The captain said, “Carry on, Number One.”

The first mate was standing at the rail with three of the ratings. He wore a pistol in a waterproof holster. “Let’s go,” he told them.

The four men scrambled down the ladders and into the boat. The first mate sat in the stern and the three sailors broke out the oars and began to row.

For a few moments the captain watched their steady progress toward the jetty. Then he went back to the bridge and gave orders for the corvette to continue circling the island.

THE SHRILL RINGING of a bell broke up the card game on the cutter.

Slim said, “I thought something was different. We aren’t going up and down so much. Almost motionless, really. Makes me damn seasick.”

Nobody was listening: the crew were hurrying to their stations, some of them fastening life jackets as they went.

The engines fired with a roar, and the vessel began to tremble faintly.

Up on deck Smith stood in the prow, enjoying the fresh air and the spray on his face after a day and a night below.

As the cutter left the harbor Slim joined him.

“Here we go again,” Slim said.

“I knew the bell was going to ring then,” Smith said. “You know why?”

“Tell me.”

“I was holding ace and a king. Banker’s Twenty-One.”

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER WERNER HEER looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes.”

Major Wohl nodded. “What’s the weather like?”

“The storm has ended,” Heer said reluctantly. He would have preferred to keep that information to himself.

“Then we should surface.”

“If your man were there, he would send us a signal.”

“The war is not won by hypothesis, captain,” said Wohl. “I firmly suggest that we surface.”

There had been a blazing row while the U-boat was in dock between Heer’s superior officer and Wohl’s; and Wohl’s had won. Heer was still captain of the ship, but he had been told in no uncertain terms that he had better have a damned good reason next time he ignored one of Major Wohl’s firm suggestions.

“We will surface at six o’clock exactly,” he said.

Wohl nodded again and looked away.

37

THE SOUND OF BREAKING GLASS, THEN AN EXPLOSION like an incendiary bomb:

Whoomph…

Lucy dropped the microphone. Something was happening downstairs. She picked up a shotgun and ran down.

The living room was ablaze. The fire centered on a broken jar on the floor. Henry had made some kind of bomb with the petrol from the jeep. The flames were spreading across Tom’s threadbare carpet and licking up over the loose covers of his ancient three-piece suite. A feather-filled cushion caught and the fire reached up toward the ceiling.

Lucy picked up the cushion and threw it through the broken window, singeing her hand. She tore her coat off and threw it on the carpet, stamping on it. She picked it up again and draped it over the floral settee.

There was another crash of glass.

It came from upstairs.

Lucy screamed. “Jo!”

She dropped the coat and rushed up the stairs and into the front bedroom.

Faber was sitting on the bed with Jo on his lap. The child was awake, sucking his thumb, wearing his wide-eyed morning look. Faber was stroking his tousled hair.

“Throw the gun on the bed, Lucy.”

Her shoulders sagged and she did as he said. “You climbed the wall and got through the window,” she said dully.

Faber dumped Jo off his lap. “Go to Mummy.”

Jo ran to her and she lifted him up.

He picked up both guns and went to the radio. He was holding his right hand under his left armpit, and there was a great red bloodstain on his jacket. He sat down. “You hurt me,” he said. Then he turned his attention to the transmitter.

Suddenly it spoke. “Come in, Storm Island.”

He picked up the microphone. “Hello?”

“Just a minute.”

There was a pause, then another voice came on. Lucy recognized it as the man in London who had told her to destroy the radio. He would be disappointed in her. It said, “Hello, this is Godliman again. Can you hear me? Over.”

Faber said, “Yes, I can hear you, professor. Seen any good cathedrals lately?”

“What?…is that—”

“Yes.” Faber smiled. “How do you do.” Then the smile abruptly left his face, as if playtime was over, and he manipulated the frequency dial of the radio.

Lucy turned and left the room. It was over. She walked listlessly down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was nothing for her to do but wait for him to kill her. She could not run away—she did not have the energy, and he obviously knew it.

She looked out of the window. The storm had ended. The howling gale had dropped to a stiff breeze, there was no rain, and the eastern sky was bright with the promise of sunshine. The sea—

She frowned, and looked again.

Yes, my God, it was a submarine.

Destroy the radio, the man had said.

Last night Henry had cursed in a foreign language…“I did it for my country,” he had said.

And, in his delirium, something about waiting at Calais for a phantom army….

Destroy the radio.

Why would a man take a can of photographic negatives on a fishing trip?

She had known all along he was not insane.

The submarine was a German U-boat, Henry was some kind of German agent…spy?…this very moment he must be trying to contact that U-boat by radio…

Destroy the radio.

She had no right to give up, she couldn’t now that she understood. She knew what she had to do. She would have liked to put Jo somewhere else, where he could not see it—that bothered her more than the pain she knew she would feel—but there was no time for that. Henry would surely find his frequency at any second and then it might be too late—

She had to destroy the radio, but the radio was upstairs with Henry, and he had both the guns and he would kill her.

She knew only one way to do it.

She placed one of Tom’s kitchen chairs in the center of the room, stood on it, reached up and unscrewed the light bulb.

She got down off the chair, went to the door and threw the switch.

“Are you changing the bulb?” Jo asked.

Lucy climbed on the chair, hesitated for a moment, then thrust three fingers into the live socket.

There was a bang, an instant of agony, and then unconsciousness.

FABER HEARD the bang. He had found the right frequency on the transmitter, had thrown the switch to “Transmit” and had picked up the microphone. He was about to speak when the noise came. Immediately afterward the lights on the dials of the wireless set went out.

His face suffused with anger. She had short-circuited the electricity supply to the whole house. He had not credited her with that much ingenuity.

He should have killed her before. What was wrong with him? He had never hesitated, not ever, until he met this woman.

He picked up one of the guns and went downstairs.

The child was crying. Lucy lay in the kitchen doorway, out cold. Faber took in the empty light socket with the chair beneath it. He frowned in amazement.

She had done it with her hand.

Faber said: “Jesus Christ Almighty.”

Lucy’s eyes opened.

She hurt all over.

Henry was standing over her with the gun in his hands. He was saying, “Why did you use your hand? Why not a screwdriver?”

“I didn’t know you could do it with a screwdriver.”

He shook his head. “You are truly an astonishing woman,” he said as he lifted the gun, aimed it at her, and lowered it again. “Damn you.”

His gaze went to the window, and he started.

“You saw it,” he said.

She nodded.

He stood tense for a moment, then went to the door. Finding it nailed shut, he smashed the window with the butt of his gun and climbed out.