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church, just to show how much I lack the finer feelings. He was head of SS intelligence for the whole of Brittany. A butcher who deserved to die.”
    “So what’s your problem?”
    “I kill him so they take twenty hostages and shoot them. Death seems to follow at my heels if you know what I mean.”
    Hare didn’t answer, simply reduced power and opened a window, allowing rain to drift in. They rounded a promontory and Osbourne saw an inlet in the bay beyond, a wooded valley above.
    A small grey harbour nestled at the foot of it, and two dozen cottages around. There was an old manor house in the trees. Below, the crew had come out on deck.
    “Cold Harbour, Major Osbourne,” Martin Hare told him and took the Lili Marlene in.

chapter three

    The crew busied themselves tying up and Hare and Osbourne went over the side and walked along the cobbled quay.
    “The houses all look pretty much the same,” Craig observed.
    “I know,” Hare told him. “The whole place was put together in one go by the lord of the manor, a Sir William Chevely, in the mid-eighteenth century. Cottages, harbour, the quay, everything. According to local legend, most of his money came from smuggling. He was known as Black Bill.”
    “I see. He created this model fishing village as a front for other things?” Craig said.
    “Exactly. This, by the way, is the pub. The boys use it as their mess.”
    It was a low squat building with high gables, timber inserts and mullioned windows which gave it an Elizabethan look.
    Craig said, “Nothing Georgian about that. Tudor, I’d say.”
    “The cellars are medieval. There’s always been some sort of an inn on this site,” Hare said and clambered into a jeep which stood outside. “Come on, I’ll take you up to the manor.”
    Craig looked up at the inn sign over the door. “The Hanged Man.”
    “Rather appropriate,” Hare said as he started the engine. “Actually, it’s a new sign. The old one was falling apart and pretty revolting at that. Some poor sod swinging on the end of a rope, hands tied, tongue popping out.”
    As they drove away Craig turned to look at the sign again. It depicted a young man hanging upside-down, suspended by his right ankle from a wooden gibbet. The face was calm, the head surrounded by some kind of halo.
    “Did you know that’s a Tarot image?” he said.
    “Oh, sure, the housekeeper at the manor arranged it, Madame Legrande. She’s into that kind of thing.”
    “Legrande? Would that be Julie Legrande?” Craig asked.
    “That’s right.” Hare glanced at him curiously. “Do you know her?”
    “I knew her husband before the war. He lectured in Philosophy at the Sorbonne. Later he was mixed up with the Resistance in Paris. I came across them there in ’42. Helped them get out when the Gestapo were on their backs.”
    “Well, she’s been here since the beginning of the project. Works for SOE.”
    “And her husband, Henri?”
    “From what I know, he died of a heart attack in London last year.”
    “I see.”
    They were passing the last of the cottages. Hare said, “This is a defence area. All civilians moved out. We use the cottages as billets. Besides my crew, we also have a few RAF mechanics to service the planes.”
    “You have aircraft here? What for?”
    “The usual purpose. To drop agents in or bring them out.”
    “I thought Special Duties Squadron at Tempsford handled that?”
    “They do or at least they handle the normal cases. Our operation is a little more unusual. I’ll show you. We’re just coming up to the field.”
    The road curved through trees and on the other side was an enormous meadow with a grass runway. A prefabricated hangar stood at one end. Hare turned the jeep in through the gate, bumped across the grass and stopped. He took out a cigarette and lit it.
    “What do you think?”
    A Fieseler Storch spotter plane taxied out of the hangar, the Luftwaffe insignia plain on its wings and fuselage and the two mechanics who followed it wore