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finish, of course.’ He held my gaze, letting me see and understand that he would regard turning him down as somehow unmanly. The offer was also a dare. Did I have what it took? ‘Listen to me, Stephen. I’ll tell you everything you need to know
if
you agree to help me. Not otherwise. And even that probably won’t be everything you
want
to know.’
    ‘What makes you think I want to know anything, Eldritch?’
    ‘The fact that you came here tonight. The fact that I would, in your shoes. The money would clinch it, of course, as it always has for me. But perhaps you’re above such things. Or perhaps not.’ He raised his glass, as if about to propose a toast. ‘Yes or no, Stephen. Which is it to be?’

1940

FIVE
    It is a bright spring morning in Antwerp. The SS
Uitlander
, a double-funnelled four-masted liner, stands loading at the Quai Van Dyck. Stevedores are busy transferring cargo from the sheds that flank the dockside railway line, watched by passers-by on the terrace above. Gulls wheel and shriek in the clear, cool air. Sunlight sparkles on the rippling waters of the Scheldt. It is a scene that could have been witnessed on countless occasions in recent decades, outwardly calm and seemingly orderly. It is the last day of April and the
Uitlander
sails for New York on the morrow. It has made the crossing many times, as one of the Red Star Line’s best-equipped ships. But Red Star are no longer its owners and no one will be joining the voyage for pleasure or leisure. Since the outbreak of war between Germany and the British and French in September 1939, U-boat attacks have made transatlantic travel hazardous as well as expensive, though many, for various reasons, have been willing to pay for their passage and take their chances. And this, though no one here knows it, is one of the very last such chances. In eleven days, the German army will cross the Belgian border. In less than a month, King Leopold will have surrendered. The world is about to change.
    A man who has been in conversation with an officer on the fore-deck of the
Uitlander
concludes their exchanges with a handshake and heads down the gangway to the wharf. He is slim and smartlydressed in a brown and gold pinstripe suit, a grey fedora shading his eyes. He looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties, a pencil moustache adding a note of maturity to his open, confident features. There is something more than confidence in the way he carries himself, however. The flick of the wrist as he raises his cigarette to his lips and the hint of a swagger in his gait suggest cocksureness amounting to arrogance.
    As he reaches the wharf, he glances up, as if studying the manoeuvrings of the crane currently lowering a large crate into the hold of the vessel he has just left. But his gaze is actually directed elsewhere, to a man of about his own age, dressed in similar style – though it would be clear to a discerning observer that he has used a cheaper tailor – who is leaning against the railings up on the terrace, watching the loading operations. They acknowledge each other with a nod. A moment passes, sufficient for both to draw reflectively on their cigarettes. Then the man on the wharf taps himself on the chest with his thumb and points to the terrace. He will join the other. They have something to discuss.
    Eldritch Swan was neither pleased nor surprised to see Pieter Verhoest that morning. He had half expected the fellow to be loitering around the quay, reassuring himself that all was going according to plan. Swan would have much preferred to ignore him, but knew he could not afford to do so. Verhoest must be given no cause to doubt his terms were being complied with.
    He was thin, alert and slope-shouldered, a year or so Swan’s junior. His luxuriant blond hair was currently concealed beneath his hat, tilted forward against the riverside breeze. He was irritatingly good-looking and the predatory gleam in his pale-blue eyes escaped many, Swan not among