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silence.
    ‘Jennifer, I ...’
    ‘Good Lord, what’s that noise?’ she said.
    He heard it too, over the sound of the gypsy violins, the tramp of marching feet. They were chanting in unison in the square: ‘ Abdica . . . abdica . . . ’
    Nick happened to know that the King’s Prime Minister, General Antonescu, was in the palace at that moment, trying to persuade the King to abdicate in the best interests of Romania. Some additional pressure was being applied.
    ‘What’s going on, Nick?’
    ‘The usual nonsense,’ he said. He didn’t want to try to explain it to her, wanted to forget about work for a while. Or perhaps dissembling had become a habit with him.
    A shot rang out, then another. Diners jumped up from their tables, spilling glasses and plates. Some ran to the low hedge to get a better view of what was happening. The more timorous ran inside.
    A crowd of greenshirts marched into the square, chanting ‘Down with the King!’ and singing their anthem, the Capitanul . A few minutes later a lorry drove up and soldiers leaped out, their boots hammering on the cobblestones. A tank, painted sky blue, rumbled into position in front of the palace.
    ‘We’re going to see some fun now,’ Nick said.
    ‘Let’s just get home,’ Jennifer said.
    A military van with a loudspeaker mounted on the roof drove up to the palace gates. A metallic voice ordered everyone to clear the square. Anyone on the street in half an hour would be arrested. Nick took Jennifer’s hand and led her out of the restaurant. They would skirt behind the Atheneum to avoid the mob.
    ‘You were going to say something else to me,’ Jennifer said.
    ‘Saved by the Revolution,’ Nick murmured under his breath and they started to run.
     
     
     
    By four o’clock the next morning Carol was on his way to Constanza in a German diplomatic car with his mistress. Carol’s eighteen-year-old son Michael was invested on the throne in his place, but the real power had passed to one of Sima’s puppets, Antonescu, who became Conducator. Green-shirted legionaries marched through the square singing, while the palace guards who had pointed rifles at them the night before cheered them and raised their arms in fascist salute.
    When Antonescu named his government a few days later, half his cabinet were prominent fascists and Nazi sympathisers. Horia Sima was made Vice Premier. In the incense-blackened churches patriarchs announced that Iron Guard martyrs would be canonized as saints.
    More German soldiers appeared on the streets. There were rumours that two infantry divisions had been sent to guard the oil wells at Ploesti.
    And here we are twiddling our thumbs, Nick thought, waiting for Whitehall to give us the green light. Soon it will be too late.
    The cafés along the Chaussée took down their awnings and brought the tables and chairs in off the footpaths. The evening promenade had dwindled to nothing. Winter was on its way.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 12
     
    Max opened the door in his dressing gown. He tied the cord at his waist and grinned. ‘Sir Galahad,’ he said.
    ‘Can I come in?’
    ‘Treat the place as your own. Everyone else does.’
    Nick followed Max into the kitchen. Max put a pot of coffee on the stove and lit a cigarette. Immediately he collapsed into a paroxysm of coughing that lasted almost five minutes. Finally the episode subsided and Max took a deep breath.
    ‘That’s better,’ he said and took another draw on the cigarette. ‘First one of the day. Clears the lungs out.’
    ‘How’s Daniela?’
    ‘Wonderful. Can’t thank you enough. She can’t keep her hands off me. But you mustn’t let her stay here too long, she’s wearing me out.’
    ‘Very funny.’
    The door opened and Daniela came out of the spare bedroom, glowing, perfect.
    ‘Coffee, darling?’ Max called.
    She smiled at Nick. ‘Hello, Nick. Don’t mind Max. He teases all the time.’
    ‘Tease? Not my place. I’m just the hired help.’ Max poured the coffees.