‘Say, Beetle! Where’s the place we liberated, the one with all those salt mines stuffed full of booty?’

Lieutenant General Bedell Smith entered Eisenhower’s room with as much haste as the dignity of his rank would allow. ‘D’you mean the place near Merkers? The Third Reich seems to have been using it as a bank vault. Not only crates of gold and silver plate but there’s also a collection of art looted from all over Europe. Half the Louvre seems to be there in wooden packing cases; we’re already getting telegrams by the hour from de Gaulle claiming most of it. Then there’s at least two huge halls full of nothing but bank notes. Don’t know yet whether they’re duds or the real McCoy …’

‘Yeah, but wasn’t there a mountain of wine crates – claret, brandy, that sort of thing?’

Bedell Smith checked his list. ‘Right. Historic vintages mostly, intended for Goering, so the locals are saying. We also found a whole batch of papers which we thought might be vital to the war effort. Just got the translations in. You want to hear? – “The delicate smell of the fruit is just slightly obscured by the nutty transformation of the oak tannins … the length and elegance of these delicious cognacs compare so favourably with the pretty Parisian girls …” Turns out the friggin’ things were some vintner’s tasting notes.’

‘OK, OK. Get a crate of the brandy. Send it to Mr Churchill with my compliments and some sort of message about it being from one Napoleon to another. You know the kind of thing. To get back on track with him.’

‘Good idea. There’s lots of it. One crate enough?’

‘I want to show there are no hard feelings, Beetle. Not suggest I’m in love with him. For Chrissake the idea’s to keep him quiet, not to give him any encouragement. Anyway, the old bastard drinks too much as it is. Wouldn’t want him getting carried away and coming up with any more of his bright ideas. Would we?’

The lieutenant general winked mischievously, offered a smart salute and hurried on his way.

SIX

Liverpool tasted different. Instead of London’s choking fog there was the sharp tang of salt air, with many fewer military vehicles roaring down the streets throwing diesel fumes at him. People on the streets hurried along, keeping their heads low, bending into the breeze that blew off the Irish Sea, the distant echo of a railway station ringing in their ears. A cinema was turning out its patrons after the last show, nearly catching Hencke and the girl in the rush. ‘Trampled to death by Noël Coward. My father would never forgive me!’ Sinead had joked before she remembered that she probably shouldn’t joke about her father, her mother would not approve.

It was a long walk before they entered a cul-de-sac, at the head of which stood a tall, imposing house of four floors, in darkness except for a porch lamp making circles of light in the stiff breeze. They stopped under a tree, like any courting couple in no hurry to find their way home, while Sinead made a careful inspection of the house and its surrounds. She was uneasy, something was not right and they moved on, back to the streets, taking a cup of tea at a late-night canteen near the docks, never lingering too long in one place, anxious to avoid enquiring eyes, shivering as the damp sea air turned colder with the night, tripping over dustbins and piles of rubbish in dark alleyways which served as homes to bad-tempered cats. Hencke was wrung out from the ceaseless walking but it was not until the first hint of dawn that they were back in the cul-de-sac facing the tall house. This time, after a brief inspection, Sinead seemed to have found what she was looking for and hurried him towards the door. Someone opened it without her knocking.

The someone turned out to be a tall and exceedingly handsome woman in her late forties, perhaps past her prime but with much femininity still and great, possibly excessive care taken about her appearance. She closed the door quickly behind them while Hencke blinked in the blaze of light which lit the interior. As he looked around he could not hide his astonishment. There were other, younger women standing to the sides of the large hallway. He blinked again to make certain but there was no mistake. He hadn’t been told, and in a thousand lifetimes would never have guessed.

‘Well, I’ll be …’

‘Later, dearie. Anything’s possible if you behave yourself, but for the moment let’s get you safely tucked up out of the way,’ the woman responded.

‘A brothel …?’

‘Where else would a good Catholic girl take a man like you,’ Sinead chuckled mischievously. ‘But there’s no time for gawking. Come on with you.’

The house was quiet but not asleep, as if pausing to catch its breath before the night shift clocked off. Sinead led him past a broad, gilded staircase which swept to the upper floors, past chaise-longues tastefully covered with brightly patterned upholstery and adorned with women in even more brightly patterned costumes which decorated without denying what lay underneath. None of them looked up or appeared to take any notice, burying themselves in magazines or relaxing with cigarettes which protruded from extravagant holders. Everything glittered without being truly gaudy, was orderly, in its carefully chosen place, and there was little room for doubt that the madame ruled with an iron fist inside her elbow-length satin gloves.

He was hustled through a down-to-earth kitchen where a pot of coffee bubbled away on the stove and one counter stood crammed with bottles of varied colours and kicks, then up bare wooden stairs which in earlier times servants had used to clamber from the scullery to their attic rooms without disturbing the family, until eventually he was led through a brightly lit corridor and into a room where the door was locked securely behind them.

Sinead waved her hand to pre-empt the inevitable flood of questions. ‘Before you start, you’ve got to believe me. This is the safest place in Liverpool for you.’

‘A brothel?’

‘This is a high-class establishment, the best there is. And the finest safe house on the road back to Ireland. The British would never raid it; they’d be terrified of how many chief inspectors and judges they’d unearth.’

A look of amusement crinkled the edges of his eyes and for the first time since they had met she thought he was smiling, although it was difficult to tell. The scar on his upper lip twitched occasionally, yet she could never be sure.

‘And a wonderful place, no doubt, for picking up all kinds of useful information across the pillows,’ he suggested.

‘But you catch on fast, Peter Hencke. And, my God, you seem to recover fast, too!’

Hencke had walked over to a small table laden with two plates, food and drink, and was already ripping and chewing his way through a cold pork chop. In a stride she was beside him, snatching hungrily at her own meal. The food was like nothing either of them had eaten for months. Pork chop, cheese, chicken, butter, even fresh fruit, nothing which could be found off-ration, a feast which could only have been obtained at considerable expense under the counters and behind the curtains of the black market. They tore at it.

‘They seem to like you here,’ he spluttered through a slice of chocolate cake.

‘The woman at the door, she’s my father’s second cousin,’ she replied with a mouth equally full. ‘I told you. This is a family affair.’

They were smiling at each other across the mouthfuls of food. They couldn’t easily sit down – there was only the large brass bed – so they stood and stuffed until, overcome by the delight of rare indulgence, they had entered a race to see which of them could finish first. She won, by a short biscuit.

‘You bastard. You let me win,’ she accused him gaily.

‘Nothing so gallant,’ he shook his head. ‘Do you realize I’ve just eaten the equivalent of a month’s rations in the prison camp? I think I may be sick.’ As if to give weight to his words, he stretched out unsteadily and sank on to the bed. For the first time since their departure from London she looked at him closely. He was exhausted. The lean face had grown gaunt, the cheeks hollowed, the scar about his mouth carved more deeply into his skin. His eyes had sunk into dark pockets, yet they still held that glow of defiance which so intrigued her. Once again she wondered what drove him onwards while so many others had given in.