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was in Munich, hundreds of miles from the capital.
    She took a deep breath but the pressure in her chest didn’t ease. This must be how the National Socialists planned to get rid of him. They’d found out that he was back in Germany, but they mustn’t have been able to find him or they’d simply kill him. Instead, they’d set the police on his trail. Thoughts blew about her head like leaves in a windstorm. Focus , she ordered herself. Falling apart wouldn’t help Daniel.
    She began to pace. Daniel had been spotted by his enemies, but they hadn’t captured him. Somehow, he’d managed to get away. Perhaps he’d used his old sources to help him—when he’d worked as a reporter in Munich, he’d had a network of contacts throughout the city, including in the police force. Maybe someone had tipped him off about the upcoming arrest. He was too clever not to understand his precarious position. He was brave, but he wasn’t reckless.
    He would have gone underground. He might still be alive.
    Gretchen stopped pacing. There was no decision to make; no options to consider. She knew what she had to do.
    Julia’s heels clicked on the floor as she hurried into the room, with Alfred close behind. “What is it?” Alfred asked. “We were just having tea when we heard you cry out. Are you hurt?”
    Her hands shook as she handed him the telegram. “It’s Daniel. I have to go to him.”
    Alfred and Julia scanned the telegram, then looked up as one, their faces pale. “I’ll get in touch with the police in Munich,” Alfred said, “and see what we can find out.”
    “They won’t tell you anything!” Gretchen shouted. “Many of them are National Socialists!” She took a deep breath, struggling to lower her voice. “ I have to do it. There’s nobody else.”
    Alfred’s face seemed to crumple. “Absolutely not! It’s far too dangerous.”
    “Darling.” Julia laid her hand on his arm. “She loves him,” she said quietly. “And I think Gretchen will go, whether we give her permission or not. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
    He started to argue, but Gretchen barely heard him. She made for the stairs, calling back, “Daniel’s in trouble. And I’m going after him.”
    Gretchen raced to the wardrobe in her bedroom and flung its doors open. What did she need? Her old false papers, and a few changes of clothing, nothing too English looking, pleated skirts and silk blouses and woolen stockings. She grabbed clothes off hangers and tossed them onto the bed. Money. She had thirty pounds saved, not nearly enough, and it was at the bank. Here at home, she had only a couple of half crowns in her purse.
    No matter. She’d figure something out. She was leaving tonight.
    She stood on a chair to reach the cardboard box she’d hidden on top of the wardrobe. Inside the box, the revolver gleamed dully. She tested its weight in her hand. About two pounds andeleven inches long. She would have preferred a smaller pistol, like the Walther that Hitler had used to teach her. But the Webley Mk IV wasn’t bad—she could inflict tremendous damage with this weapon.
    She pulled a suitcase out from under her bed and tossed the unloaded revolver and a box of .455 caliber bullets inside. It’d been months since she’d fired a gun, but she wasn’t worried about her aim. Hitler had taught her too well for her to be rusty.
    Just as he had taught her to fight before her opponent had a chance. Strength lies not in defense but in attack , he used to say as they pushed her brother’s toy soldiers across the carpet. This time, she would take his advice, she decided as she folded clothes. She would remember everything he’d told her and use it to keep herself alive.
    Two hours later, Alfred drove her through the deepening blue-black of twilight to the train station. Gretchen watched the familiar streets, with their long rows of brick and stone houses, rise up and fall away. Alfred had argued with her for a long time. He’d shouted