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on the burning parcel.
    For this one had his number on it and he knew it. He knew—somehow knew —that it was going to explode.
    Which, at that precise moment, it did.

Chapter Two
    W hen Schroeder regained consciousness he was in a hospital bed, held together and kept alive by an amazing array of pipes and tubes, wires and stitches, instruments and mechanisms. Koenig was at his bedside. The man was seated, gauze-masked, his head bowed. Tears fell on to his hands which were crossed in his lap. Tears were not characteristic of Willy Koenig.
    ‘Willy,’ said Schroeder, his voice a whisper. ‘Where am I?’ He spoke in German.
    Koenig looked up, his mouth opening, a light flickering into life behind the bloodshot orbs of his eyes. ‘Colonel! Colonel, I—’
    ‘Wo bin ich?’ Schroeder insisted.
    ‘Still in Ireland,’ said Koenig. ‘You could not be moved. It has been eight days, almost nine. But now—now you will recover!’
    ‘Yes, I will, but—’
    ‘Yes, Herr Colonel?’
    Schroeder tried to smile but managed only a grimace. ‘Willy, we’re alone. Call me Thomas. In fact, from now on you must always call me Thomas.’
    The other nodded his blond head.
    ‘Willy,’ said Schroeder again, ‘I will recover, yes. But you should know what I know. That bomb finished me. A year, two if I’m lucky. I feel it.’
    Koenig fell to his knees beside the bed. He grasped his Colonel’s hand, kneaded it. Schroeder’s grip was surprisingly strong. It tightened in a sudden spasm of memory.
    ‘Willy, the bomb! My child! My Heinrich!’
    ‘A miracle,’ Koenig quickly told him. ‘Not a scratch. Not a mark.’
    ‘You wouldn’t lie to me?’
    ‘Of course not, my Colonel—Thomas. The boy is well. His mother, too.’
    ‘And… Gerda?’
    Koenig looked away.
    Schroeder closed his eyes for a second. ‘Did she suffer?’
    ‘No, not at all. The bomb blew out part of the hotel’s outer wall. Gerda went with it. They found… pieces. Probably a mercy.’
    Schroeder nodded painfully. ‘A lesson,’ he whispered. ‘Never mix business with pleasure. We were to fly from here straight to Australia. I should not have brought them with me.’
    ‘But you could not know,’ Koenig told him.
    Schroeder frowned, his entire forehead wrinkling. ‘It’s so hard to remember. It happened so fast. There was someone else, a young man. Tall. A good-looking boy. Ah, yes! A Redcap. A British Military Policeman. What of him?’
    ‘He lives,’ said Koenig. ‘He is blind. There were lesser injuries—a few, not many—but his eyes are finished.’
    Schroeder considered this, managed another nod of his head, then a slow shake. That is very bad,’ he said. ‘He saved me, my child, my wife. Saved our lives. And he is blind…’ He lay silently for a moment, then came to a decision. He gripped Koenig’s hand. ‘Keep tabs on that young man, Willy.’ He paused again. ‘He… told me his name… but—’
    ‘Richard Garrison, Thomas.’
    ‘Yes, that was it. Later, when things are better, then I shall want to know all about him.’
    Koenig nodded.
    ‘Right now I must sleep, Willy,’ Schroeder eventually continued, his voice weakening. ‘But first, there are things…’
    ‘They have been done, Colonel—er, Thomas,’ said Koenig. ‘This is a private place. Nine of our best men are here from Germany. You are perfectly safe. Urmgard and Heinrich are in Koln. They, too, are protected. As soon as you are well enough, we fly to Siebert’s sanatorium in the Harz. It will be better for you there.’
    ‘And my doctors?’ Schroeder’s voice was fading away.
    Koenig put his lips to the Colonel’s ear. ‘Their doctors patched you up. Ours were here within hours. They said your internal injuries would have killed any other. Blast is a funny business. It crushed your insides. But it didn’t kill you. Not you, Heir Colonel, not you.’
    Schroeder’s eyes were closed. He was drifting away. ‘Garrison,’ his whisper was a mere breath. ‘Do