"None whatsoever, sir," Godliman said.

"You think he's got away?"

"We chased him to Aberdeen. It's almost certain that he left there two nights ago in a stolen boat, presumably for a rendezvous in the North Sea. However, he can't have been far out of port when the storm blew up. He may have met the U-boat before the storm hit, but it's unlikely. In all probability he drowned. I'm sorry we can't offer more definite information."

"So am I," Churchill said, and suddenly he seemed angry, though not with Godliman. He got out of his chair and went over to the clock on the wall, staring as if mesmerised at the inscription, Victoria R.I., Ministry of Works, 1889. Then as if he had forgotten that Godliman was there, he began to pace up and down alongside the table, muttering to himself. Godliman was able to make out the words, and what he heard astonished him. The great man was mumbling: "This stocky figure, with a slight stoop, striding up and down, suddenly unconscious of any presence beyond his own thoughts…" It was as if Churchill were acting out a Hollywood screenplay that he wrote as he went along.

The performance ended as abruptly as it had begun, and if the man knew he had been behaving eccentrically, he gave no sign of it. He sat down, handed Godliman a sheet of paper and said, "This is the German order of battle as of last week."

Godliman read:

'Russian front: 122 infantry divisions, 25 panzer divisions, 19 miscellaneous divisions; Italy amp; Balkans: 39 infantry divisions, 9 panzer divisions, 4 miscellaneous divisions; Western front: 64 infantry divisions, 12 panzer divisions, 12 miscellaneous divisions; Germany: 3 infantry divisions, 1 panzer division, 4 miscellaneous divisions.'

Churchill said: "Of those twelve panzer divisions in the west, only one is actually on the Normandy coast. The great SS divisions, Das Reich and Adolf Hitler, are at Toulouse and Brussels respectively and show no signs of moving. What does an this tell you, professor?"

"Our deception and cover plans seem to have been successfull," Godliman answered, and realised the trust Churchill had placed in him. Until this moment, Normandy had never been mentioned to him, not by his uncle Colonel Terry or anybody else, though he had deduced as much, knowing as he did about the artificial buildup aimed at Calais. Of course, he still did not know the date of the invasion, D-Day, and was grateful that he did not.

"Totally successful," Churchill said. "They are confused and uncertain, and their best guesses about our intentions are wildly wrong. And yet…" he paused for effect, "And yet, despite all that…" He picked up another piece of paper from the table and read it aloud. "'Our chances of holding the beachhead, particularly after the Germans get their buildup, are only fifty-fifty.'"

He put his cigar down, and his voice became quite soft. "It has taken the total military and industrial might of the whole English-speaking world-the greatest civilisation since the Roman Elmpire-four years to win this fifty-fifty chance. If this spy gets out, we lose even that. Which is to say, we lose everything."

He stared at Godliman for a moment, then picked up his pen with a frail white hand. "Don't bring me probabilities, professor. Bring me Die Nadel."

He looked down and began to write. After a moment Godliman got up and quietly left the room.

Cigarette tobacco burns at 800 degrees centigrade. However, the coal at the end of the cigarette is normally surrounded by a thin layer of ash. To cause a burn, the cigarette has to be pressed against the skin for the better part of a second a glancing touch will hardly be felt. This applies even to the eyes; blinking is the fastest involuntary reaction of the human body. Only amateurs throw cigarettes, and David Rose was an amateur; a thoroughly frustrated and action-starved amateur. Professionals ignore them.

Faber ignored the lighted cigarette that David Rose threw at him. He was right, because the cigarette glanced off his forehead and fell to the metal floor of the jeep. He made a grab for David's gun, which was an error. He should, he instantly realised, have drawn his stiletto and stabbed David: David might have shot him first but David had never before pointed a gun at a human being, let alone killed somebody, so he would almost certainly have hesitated and in that moment Faber could have killed him. Faber decided he could blame his recent lapse into humanity for such intolerable miscalculation. It would be his last.

David had both hands on the midsection of the gun-left hand on the barrel, right hand around the breech-and had pulled the weapon about six inches from its rack when Faber got a one-handed grip on the muzzle. David tugged the gun toward himself, but for a moment Faber's grasp held the gun pointed at the windscreen.

Faber was a strong man, but David was exceptionally strong. His shoulders, arms and wrists had moved his body and his wheelchair for four years, and the muscles had become abnormally developed. Furthermore he had both hands on the gun in front of him, and Faber was holding on with one hand at an awkward angle. David tugged again, more determinedly this time, and the muzzle slipped from Faber's grasp.

At that instant, with the shotgun pointed at his belly and David's finger curling around the trigger, Faber felt very close to death.

He jerked upward, catapulting himself out of his seat. His head hit the canvas roof of the jeep as the gun exploded with a crash that numbed the ears and produced a physical pain behind the eyes. The window by the passenger seat shattered into small pieces and the rain blew in through the empty frame. Faber twisted his body and fell back, not onto his own seat but across David. He got both hands to David's throat and squeezed his thumbs.

David tried to bring the gun around between their bodies to fire the other barrel, but the weapon was too big. Faber looked into his eyes, and saw… what? Exhilaration. Of course the man finally had a chance to fight for his country. Then his expression changed as his body felt the lack of oxygen and he began to fight for breath.

David released his grip on the gun and brought both elbows back as far as he could, then punched Faber's lower ribs with a powerful double jab. Faber screwed up his face in pain, but he held his grip on David's throat, knowing he could withstand David's punches longer than David could hold his breath.

David must have had the same thought. He crossed his forearms between their bodies and pushed Faber away; then, when the gap was a few inches wide, he brought his hands up in an upward-and-outward blow against Faber's arms, breaking the stranglehold. He bunched his right fist and swung downward with a powerful but unscientific punch that landed on Faber's cheekbone and brought water to his eyes.

Faber replied with a series of body jabs; David continued to bruise his face. They were too close together to do real damage to each other in a short time, but David's greater strength began to tell.

Almost in admiration, Faber realised that David had shrewdly picked the time and place for the fight: he had had the advantages of surprise, the gun, and the confined space in which his muscle counted for much and Faber's better balance and greater manoeuvrability counted for little. He had only erred, really, in his bravado-understandable perhaps-about finding the film can, giving Faber a moment of warning.

Faber shifted his weight slightly and his hip came into contact with the gearshift, throwing the transmission into forward. The engine was still running and the car jerked, throwing him off balance. David used the opportunity to release a long straight left that-more by luck than by judgment-caught Faber flush on the chin and threw him clear across the cab of the jeep. His head cracked against the A-post, he slumped with his shoulder on the door handle, the door opened, and he fell out of the car in a backward somersault to land on his face in the mud.