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Three million men, thousands of ships, but the right information could make all the difference. You understand?”
    “Perfectly, General.”
    “Don’t let me down, Brigadier.”
    He turned and stared up at the map. Munro let himself out of the room quietly, went downstairs, picked up his coat and hat, nodded to the sentries and went to his car. His aide, Captain Jack Carter, sat in the rear, hands folded over his walking stick. Carter had a false leg, courtesy of Dunkirk.
    “Everything all right, sir?” he asked as they drove away.
    Munro pulled the glass panel across, cutting them off from the driver. “The de Voincourt conference has assumed crucial importance. I want you to get in touch with Anne-MarieTrevaunce. She can go on another false trip to Paris. Arrange a Lysander pick-up. I need to talk with her, face-to-face. Say three days from now.”
    “Right, sir.”
    “Anything else I need to know?”
    “Message came in concerning Cold Harbour, sir. Seems the OSS had problems yesterday. One of their agents knocked off General Dietrich, the SD chief in Brittany. Due to bad weather, their Lysander pick-up had to be aborted, so they asked us for help.”
    “You know I don’t like doing that, Jack.”
    “Yes, sir. Anyway, Commander Hare got the message direct, went across to Grosnez and picked up the agent concerned. A Major Osbourne.”
    There was a pause and Munro turned in astonishment. “Craig Osbourne?”
    “Looks like it, sir.”
    “My God, is he still around? His luck must be good. The best man I ever had at SOE.”
    “What about Harry Martineau, sir?”
    “All right, point taken, and he’s another bloody Yank. Is Osbourne at Cold Harbour now?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Right. Stop at the nearest phone. Call the CO at RAF Croydon. Tell him I want a Lysander within the next hour. Priority One. You hold the fort here, Jack, and handle the Anne-Marie Trevaunce affair. I’ll fly down to Cold Harbour and see Craig Osbourne.”
    “You think he could be useful, sir?”
    “Oh, yes, Jack, I think you could say that,” and Munro turned and looked out of the window, smiling.
    CRAIG OSBOURNE SAT on a chair by the sink in the large old-fashioned bathroom stripped to the waist; Schmidt, still in his Kriegsmarine uniform, the medical kit open on the floor, sat beside him and worked on the arm. Julie Legrande leaned on the doorway, watching. She was in her late thirties and wore slacks and a brown sweater, blonde hair tied back rather severely, a contrast with the calm sweet face.
    “How does it look?” she asked.
    “So-so.” Schmidt shrugged. “You can’t tell with gunshot wounds. I’ve got some of this new penicillin drug. It’s supposed to work wonders with infection.”
    He primed a hypodermic and filled it from a small bottle. Julie said, “Let’s hope so. I’ll get some coffee.”
    She left as Schmidt administered the injection. Osbourne winced slightly and Schmidt put a dressing pad in place and bandaged the arm expertly.
    “I think you’re going to need a doctor, guv,” he said cheerfully.
    “We’ll see,” Craig told him.
    He stood up and Schmidt helped him into the clean khaki shirt Julie had provided. He managed to button it for himself and went into the other room as Schmidt repacked his medical kit.
    The bedroom was very pleasant, a little shabby now and much in need of decorating. There was a bed, mahogany furniture, and a table and two easy chairs in the bow window. Craig went and looked out. There was a terrace with a balustrade below, beyond that an unkempt garden, beech trees, a small lake in a hollow. It was very peaceful.
    Schmidt came out of the bathroom, his medical kit in one hand. “I’ll check you out later. It’s me for the bacon and eggs.” He grinned, a hand on the door knob. “And don’tbother reminding me I’m Jewish. I was corrupted by the great British breakfast a long time ago.”
    As he opened the door, Julie Legrande entered with a tray bearing coffee, toast and