"Twist," said Jack Smith, who was more Scots than his name. Albert "Slim" Parish, a fat Londoner far from home, dealt him a jack. "Bust." Smith said.

Slim raked in his stake. "A penny-ha'penny," he said in mock wonder "I only hope I live to spend it."

Smith rubbed condensation off the inside of a porthole and peered out at the boats bobbing up and down in the harbour. "The way the skipper's panicking. you'd think we were going to bloody Berlin, not Storm Island."

"Didn't you know? We're the spearhead of the Allied invasion." Slim turned over a ten, dealt himself a king and said, "Pay twenty-ones."

Smith said. "What is this guy, anyway, a deserter? If you ask me, it's a job for the military police, not us."

Slim shuffled the pack. "I'll tell you what he is-an escaped prisoner of war."

Jeers.

"All right, don't listen to me. But when we pick him up, just take note of his accent." He put the cards down. "Listen, what boats go to Storm Island?"

"Only the grocer," someone said.

"So the only way he can get back to the mainland is on the grocer's boat. The military police just have to wait for Charlie's regular trip to the island, and pick him up when he steps off the boat at this end. There's no reason for us to be sitting here, waiting to weigh anchor and shoot over there at the speed of light the minute the weather clears, unless…" He paused melodramatically. "Unless he's got some other means of getting off the island."

"Like what?"

"A U-boat, that's what."

"Bollocks," Smith said. The others merely laughed.

Slim dealt another hand. Smith won this time, but everyone else lost. "I'm a shilling up," Slim said. "I think I'll retire to that nice little cottage in Devon. We won't catch him, of course."

"The deserter?"

"The prisoner of war."

"Why not?"

Slim tapped his head. "Use your noddle. When the storm clears we'll be here and the U-boat will be at the bottom of the bay at the island. So who'll get there first? The Jerries."

"So why are we doing it?" Smith said.

"Because the people who are giving the orders are not as sharp as yours truly, Albert Parish. You may laugh!" He dealt another hand. "Place your bets. You'll see I'm right. What's that, Smithie, a penny? Gorblimey, don't go mad. I tell you what, I'll give odds of five to one we come back from Storm Island empty-handed. Any takers? Ten to one? Eh? Ten to one?"

"No takers," said Smith. "Deal the cards."

Slim dealt the cards.

Squadron-Leader Peterkin Blenkinsop (he had tried to shorten Peterkin to Peter but somehow the men always found out) stood ramrod-straight in front of the map and addressed the room. "We fly in formations of three," he began.

"The first three will take off as soon as weather permits. Our target," he touched the map with a pointer "is here. Storm Island. On arrival we will circle for twenty minutes at low altitudes, looking for a U-boat.

"After twenty minutes we return to base." He paused. "Those of you with a logical turn of mind will by now have deduced that, to achieve continuous cover, the second formation of three aircraft must take off precisely twenty minutes after the first, and so on. Any questions?"

Flying-Oflficer Longman said, "Sir?"

"Longman?"

"What do we do if we see this U-boat?"

"Strafe it, of course. Drop a few grenades. Cause trouble."

"But we're flying fighters, sir there's not much we can do to stop a U-boat. That's a job for battleships, isn't it?"

Blenkinsop sighed. "As usual, those of you who can think of better ways to win the war are invited to write directly to Mr Winston Churchill, number 10 Downing Street, London South-West-One. Now, are there any questions, as opposed to stupid criticisms?" There were no questions.

The later years of the war had produced a different kind of RAF officer, Bloggs thought, as he sat on a soft chair in the scramble room, close to the fire, listening to the rain drumming on the tin roof, and intermittently dozing. The Battle of Britain pilots had seemed incorrigibly cheerful, with their undergraduate slang, their perpetual drinking, their tirelessness and their cavalier disregard of the flaming death they faced up to every day. That schoolboy heroism had not been enough to carry them through subsequent years, as the war dragged on in places far from home, and the emphasis shifted from the dashing individuality of aerial dogfighting to the mechanical drudgery of bombing missions. They still drank and talked in jargon but they appeared older, harder, more cynical; there was nothing in them now of Tom Brown's Schooldays. Bloggs recalled what he had done to that poor common-or-garden housebreaker in the police cells at Aberdeen, and he realised: It's happened to us all.

They were very quiet. They sat all around him: some dozing, like himself; others reading books or playing board games. A bespectacled navigator in a corner was learning Russian.

As Bloggs surveyed the room with half-closed eyes, another pilot came in, and he thought immediately that this one had not been aged by the war. He had an old-fashioned wide grin and fresh face that looked as if it hardly needed shaving more than once a week. He wore his jacket open and carried his helmet. He made a beeline for Bloggs. "Detective-Inspector Bloggs?"

"That's me."

"Jolly rood show. I'm your pilot, Charles Calder."

"Fine." Bloggs shook hands.

"The kite's all ready, and the engine's as sweet as a bird. She's an amphibian, I suppose you know."

"Yes."

"Jolly good show. We'll land on the sea, taxi in to about ten yards from the shore, and put you off in a dinghy."

"Then you wait for me to come back."

"Indeed. Well, all we need now is the weather."

"Yes. Look, Charles, I've been chasing this fellow all over the country for six days and nights, so I'm catching up on my sleep while I've got the chance. You won't mind."

"Of course not!" The pilot sat down and produced a thick book from under his jacket. "Catching up on my education," he said. "War and Peace."

Bloggs said, "Jolly good show," and closed his eyes.

Percival Godliman and his uncle, Colonel Terry, sat side by side in the map room, drinking coffee and tapping the ash of their cigarettes into a fire bucket on the floor between them. Godliman was repeating himself. "I can't think of anything more we can do," he said.

"So you said."

"The corvette is already there, and the fighters are only a few minutes away, so the sub will come under fire as soon as she shows herself above the surface."

"If she's seen."

"The corvette will land a party as soon as possible. Bloggs will be there soon after that, and the Coastguard will bring up the rear."

"And none of them can be sure to get there in time."

"I know," Godliman said wearily. "We've done all we can, but is it enough?"

Terry lit another cigarette. "What about the inhabitants of the island?"

"Oh, yes. There are only two houses there. There's a sheep farmer and his wife in one-they have a young child-and an old shepherd lives in the other. The shepherd's got a radio-Royal Observer Corps-but we can't raise him… he probably keeps the set switched to Transmit. He's old."

"The farmer sounds promising," Terry said. "If he's a bright fellow he might even stop your spy."

Godliman shook his head. "The poor chap's in a wheelchair."

"Dear God, we don't get much luck, do we?"

"No," said Godliman. "Die Nadel seems to have cornered the market."

Lucy was becoming quite calm. The feeling crept over her gradually, like the icy spread of an anaesthetic, deadening her emotions and sharpening her wits. The times when she was momentarily paralysed by the thought that she was sharing a house with a murderer became fewer, and she was possessed by a cool-headed watchfulness that surprised her.