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    Marc followed Henderson and the whiff of booze into the bathroom. He’d been out in the cold for ages and his fingers were so stiff that he struggled to get his trousers unbuttoned.
    ‘I hate stupid short trousers,’ Marc complained, as he started to pee. ‘The wind shoots up the legs.’
    ‘English boys wear short trousers until they’re at least thirteen and a half,’ Henderson grinned, as he looked in the mirror patting down his hair. ‘We have a fine tradition of making our children suffer. But seriously, I’m sorry I forgot to pick you up. How’s your mouth?’
    ‘Bleeding a bit,’ Marc said. ‘And it throbs now the injection’s wearing off. So did the Air Vice Marshal approve? Are we getting our parachute training?’
    Although he was drunk, Henderson considered his answer carefully. Marc was one of six agents undergoing espionage training and morale could collapse if news spread that the unit’s future was under review, with a strong likelihood of it being shut down.
    ‘Walker wasn’t much use,’ Henderson replied tactfully. ‘He said I should continue trying to arrange your parachute training through proper RAF channels.’
    Marc sighed as he shook himself off and moved towards the sink to wash his hands. ‘But on the train down here, you said Superintendent McAfferty had already tried everything. You said your meeting with Walker was critical .’
    ‘You’re a sharp little bugger, aren’t you?’ Henderson laughed, as his voice became loud. ‘No pulling the wool over Marc’s eyes, eh? Air Vice Marshal Walker’s a pissant pen-pusher. A bureaucrat! He’s been in charge of the Special Operations Executive for eight months and all they’ve done is push bits of paper around. Walker is incapable of seeing the benefits of anything that he can’t fit into a vellum file.’
    Marc looked warily towards the bathroom door, fearing that Henderson’s rant would attract the sniffy doorman. ‘Why don’t you keep your voice down?’ he said nervously. ‘You can’t hit the bottle and give up on everything. If you’d done that in France we’d both be dead.’
    ‘This is different,’ Henderson explained. ‘On operations it’s you and your wits fighting for survival. I can play that game. But you can’t beat bureaucrats. They clamp down with their fangs and suck your lifeblood.’
    ‘Calm down,’ Marc said soothingly. ‘We’ll have a snooze up in our room and talk it over with McAfferty when we get home tomorrow.’
    Henderson gave Marc a warm smile. ‘You’re like the son I’ve never had, you know that?’
    Marc was an orphan and the remark meant a lot to him, but it would have meant a lot more if Henderson hadn’t been roaring drunk.
    ‘Come to the bar,’ Henderson smiled, as he headed out of the bathroom, barging into the door and crashing it noisily against the wall. ‘We can get pissed together.’
    ‘I’m twelve,’ Marc pointed out.
    Henderson’s wild laugh drew a withering scowl from the doorman as he stumbled back upstairs with Marc in tow.
    ‘I know the sniffy look on that pompous ass’s face,’ Henderson said loudly, as they reached the stuffed rhino’s head mounted on the first landing. ‘He’ll have me up before the committee on charges of ungentlemanly behaviour.’
    Henderson stopped and gave a salute to nobody in particular before starting up towards the next floor. Marc begged him to go upstairs and rest, but Henderson insisted on heading back to the first-floor bar.
    Marc felt horrible when he reached their room on the fourth floor. It was spartan and cramped, with two narrow bunk beds against the wall. There was a dilapidated sink and a grimy window which gave a moonlit view over St James’ Square. The only consolation was that the heat rose upwards to this top floor and the warmth was wonderful after standing outside for so long.
    Marc caught sight of his face in the mirror and decided to clean off the caked blood and iodine, but the maid who’d