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serious problem in Lotingen. The French army is at the root of it.’ I told him of the situation in the town, the filth on our streets, the danger of an epidemic which was on everyone’s lips. ‘If I help you, sir, will you help the town in return? Not all French soldiers are en route to Spain, after all. Couldn’t the ones who remain be set to work to clean the streets after those who are departing?’
    General Malaport pursed his lips, then nodded twice.
    ‘First, I want results on the coast, Herr Stiffeniis. Good day,
monsieur
.’
    I closed the door, and walked out into the hall.
    ‘Stiffeniis.’
    I met the eyes of Colonel Claudet as he stepped out of the shadows. He had been sent out, but he had not gone away. He had something more to say to me
    ‘Remember, monsieur,’ he warned me, ‘you can weigh
la merde
, you can discuss it in a Prussian court of law if you like, but the streets of Lotingen will not be clean until it suits
me
.’
    ‘Herr General said . . .’
    ‘Herr General watches his own back. I watch mine. I advise you, sir, to watch out very carefully for yours.
Bon voyage, monsieur
.’
    With an ironic salute, he turned and walked away.
    The French needed me, but that did not change the facts. I would not be working
with
them, I would be working
for
them.
    I walked home in a daze through the narrow streets.
    What if the child were born before I could resolve the case?

 
     
6
     
     
    T HE B ALTIC S EA was breathing in our faces.
    I felt its salty presence tickling at my nose and coursing down my gullet.
    I had spent the last three hours in a corner of the coach with my head propped on my hand, eyes closed against the dust kicked up by the horses on the bone-hard highway, sometimes sleeping, otherwise pretending to sleep.
    We were going to a place called Nordcopp, I and my travelling companions.
    The appointment had been set for five o’clock at Lotingen town cross.
    Having kissed Helena goodbye with less passion than I truly felt—Lotte and the children were looking on—I had walked back to town, my leather travelling-bag hanging from my shoulder. The road was empty, except for swarms of flies, which nipped at my face, neck and hands.
    The carriage was waiting.
    Pulled by four stout horses, it was grey with dust, though painted black, and it appeared to have travelled many miles that day. I quickened my pace, taking stock of the vehicle as I approached. It was notthe sort of carriage that generally ferried passengers along the coast road. A large square box with stout wheels and great leather suspenders, it was a transport wagon of some sort. On the roof, as well as a mound of valises, bags and sacks, there were a number of metal tubes, some wooden crates, and a set of oversized drilling bits. The French had deemed that I should be conveyed
not
as a passenger worthy of care and consideration, but as just another piece of heavy equipment that needed to be moved up to the Baltic coast.
    There were three other passengers, and all of them were French.
    I announced my own name; they fired back with a rapid cannonade of French double names and surnames which went straight over my head. No doubt my name had been equally quickly forgotten. As the coach pulled away, the luggage on the roof began rattling, shaking and clanking, as if a dozen blacksmiths had been hard at work up there. My companions shouted angrily at the driver, but there was nothing to be done, the man shouted back. The road was full of holes and ruts after the long, hot summer.
    The other passengers were soon engaged in heated discussions. They were talking of their experiences in Spain. Their tales of the campaign froze the blood in my veins. In one instance, thirty French troopers had been caught in ambush and cut to bits with scythes and pitchforks. In another case, the throats of five French officers had been slit by
guerrilla
warriors posing as peasants in a country
taberna
. Their still-beating hearts had been ripped from