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the same route on a summer day fourteen years earlier – a young naval officer enjoying a furlough from his ship. The hill was popular with locals and visitors in the late afternoon. The elderly came to sit and listen to the military band in the pavilion by the lower pond; mothers ambled through the arboretum on its slopes while their children played hide and seek, and courting couples strolled to the top to gaze over the city. It wasn’t the sort of place Wolff would have chosen for a clandestine meeting at any time of the year.
    The reservoir keeper lived on the crown in a yellow-and-white tower house that Wolff had mistaken on his first visit for a church. Beyond it was the basin with the water supply for the district, the fountain in the centre cascading the colours of the rainbow in the evening sunshine. The stiff breeze was whipping spray across the gravel esplanade and spotted his overcoat as he walked round to the benches on the south side. There was still a nip in the air and as luck would have it the place was deserted but for a Norwegian couple spooning at the rail, too wrapped up in each other to show any interest in Wolff. He sat on a bench and took out his cigarettes. To the east, the wooded slopes of the Ekeberg; Oscarshall and the brick spire of the Uranienborg Church to the west, and beyond it the shimmering sea. But a daft bloody place to meet, just daft. Wolff bent to light a cigarette from the flame guttering in his cupped hands, then rose from the bench and ambled over to the rail, turning his back to the city. It was almost five o’clock. The lovers were drifting along the esplanade. He watched them laughing and kissing with a wry smile of regret. Damn it, didn’t they know there was a war on?
    A few yards from the keeper’s house, they separated as if conscious they were not alone. A moment later, an exceptionally tall figure with the stride of a fairy-tale ogre stalked past them and down the steps to the basin. He was dressed in a bowler hat and black overcoat and used his umbrella as a walking stick as if he was making his way down Whitehall. He was the sort of man it was impossible not to notice and his imperious swagger suggested that he wanted to be. Wolff walked over to a bench and sat down again. A few seconds later Mr Mansfeldt Findlay crunched up the path to stand towering above him.
    ‘Do you think it will rain?’
    It was the code he’d suggested in his note.
    ‘I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you,’ replied Wolff.
    ‘All right.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Mansfeldt Findlay, Head of Legation.’
    ‘Sit down, Mr Findlay. We’ll be less conspicuous.’
    ‘Is something wrong?’ His voice was surprisingly high pitched for such a large man.
    ‘You should tell me what you have to tell me quickly, then go.’
    ‘I don’t like your tone,’ he snapped.
    ‘And I don’t like your idea of a discreet rendezvous. But we’re here now, so let’s get on with it.’
    Findlay glared at him for a few seconds, then sat down with the umbrella upright between his legs like a weapon, his enormous hands resting on its ebony handle. A bear of a man in his mid fifties, square jaw, thick grizzled moustache. A man who looked as if he knew how to handle himself in a ring. Queensberry Rules, of course.
    ‘You met our friend Paulsen?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘A good fellow. Won’t let us down. Needs the money.’
    Wolff frowned. ‘It’s only the money?’
    ‘Not a bit of it. Anglophile too. A lot of them are, you know. He’ll play his part, you can be sure of it.’ He paused, then said, ‘I’ve spoken to our friend in the police. Told him a little of my interest in Mr de Witt’s activities. His people are looking into it already.’
    ‘How very obliging.’
    ‘Good diplomacy,’ he said coolly. ‘The enemy has friends here too but our friends are better placed and more sincere. When are you leaving for Berlin?’
    ‘Tomorrow.’
    ‘Good. Make sure it’s no