It had to be today. He had begun to take chances. His nerves were frayed and his hunger was beginning to burn in spite of the hand-outs, and the previous night he had fallen into conversation on the underground station with a married couple who had offered to share their thermos of coffee with him. What did he do? How long had he been in England? He reminded them of their son, whom they hadn’t seen in six months while he had been battling his way up the backbone of Italy. Why had Hencke been exempted from military service? Why wasn’t he out there fighting? Within five minutes he had contradicted himself twice and their generosity had turned to resentment and suspicion. They thought he was a draft-dodger, and it wouldn’t be long before someone came to the correct conclusion. So it had to be today.

The embassy was a square-built Victorian affair, solid rather than pretentious, tucked away in the corner of Belgrave Square. It had a large portico which seemed to be the only entrance and through which every visitor and staff member had to pass. Immediately outside stood the police guard, checking credentials. It had been doubled since news of the escape had leaked. So Hencke walked around the square, sat on a park bench, read a newspaper and did his best not to look suspicious, all the time feeling as conspicuous as a boy scout in a convent. The man in the trilby and trenchcoat had entered the embassy shortly before eight o’clock and, if he followed the pattern of the previous two days, would be out for a stroll through nearby Hyde Park at twelve-thirty precisely. But what if he changed his plans? If he decided to take an early break? If he weren’t a diplomat after all? To curb his anxiety Hencke was back waiting on the corner near the embassy shortly after eleven a.m. He had to dispense with the newspaper; it was shaking too much in his unsteady hands. His impatience meant he risked the attentions of the duty policemen, but it was time for taking risks.

The man appeared precisely on time. His collar was up and the trilby pulled down firmly over his head against the squallish wind, but there was no mistake. Hencke hurried on ahead, taking the opposite route around the square and relieved to see the other man pacing along his accustomed route, briefcase tucked under his left arm. By habit he would stop at a bench overlooking the lake in the park and produce sandwiches from the briefcase, munching through them before throwing any remnants of crumbs and crust to the sparrows. He liked birds, perhaps that was why Hencke had decided to trust him. His own father had been an avid ornithologist, so his aunt had told him. That’s all he had of his father, a scrap of information about his hobbies and an even scrappier but greatly treasured photograph, taken a few days before he left for the trenches and which had been lost in the charred ruins of the schoolhouse. So the Spaniard liked birds, too; perhaps it was an omen.

While the first sandwich was being extracted from the briefcase and consumed, Hencke took the opportunity to scout around the area of the park bench, checking whether there were any watchers hidden behind the bright spring foliage of the trees or bushes, trying to control his anxiety. By the time the second and final sandwich had appeared he knew he had to make his move.

Hencke sat down at the opposite end of the bench. ‘Please, do you have a cigarette?’

The Spaniard turned towards him. He was in his early thirties with dark skin and a long face from which protruded a sharp, aquiline nose. The expression behind it was not friendly. Hencke was by this time peculiarly dishevelled. He hadn’t shaved for four days, his once-glossy black hair was matted and the stolen suit of clothes had become grubby and unkempt. There was an unhealthy flush across his lean face and a wild look in his eyes; Hencke thought he was developing a fever. He probably smelled, too. The Spaniard stared, examined the crumpled man who had accosted him and, without offering a word, returned to his sandwich.

Hencke clenched his fists. Perhaps he had made a dreadful mistake after all. The diplomat proceeded to scatter crumbs on the ground and attract the attentions of sparrows and pigeons. Even the ducks on the lake were beginning to honk their appreciation and clamber out of the water towards him. Within seconds he was festooned with birds and in the distance Hencke could see two nannies with their broods of children advancing towards them with the intention of joining in the fun. Soon he would be surrounded.

‘You’re from the Spanish Embassy, aren’t you? I must speak with you.’

The man turned to stare once again. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he demanded aggressively.

Hencke drew a deep breath. The nannies were only yards away. It was now or never. ‘I’m German. The escaped prisoner of war. I need your help.’

The Spaniard turned pale beneath his olive skin and shot to his feet, standing erect as the last of the breadcrumbs were scattered on the ground. Feeding time was over and the birds fled; at least it had the advantage of deflecting the two advancing nannies.

‘You must be mad! Why on earth do you think I should help you? What on earth can I do?’ The diplomat looked around him anxiously, whether to guard against approaching danger or to summon the nearest policeman Hencke could only guess. ‘The whole country is looking for you. You’re the most wanted man in Britain, in God’s name why pick on me?’

At least he was not screaming at the top of his lungs for help, thought Hencke. He was just plain scared. ‘I picked on you because I have nowhere else to go. I must have your help.’

‘Don’t you realize there’s nothing I can do? Spain is neutral, it doesn’t get involved in this war.’

‘Germany got involved in your war. Or have you forgotten that already?’

‘That was nearly ten years ago. This is preposterous … I must be off.’ The Spaniard began to brush the final crumbs from his raincoat in order to depart. It was almost over for Hencke.

‘But you must help …’

‘No. I can do no such thing. Neutral. Don’t you understand?’ He glanced around him once more. ‘If you continue to pester me I shall call for the police. Look … I’m sorry, but you don’t realize.’ His tone softened slightly. The initial shock and panic had gone, but the deep unease remained. ‘You are the hottest target in the whole of London. You must understand. Every embassy is being watched, our telephones are being tapped, everyone is on the lookout for you. It’s impossible for anyone to help you and it would be madness for anyone to try.’ He reached into his pockets and pulled out a couple of crumpled notes and a handful of coins. ‘Here. Take some money; you look as if you could do with something to eat. But that’s all. There’s nothing more I can do.’

‘Wish me luck, eh …?’ Hencke muttered bitterly, glancing derisively at the few pounds in his hand. It was all going wrong.

‘Not even that. NEUTRAL. Don’t you understand?’ The Spaniard was. becoming agitated again, wondering whether he had already gone too far. He began striding away, wishing to put as much distance as possible between himself and this nightmare that had been thrust towards him.

Hencke made after him, but all he could see was the man’s back. ‘One other thing you can do for me? It won’t hurt …’ He began to raise his voice as the diplomat’s figure receded into the distance. ‘You have the means. Get a message back to Berlin for me. From Peter Hencke.’ He had to shout now. ‘Tell them I’m coming back!’

The diplomat didn’t falter in his stride. In a moment he was gone.

Hencke was left alone, defeated. His fever was getting worse, he had nowhere to go. He looked ravenously at the complaining ducks.

‘I find it so difficult to believe, Willie.’

‘Seems little doubt, Prime Minister. A farmer’s widow, living on her own. They found her with half her chest missing, a shotgun on the kitchen table and a pile of prisoner’s clothes on the floor. And none of those we’ve recaptured seem to have been anywhere near the area. The one out there is our man.’ He looked quizzically at Churchill, who appeared more affected by this news than even by the initial reports of the mass escape. The Old Man sat brooding.