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perhaps; he had never been slow where women were concerned. He followed her to another door. But even that might no longer be true of the man.
    He stepped into the adjoining room and saw Gaillard standing by a fireplace, watching him, as if he had been poised for this moment. Tall, lean and hard, most people’s idea of the complete fighting man. He had worn a moustache when they had last been together, but he was now clean-shaven, his chin smooth but blue, as if it defied even the keenest blade.
    It was Gaillard’s eyes you always remembered. Very dark; what Diane would call ‘button-eyes’. A man who rarely seemed to raise his voice, but one who could reduce an incompetent subordinate to a jelly without effort.
    He was smiling now, holding out his hand.
    â€˜So here you are, Mike. Getting bloody fed up with all the delays and foul-ups, I’ll be bound.’ The eyes did not flicker or move; they never did. ‘I’ve heard all about the training programme. Maybe now we can put it to good use.’
    His handshake was dry and hard. Like the man.
    â€˜Drink, old boy?’ He looked at the woman in blue as if he had never seen her before. ‘You off, then? Good show.’ He watched her walk to a cupboard and take out a decanter and two glasses.
    She said in that same level voice, ‘I’ll not be long. There’s some more Scotch in the kitchen.’ She left them, and Blackwood heard her go out by the same door where he had waited, so full of doubts and misgivings about this moment.
    Gaillard grinned. ‘Yes, Scotch. I know what you’re thinking. Well, why not, I say, you never know when thenext chance will come, eh?’ Again that short, hard laugh. It was no longer a dream.
    Gaillard filled the glasses almost to the top and waved him to a chair; it felt new, unused. He glanced around the room: pictures dusted, but boring, a few ornaments. But it was not a home; it was just another place.
    He realised that Gaillard was studying him, and said, ‘That girl . . .’ He got no further.
    Gaillard shook his head. ‘Hands off, old boy! Way out of your league!’ He wagged the glass, so that some of the Scotch slopped over his tunic. ‘Unless you’ve changed, eh?’
    â€˜I thought she seemed a bit on edge, that’s all.’
    Gaillard stared into his glass. ‘We get all sorts in and out of H.Q., you know.’ He frowned. ‘Gordon, that’s her name. Joanna Gordon. One of Commander Diamond’s little high fliers. A go-between, at the moment.’
    Blackwood felt his muscles relax slightly. Gaillard was never vague about anything. Maybe he had made a pass at the girl and she had told him where to go.
    Gaillard was saying, ‘I can tell you now, Mike. We’re off to North Africa in a matter of days. But keep it to yourself as much as you can. Walls have ears, too bloody many in London. Don’t bother getting any special kit . . . that can all be fixed when we get there.’ He flinched very slightly as the windows rattled to a far-off explosion, and muttered, ‘Docks again, by the sound of it.’
    It was something to say, Blackwood thought, to cover his mood.
    He added, ‘You’ll meet all sorts. Special Boat Squadron, the schooner people, maybe even the S.A.S. They’re all at it. It could spoil things, unless we act fast.’ He studied him suddenly, his dark eyes shining in thelamplight like glass. ‘You’ll know all the details when we get there.’
    Blackwood noticed that his own glass was empty, and yet he could not recall having drained it. He thought of a medical officer he had met in Burma.
Combat fatigue
, he had described it. ‘You can drink a gallon of hooch and feel nothing. Then you go out like a light. Oblivion!’
    Gaillard stood up and walked to a window, and peered through a crack in the blackout shutter.
    â€˜I’ll not be sorry to get back into