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is.”
    â€œA watchman. That makes sense.”
    â€œFreya could be a spy with access to advance information about air raids.”
    â€œShe could also be a machine for detecting approaching aircraft before they come within sight.”
    â€œI’ve heard that we have such machines, but I’ve no idea how they work.”
    â€œThree possible ways: infrared, lidar, and radar. Infrared detectors would pick up the rays emitted by a hot aircraft engine, or possibly its exhaust. Lidar is a system of optical pulses sent out by the detection apparatus and reflected back off the aircraft. Radar is the same thing with radio pulses.”
    â€œI’ve just remembered something else. Heimdal can see for a hundred miles by day or night.”
    â€œThat makes it sound more like a machine.”
    â€œThat’s what I was thinking.”
    Digby finished his tea and stood up. “If you have any more thoughts, will you let me know?”
    â€œOf course. Where do I find you?”
    â€œNumber Ten, Downing Street.”
    â€œOh!” She was impressed.
    â€œGoodbye.”
    â€œGoodbye,” she said, and watched him walk away.
    She sat there for a few moments. It had been an interesting conversation in more ways than one. Digby Hoare was very high-powered: the Prime Minister himself must be worried about the loss of bombers. Was the use of the code name Freya mere coincidence, or was there a Scandinavian connection?
    She had enjoyed Digby’s asking her out. Although she was not interested in dating another man, it was nice to be asked.
    After a while, the sight of her uneaten lunch began to get her down. She took her tray to the slops table and scraped her plate into the pigbin. Then she went to the ladies’ room.
    While she was in a cubicle, she heard a group of young women come in, chattering animatedly. She was about to emerge when one of them said, “That Digby Hoare doesn’t waste time—talk about a fast worker.”
    Hermia froze with her hand on the doorknob.
    â€œI saw him move in on Miss Mount,” said an older voice. “He must be a tit man.”
    The others giggled. In the cubicle, Hermia frowned at this reference to her generous figure.
    â€œI think she gave him the brush-off, though,” said the first girl.
    â€œWouldn’t you? I couldn’t fancy a man with a wooden leg.”
    A third girl spoke with a Scots accent. “I wonder if he takes it off when he shags you,” she said, and they all laughed.
    Hermia had heard enough. She opened the door, stepped out, and said, “If I find out, I’ll let you know.”
    The three girls were shocked into silence, and Hermia left before they had time to recover.
    She stepped out of the wooden building. The wide green lawn, with its cedar trees and swan pond, had been disfigured by huts thrown up in haste to accommodate the hundreds of staff from London. She crossed the park to the house, an ornate Victorian mansion built of red brick.
    She passed through the grand porch and made her way to her office in the old servants’ quarters, a tiny L-shaped space that had probably been theboot room. It had one small window too high to see out of, so she worked with the light on all day. There was a phone on her desk and a typewriter on a side table. Her predecessor had had a secretary, but women were expected to do their own typing. On her desk, she found a package from Copenhagen.
    After Hitler’s invasion of Poland, she had laid the foundations of a small spy network in Denmark. Its leader was her fiancé’s friend, Poul Kirke. He had put together a group of young men who believed that their small country was going to be overrun by its larger neighbor, and the only way to fight for freedom was to cooperate with the British. Poul had declared that the group, who called themselves the Nightwatchmen, would not be saboteurs or assassins, but would pass military information to British