugged. "I'll have to give them the slip."

Faber thought, It's no good. "What are your orders after you have seen me? Do you have a bolt-hole?"

"No. I am to go to a town called Weymouth and steal a boat to return to France."

That was no plan at all. So, Faber thought, Canaris knew how it would be. Very well.

"And if you are caught by the British and tortured?" he said.

"I have a suicide pill."

"And you will use it?"

"Most certainly."

Faber looked at him. "I think you might," he said. He placed his left hand on the agent's chest and put his weight on it, as if he were about to get off the bed. That way he was able to feel exactly where the rib cage ended and the soft belly began. He thrust the point of the stiletto in just under the ribs and stabbed upward to the heart.

The agent's eyes widened for an instant. A noise came to his throat but did not get out. His body convulsed. Faber pushed the stiletto an inch further in. The eyes closed and the body went limp.

"You saw my face," Faber said.

"I think we've lost control of it," said Percival Godliman.

Frederick Bloggs nodded agreement, and added, "It's my fault."

The man looked weary, Godliman thought. He had had that look for almost a year, ever since the night they had dragged the crushed remains of his wife from underneath the rubble of a bombed house in Hoxton.

"I'm not interested in apportioning blame," Godliman said. "The fact is that something happened in Leicester Square during the few seconds you lost sight of Blondie."

"Do you think the contact was made?"

"Possibly."

"When we picked him up again in Stockwell, I thought he had simply given up for the day."

"If that were the case he would have made the rendezvous again yesterday and today." Godliman was making patterns with matchsticks on his desk, a thinking habit he had developed. "Still no movement at the house?"

"Nothing. He's been in there for forty-eight hours." Bloggs repeated, "It's my fault."

"Don't be a bore, old chap," Godliman said. "It was my decision to let him run so that he would lead us to someone else, and I still think it was the right move."

Bloggs sat motionless, his expression blank, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. "If the contact has been made, we shouldn't delay picking Blondie up and finding out what his mission was."