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for the underdog and her deep sense of justice, had been reporting from Europe for the
New York Evening Post
since 1933. Having someone good-hearted, wholly on her side and who, most importantly, had an inkling of her secret role, meant that Mary was the only person with whom Clara could genuinely relax.
    Mary’s hearty laugh and distinctive New Jersey accent were instantly recognizable from the far side of the room. She had barely changed since they first met six years ago. She still had the same mordant sense of humour, the same favourite old black dress, her hair was a corn-coloured tangle and her lively eyes were hidden behind heavy-rimmed black spectacles. As usual she was at the centre of a throng, and loudly enjoying herself.
    ‘Clara, let me introduce Bill Shirer, from CBS, and Louis Lochner, head of the Berlin bureau of the Associated Press.’ She indicated a short man with a moustache, waving a pipe, and his balding colleague. ‘And Sigrid Schultz of the
Chicago Tribune
,’ she gestured at a tiny, china-complexioned woman with a fierce stare. ‘Guys, meet Clara Vine. A star of the Ufa studios, as I expect you know.’
    The group nodded politely. American correspondents were thick on the ground in Berlin. There must have been at least fifty, staffing the wire services, broadcast stations and newspapers, but you rarely saw so many together.
    ‘Quite a turn-out,’ said Clara.
    ‘We’re congregating for safety,’ laughed Shirer. ‘Roosevelt has refused to send Hitler a birthday card, so we Americans aren’t flavour of the month any more.’
    ‘At least you remember what it’s like to be popular,’ came a voice from behind. ‘We British haven’t been popular for years.’
    Clara didn’t know the voice, yet in another way, she recognized it instantly. It was the kind of voice that echoed across public school playing fields and down the corridors of the British civil service in Whitehall. The same voice that belonged to friends of her brother back in England: precise, understated and slightly mocking. A tone that said most things should not be taken very seriously and very little should be taken seriously at all. Clara turned to see two men, one tall and lanky in a three-piece suit of Harris tweed and another, shorter figure with a shock of blond hair, a freckled face and alert blue eyes, his old school tie secured with a tiepin.
    ‘Clara, meet Charles Cavendish and Hugh Lindsey. Your fellow Brits,’ said Mary, eliciting a look of pure puzzlement on the men’s faces.
    ‘Clara’s half English, didn’t you know? She’s the daughter of Sir Ronald Vine.’
    ‘The Ronald Vine?’ asked Cavendish, with the look of disdainful astonishment which always accompanied any mention of Clara’s father’s name. Almost immediately he concealed it with a polite smile and stuck out a hand, but not before Clara had noticed.
    ‘The same.’
    To be known as the daughter of one of England’s most prominent Nazi sympathizers had been invaluable in gaining the trust of senior members of the regime. Her father’s loyalties had been Clara’s ticket into the inner circles of the Third Reich. Yet still, it was an uncomfortable façade to maintain, especially with the British.
    Somehow, the other journalist, Hugh Lindsey, appeared to understand. His eyes travelled over her with intuitive sympathy. He had an easy laugh and an expansive manner that seemed to put people at their ease.
    ‘None of the Nazis love us Brits any more. Despite the Duke of Windsor’s best efforts.’
    ‘Hugh’s just arrived from London,’ Mary explained.
    There was a rapid turnover of foreign journalists in Berlin. Reporters were constantly having their visas withdrawn for overstepping Goebbels’ mark, or allowing criticism of the regime to creep into their stories.
    ‘He’s Rupert’s replacement,’ added Mary.
    ‘Not that Rupert could ever be replaced,’ said Hugh, gallantly.
    Clara gave Mary a quick, private glance. At one time Mary