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Denmark. Her father had been a British diplomat who spent most of his career in Scandinavian countries. Hermia had worked in the British Embassy in Copenhagen, first as a secretary, later as assistant to a naval attaché who was in fact with MI6, the secret intelligence service. When her father died, and her mother returned to London, Hermia stayed on, partly because of her job, but mainly because she was engaged to a Danish pilot, Arne Olufsen.
    Then, on April 9, 1940, Hitler invaded Denmark. Four anxious days later, Hermia and a group of British officials had left in a special diplomatic train that brought them through Germany to the Dutch frontier, from where they traveled through neutral Holland and on to London.
    Now at the age of thirty Hermia was an intelligence analyst in chargeof MI6’s Denmark desk. Along with most of the service, she had been evacuated from its London headquarters at 54 Broadway, near Buckingham Palace, to Bletchley Park, a large country house on the edge of a village fifty miles north of the capital.
    A Nissen hut hastily erected in the grounds served as canteen. Hermia was glad to be escaping the Blitz, but she wished that by some miracle they could also have evacuated one of London’s charming little Italian or French restaurants, so that she would have something to eat. She forked a little mash into her mouth and forced herself to swallow.
    To take her mind off the taste of the food, she put today’s Daily Express beside her plate. The British had just lost the Mediterranean island of Crete. The Express tried to put a brave face on it, claiming the battle had cost Hitler eighteen thousand men, but the depressing truth was that this was another in a long line of triumphs for the Nazis.
    Glancing up, she saw a short man of about her own age coming toward her, carrying a cup of tea, walking briskly but with a noticeable limp. “May I join you?” he said cheerfully, and sat opposite her without waiting for an answer. “I’m Digby Hoare. I know who you are.”
    She raised an eyebrow and said, “Make yourself at home.”
    The note of irony in her voice made no apparent impact. He just said, “Thanks.”
    She had seen him around once or twice. He had an energetic air, despite his limp. He was no matinee idol, with his unruly dark hair, but he had nice blue eyes, and his features were pleasantly craggy in a Humphrey Bogart way. She asked him, “What department are you with?”
    â€œI work in London, actually.”
    That was not an answer to her question, she noted. She pushed her plate aside.
    He said, “You don’t like the food?”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œI’ll tell you something. I’ve debriefed pilots who have been shot down over France and made their way home. We think we’re experiencing austerity, but we don’t know the meaning of the word. The Frogs are starving to death. After hearing those stories, everything tastes good to me.”
    â€œAusterity is no excuse for vile cooking,” Hermia said crisply.
    He grinned. “They told me you were a bit waspish.”
    â€œWhat else did they tell you?”
    â€œThat you’re bilingual in English and Danish—which is why you’re head of the Denmark desk, I presume.”
    â€œNo. The war is the reason for that. Before, no woman ever rose above the level of secretary-assistant in MI6. We didn’t have analytical minds, you see. We were more suited to homemaking and child-rearing. But since war broke out, women’s brains have undergone a remarkable change, and we have become capable of work that previously could only be accomplished by the masculine mentality.”
    He took her sarcasm with easy good humor. “I’ve noticed that, too,” he said. “Wonders never cease.”
    â€œWhy have you been checking up on me?”
    â€œTwo reasons. First, because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”