The layout of the hotel had been studied the day after I'd moved in. Main entrance, double doors to the terrace single door from the kitchens, single door to the courtyard_. I left the room without a sound, taking five or six minute with the handle. The corridor was carpeted. There might be one or more adverse parties inside the building, might not. They knew where I'd gone and they knew they'd see me come out again. The phone would be wire-tapped but although they'd searched the room they hadn't miked it, so there wouldn't be anyone looking after a speaker or tape.

The hollow coughing of the shoe-brush was the only sound on the stairs. He had the lot to do: the night-porter and Boots combined.

It was possible to reach the single door to the courtyard without going within sight of the desk and I moved only when the brush sounded, freezing in the intervals of silence. The door was locked but the key was on the inside. A white chef's coat hung on the door.

Chill air. The surface of the yard was concrete and I put my shoes on again and left the door unlocked on principle: ensure availability of exits and entrances.

A glass roof covered half the yard, running from the wall of the hotel to the row of lock-ups. Observation was possible only from the hotel windows and the four windows of the house opposite the yard gates. Five minutes to allow the eyes fully to accommodate. Five minutes to check each window. There was no lamp burning in the yard and I stood in eighty per cent darkness, stars giving the only light.

There was no observation. The thought was chilling. There should be observation. Re-check windows, shadow areas. No observation. Disregard.

The lock-ups were communal and had two big double doors facing the hotel wall at some sixty feet. Both sets of doors had the same key. The 230SL pagoda-top was inside the doors nearer the gate and street. It would be possible to open them quietly but not silently; I had oiled the lock, hinges and swing-bar staple the first time I had run the BMW in here. But there was no point in taking pains. If they were going to open fire as I drove through the gates they'd have plenty of warning because of the noise of starting up. To open the doors quietly would reduce the warning period by a good ten seconds (time taken to go through the open doorway, get into the Mercedes and start up). But they would still have fifteen left (time taken to engage reverse, back out, stop, engage first and move off to the gates). And you can raise a rifle on target from across the knees in one second flat.

But my chances were so slight that I took pains with the doors. A chip of stone got jammed underneath the second one and made a soft screech that echoed under the big glass roof. I was in a way relieved. I had shown my hand and there might be reaction from them, establishing known conditions. I walked from the doors to the gates, to get some idea of what these conditions were. There was no risk in this that I wasn't already faced with. Either they would let me drive the car out or they wouldn't. If they wouldn't, I'd be sitting in it, here at this spot, my hands on the wheel, dead, two minutes from now. That was the risk and it wasn't increased by standing here exposed. If they meant to let me drive the car out they wouldn't fire either now or when I was behind the wheel.

Luminous dial at 05.03. Fifty-seven minutes left.

Oktober-thinking was no go. Even he was sometimes faced with a choice of decisions. He – or his Reichsleiter would now be deciding whether to let me use the car (so that they could tag me and see me signal Control) or to switch off the risk the moment I got into the car (so that they could relax and think out a new way of locating my base – perhaps using my successor).

The night was still calm. Very far away the throb of a Diesel truck sounded; even more distantly there was a shunt going on in the freight yards. In my area there was total silence. I stood between the gates with the horror coming into me slowly and when I tried to keep it back it made ever faster return. The left eyelid began.

They had been called off.

Nobody, not even the least efficient field-scout in the most tumble-down intelligence service, could fail to see me framed in these gates with the light of a street-lamp on me. And to see me they must show themselves, by however small a fraction. The terrain was bare and geometrical, a pattern of ground-surface, walls, doors, windows and roofs; and I gave it a one-hundred-per-cent examination. There was no window open even an inch. Every door was shut. The lamp-stanchion was less than a foot in diameter except at the base, which stood two feet from the pavement no cover. The outline of the estate-car parked on the other side of the street was utterly distinct and unspoiled. The horizon line was unbroken from roof to roof.

In ten minutes I had re-observed. Nil.

Known conditions had ceased.

Eliminate two considerations. (1) They were not waiting for me farther off, at each end of the street, because there was no absolute guarantee of picking off the driver of a car accelerating at full bore and tyre-targets were tricky. The 230SL would be pitching up eighty k.p.h. in third gear by the time it reached either end of this street. (2) They wouldn't be set up to fire from behind a closed window (where reflection could mask them in this light), because deflection is always a risk, the structural quality of the glass being variable. Nor would they be absolutely certain of drilling the pagoda-top roof dead on target from any height. If they were going to fire on me from a closed window they'd do it now, because the door of the garage had raised enough sound to travel through the glass of any window in this area and they'd know my intention: to use the car.

They had been called off.

The eyelid was bad now so I stopped thinking and moved back across the yard and went into the garage through the wide-open doors. The same factors applied: there was no increased risk in walking through these doors if in fact they'd posted a man in here with orders to kill me off if I tried to get into the Mercedes.

No shot. No sound. No sign.

The awful thing was that I wanted badly to get clear and they were going to let me and I didn't like it or trust it.

Perfectly still. Breathe shallow. Examine.

Sound: the last of the Diesel throb, fading north. Metal on metal from the freight yards. All.

Vision: blurred outlines, three cars, oil-drum, wall-map, tap and trough. All.

Scent: petrol, oil, rubber, sacking, timber. All.

Nothing out of place.

Only the voice inside me saying I don't like this, I don't like this. Shuddup. Brain-think not stomach-think, getting old, old enough to die.

Luminous dial at 05.24. Thirty-six minutes to go.

Brain-think: make all usual checks and then re-check; and then get out, win or lose.

I travel light but sometimes life or lesser but important things depend on vision at night so I carried a pen-torch with three long-life cells and an inverse lens for needle focus. The hood slid up without a click on the felt-lined barrel. The thin beam began moving about. Doors not tampered with. Check interior: all switches and levers in position as left. No foreign odours.

Ten minutes on the interior. Then I opened the luggage compartment and checked contents. Cleared. The engine cover made a slight noise because of the sprung catch and I stood still for three minutes listening.

The ray probed the engine. Check for recently-laid wiring, unfamiliar components, foreign odours. Cleared.

I stood for a minute to steady the breathing. Sweat was gathering at the waist. The knee pulsed. Eyelid calm because action was soothing the nerves.

Right – risk the rest and get in and drive like hell and hope for luck.