The wave came as he got to his knees. He threw himself forward. The wave carried him a few yards then flung him against the wooden planking. He swallowed water and saw stars. When the weight lifted from his back he summoned the will to move again. It would not come. He felt himself being dragged inexorably back, and a sudden rage took hold of him. He would not allow it… not now, goddamn it. He screamed at the fucking storm and the sea and the British and Percival Godliman, and suddenly he was on his feet and running, running, away from the sea and up the ramp, running with his eyes shut and his mouth open, a crazy man, daring his lungs to burst and his bones to break; running with no sense of a destination, but knowing he would not stop until he lost his mind.

The ramp was long and steep. A strong man might have run all the way to the top if he were in training and rested. An Olympic athlete, if he were tired, might have got half way. The average forty-year old man would have managed a yard or two. Faber made it to the top.

A yard from the end of the ramp he felt a sharp pain, like a slight heart attack, and lost consciousness, but his legs pumped twice more before he hit the sodden turf. He never knew how long he lay there. When he opened his eyes the storm still raged, but day had broken, and he could see, a few yards away from him, a small cottage that looked inhabited.

He got to his knees and began the long, interminable crawl to the front door.

The U-505 wheeled in a tedious circle, her powerful diesels chugging slowly as she nosed through the depths like a grey, toothless shark. Lieutenant Commander Werner Heer, her master, was drinking ersatz coffee and trying not to smoke any more cigarettes. It had been a long day and a long night. He disliked his assignment; he was a combat man and there was no combat to be had here; and he thoroughly disliked the quiet Abwehr officer with storybook-sly blue eyes who was an unwelcome guest aboard his submarine.

The intelligence man, Major Wohl, sat opposite the captain. The man never looked tired, damn him. Those blue eyes looked around, taking things in, but the expression in them never changed. His uniform never got rumpled, despite the rigours of underwater life, and he lit a new cigarette every twenty minutes, on the dot, and smoked it to a quarter-inch stub. Heer would have stopped smoking, just so that he could enforce regulations and prevent Wohl from enjoying tobacco, but he himself was too much of an addict.

Heer had never liked intelligence people; he'd always had the feeling they were gathering intelligence on him. Nor did he like working with the Abwehr. His vessel was made for battle, not for skulking around the British coast waiting to pick up secret agents. It seemed to him plain madness to risk a costly piece of fighting machinery, not to mention its skilled crew, for the sake of one man who might well fail to show up.

He emptied his cup and made a face. "Damn coffee," he said. "Tastes vile."

Wohl's expressionless gaze rested on him for a moment, then moved away. He said nothing.

Forever cryptic. To hell with him. Heer shifted restlessly in his seat. On the bridge of a ship he would have paced up and down, but men on submarines learn to avoid unnecessary movement. He finally said, "Your man won't come in this weather, you know."

Wohl looked at his watch. "We will wait until 6 A.M.," he said easily.

It was not an order-Wohl could not give orders to Heer-but the bald statement of fact was still an insult to a superior officer. Heer told him so.

"We will both follow our orders," Wohl said. "As you know, they originate from a very high authority indeed."

Heer controlled his anger. The young man was right, of course. Heer would follow his orders. But when they returned to port he would report Wohl for insubordination. Not that it would do much good; fifteen years in the Navy had taught Heer that headquarters people were a law unto themselves… "Well, even if your man is fool enough to venture out tonight, he is certainly not seaman enough to survive." Wohl's only reply was the same blank gaze. Heer called to the radio operator. "Weissman?"

"Nothing, sir."

Wohl said, "I have a feeling that the murmurs we heard a few hours ago were from him."

"If they were, he was a long way from the rendezvous, sir," the radio operator said. "To me it sounded more like lightning."

Heer added, "If it was not him, it was not him. If it was him, he is now drowned."

"You don't know this man," Wohl said, and this time there was actually a trace of emotion in his voice.

Heer didn't answer. The engine note altered slightly, and he thought he could distinguish a faint rattle. If it increased on the journey home he would have it looked at in port. He might do that anyway, just to avoid another voyage with the unspeakable Major Wohl. A seaman looked in. "Coffee, sir?"

Heer shook his head. "If I drink any more I'll be pissing coffee." Wohl said, "I will please." He took out a cigarette, which made Heer look at his watch. It was ten past six. The subtle Major Wohl had delayed his six o'clock cigarette to keep the U-boat there a few extra minutes. Heer said, "Set a course for home."

"One moment," Wohl said. "I think we should take a look on the surface before we leave."

"Don't be a fool," Heer said. He knew that he was on safe ground now. "Do you realise what kind of storm is raging up there? We wouldn't he able to open the hatch, and the periscope will show up nothing that is more than a few yards away."

"How can you tell what the storm is like from this depth?"

"Experience."

"Then at least send a signal to base telling them that our man has not made contact. They may order us to stay here."

Heer gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not possible to make radio contact from this depth, not with base."

Wohl's calm finally broke. "Commander Heer, I strongly recommend you surface and radio home before leaving this rendezvous. The man we are to pick up has vital information. The Fuehrer is waiting for his report."

Heer looked at him. "Thank you for letting me have your opinion, Major," he said. He turned away. "Full ahead both," he ordered.

The sound of the twin diesels rose to a roar, and the U-boat began to pick up speed.

When Lucy woke up, the storm that had broken out the evening before was still raging. She leaned over the edge of the bed, moving cautiously so that she would not disturb David, and picked up her wristwatch from the floor. It was just after six. The wind was howling around the roof. David could sleep on; little work would be done today.

She wondered whether they had lost any slates off the roof during the night. She would need to check the loft. The job would have to wait until David was out, otherwise he would be angry that she had not asked him to do it.

She slipped out of bed. It was very cold. The warm weather of the last few days had been a phony summer, the build-up to the storm. Now it was as cold as November. She pulled the flannel nightdress off over her head and quickly got into her underwear, trousers, and sweater. David stirred. She looked at him; he turned over, but did not wake.

She crossed the tiny landing and looked into Jo's room. The three-year-old had graduated from a cot to a bed, and he often fell out during the night without waking. This morning he was on his bed, lying asleep on his back with his mouth wide open. Lucy smiled. He looked truly adorable when he was asleep.

She went quietly downstairs, wondering briefly why she had awakened so early. Perhaps Jo had made a noise, or maybe it was the storm.

She knelt in front of the fireplace, pushing back the sleeves of her sweater, and began to make the fire. As she swept out the grate she whistled a tune she had heard on the radio, "Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby?" She raked the cold ashes, using the biggest lumps to form the base for today's fire. Dried bracken provided the tinder, and wood and then coal went on top.