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enemy won’t just be standing still all the while, even if he does think that he’s caught us with our pants down!”
    He said this as if my agreement, or disagreement, might radically alter the circumstances.
    “Well, then,” he went on, abruptly—no doubt to illustrate that time was truly of the essence. “What further questions do you have?”
    I felt I should have had a hundred further questions, all of them probing and insightful. Instead, the relatively few I could muster appeared more or less inept and had mainly to do with practicalities.
    So it was little more than a half-hour later when he shook my hand—wished me Godspeed—and solemnly acknowledged my salute.

6
    I left Berlin that night. A lone passenger in a Fiesler Storch. We flew over Belgium and France, avoiding the English Channel and avoiding, equally, any English fighters. The trip was uncomfortable but passed without incident—not even any turbulence to speak of. I was deposited in Dublin in the small hours; then slept fitfully until about six on a wooden bench in a garden of remembrance—mercifully, a garden both unlocked and empty. Afterwards, a little bleary-eyed, I sailed on the first crossing to Holyhead. In Holyhead I was conscious of committing a transgression. (“You need to concentrate on the essentials, Anders! And the essentials are plain.”) For it would never have occurred to me to visit Mold if one of my fellow passengers on the crossing hadn’t mentioned that she’d been born there. She now lived near Holyhead but still saw her parents every fortnight, catching a train to Chester at 7.30a.m., and—barring holdups—making a first-rate connection: Mold at two minutes past eleven. Prior to this I had been planning to travel straight to London.
    So, to some extent, it was only a spur-of-the-moment thing. Mold had no real relevance to my mission; was merely the small Welsh town where the major’s father had been staying when he had written to his son. I didn’t even think of this as a coincidence: consulting my atlas during the flight I had noted that Mold was close to Holyhead—noted it, but certainly not lingered over it.
    Yet the very fact of my having been sitting beside this woman on the boat made me feel that I was being guided; that I had just been offered a sign—along with a timetable. The major’s father had written:
    “My dear William,
    “I cannot say that this hotel is any longer as comfortable as I remember it to have been in pre-war days. I am however staying here as the only alternative to imposing myself once more upon your aunt whose depleted staff & strict regard for fuel economy (which I agree to be necessary in war time) has made the house almost uninhabitable to a guest, at least one of my age. I propose to be in Town for the nights of the 20 th & 21 st of April when no doubt we shall have an opportunity to meet. I enclose the copy of a letter which I have written to Gwatkin of McKenna’s about your affairs. You will see that I have asked him to lunch with me at the Carlton Grill (which I understand still to be open) at a quarter to one on Wednesday the 21 st . I should be glad if you would make it possible to join us. We shall not however await luncheon for you, so I trust that, if you are able to come, you will make a point of being punctual.
    “Your cousin Priscilla has asked to be remembered to you. She has grown into a sensible girl though I cannot say that her work for the Land Army has done much to improve her looks. In that respect I am afraid that she will take after her mother’s side of the family.
    “Your affectionate
    “Father.”
    It had been addressed from the Black Lion Hotel, Mold (telephone number 98), North Wales.
    And dated April 13 th , 1943.
    I didn’t think I should care much for Mr Martin. ‘We shall not however await luncheon for you, so I trust that, if you are able to come, you will make a point of being punctual.’ This, to a man who had been commissioned in the Royal