Steinmann was a vegetarian, and he had brought his own personal chef up from Stuttgart, so the cuisine had been simply excellent. There was no shortage of fine wine here, either. Life in wartime was luxurious for some. Although the Doctor hadn't been allowed to leave the townhouse, he had to admit that he had been well catered for. Ulrilda had been a.s.signed to him; she had provided food and drink on request, and had answered his simple questions. She had even managed to procure the latest issues of all the major German scientific journals, although he hadn't learnt much from them.

She was a pleasant companion, although chess seemed a little beyond her grasp.

Now Steinmann had joined them in the first-floor room that had become the Doctor's study. It had a good view, a packed bookcase, even a gramophone. There was a limited selection of music, all composed by Germans. The Doctor had selected a Beethoven symphony. The music drifted across the room to where the Doctor stared out across the harbour. Ulrilda smiled at him when she knew Steinmann wasn't looking, and the Doctor gurned back at her. Ulrilda stifled a laugh.

The German officer sipped from his coffee cup. 'This is very civilized, isn't it, Herr Doktor?'

'On a microcosmic level, yes.' A column of tanks wound their way across the seafront.

'Again, you have a cosmic view. Just like the n.a.z.is, my friend.' Steinmann paused before speaking again. 'Doktor, you tell me that you know what Hartung is building.' The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it again.

'Would you like to meet him?'

The Doctor kept his expression neutral. 'Yes. I'd love to see how close he has got.'

'Close? My dear Doktor, both have been built already.

What do you know of jet propulsion?'

'Enough to fill a series of books on the subject,' the Doctor said matter of factly.

'Is that why you came?' Steinmann had finished his coffee. Ulrilda hurried to refill his cup.

'Not specifically.'

'But you have seen the plans?'

'Which plans?' The Doctor was puzzled. Ulrilda had moved over to the Doctor and poured him a fresh coffee.

Now she began adding sugar.

Doktor, there is no need to pretend, you are among friends here. Three weeks ago, the SID managed to a acquire a set of plans.' Steinmann gestured around magnanimously, almost knocking his mug over.

'I knew nothing of this.' The Doctor thanked Ulrilda, who returned to her seat by the window.

'No? Doktor, I am prepared to concede that the plans are almost complete. It might not be enough for the British to build a whole engine for themselves, but they will know what Hartung has built. That, of course, is why we let them have the plans.'

'I still have no idea what you are talking about.'

Steinmann's face fell. 'You mean that, don't you?'

'I do,' the Doctor admitted, furrowing his brow.

'The SID sent you over here, but didn't tell you, an expert in the field, about the plans they had. It must be the single biggest coup in the history of espionage.'

'I never said that I worked for the British. I certainly didn't mention the Scientific Intelligence Division.'

'Oh, Doktor, if you know what the initials stand for, then you must be working for them.' Steinmann fixed him with those piercing eyes of his.

'An interesting theory, if a little simplistic. For one thing, you you know what the initials stand for. Logically, that means that you work for the British.' know what the initials stand for. Logically, that means that you work for the British.'

Steinmann laughed. 'Ha! I sometimes wonder whether I do, you know. I feel an affinity with good old Arthur Kendrick.

We have so much in common, we have the same concerns, are experts in the same fields. We are doing the same job, we face the same problems, we just happen to be on different sides. You are a scientist. You must feel some camaraderie with the scientific community in Germany.'

'I think that the German scientists should have made a moral stand. Under the n.a.z.is, science has been perverted.'

'Really? You don't believe that science is objective?'

'Of course not. Science is a tool, a way of modelling the universe. What a scientist chooses to model reflects his or her concerns.' The Doctor was losing track of where this conversation was heading.

Steinmann sipped at his coffee before answering. So you agree that the scientist himself is part of the object which he investigates? Science is part of culture, not a universal truth?'

'Yes, of course. So much scientific research on this planet is directed to building new weapons. You Germans are obsessed with chemistry because you lack raw materials and you want to create artificial oil and fabrics. The Americans do just the opposite and concentrate on ma.s.s production.'

'Doktor, that is what Max Planck, the director of the Kaiser Wilhelm Society says. The British and Americans mocked him for doing so. Once again, you agree with us.

Doktor, I want you to see the true state of German science. If you have not been allowed to see the stolen plans, then you are obviously not valued by the British government. The Reich, though, welcomes men of talent, and is happy to reward them. Tomorrow morning, we'll go up to where Hartung is working. You'll have a chance to meet him. The British won't show you the plan. We'll show you the finished product. You'll be free to make up your own mind.'

'You have a knack for ending the day on a dramatic note,' observed the Doctor. 'Yesterday you asked me to become a Fascist, now you seem to be offering me a job on your design team.'

'Fascism is about the opportunity that tomorrow will -'

'And of course, I get a daily dose of Fascist dogma,' the Doctor added.

Steinmann was silenced, but after a moment he continued, 'Doktor, I have a proposal for you.'

'Another bombsh.e.l.l! I'm flattered by the offer of marriage, Herr Steinmann, you are a very handsome man, with undoubted prospects, but I'm afraid that I'm already -' the Doctor wittered. Steinmann cut him dead.

'Herr Doktor. I am being serious. My proposal is this: I will show you the future, show you what Hartung has built. I will let that speak for itself. Actions speak so much louder than words. As I believe you observed on the beach, Hartung's work will win the war for the Reich. I offer you the chance to be part of that future. If you do not want to, you will be free to go. Do you accept?'

'As Goethe might have said, Herr Steinmann, we have a deal.'

'Do you know what the simplest, most effective form of torture is, Nurse Kitzel?'

Standartenfuhrer Wolff was peering through a slot in the cell door. He was tall, broad-chested, blond: one of the few in the army who looked like the soldiers on the recruiting posters. At thirty-two, he was still unmarried. His eligibility was a frequent topic of conversation for the girls at the complex. They thought he must be very brave and dedicated to have reached such an exalted rank so young. Either that, or he knew someone high in the Party. Either reason made him a good potential husband.

Kitzel, surprised that such a senior officer would deign to talk to her, tried to remember her training.

'Electric shock,' she declared finally. Wolff sneered, and didn't even turn to look at her.

'The very simplest torture is electric shock?'

'No, sir.' Kitzel deflated. Pause. 'The Chinese say that it is dripping water, sir.'

'Yes, but as they are subhumans, their opinion is not valuable. You don't know the answer, do you?'

'No, sir,' she admitted.

'The very simplest form of torture is sleep deprivation.'

It came flooding back. 'Prolonged sleep deprivation, or, to be precise, "dream deprivation" can quickly lead to personality changes: typically heightened irritability or paranoia. After three or four days the subject might well begin to hallucinate. This decline is characterized by a loss of all sense of time. After a week there is the risk of permanent mental illness, usually schizophrenia. The longest a person has been deprived of sleep, without the use of stimulants such as amphetamines, is sixteen days.' Kitzel fluttered her eyelids.

'Very good.' Wolff smiled. 'Now to see all that in practice.

Our subject has been in custody since twenty past six yesterday morning. Just about thirty-six hours ago. Since that time, she has been deprived of food, drink and sleep. If your calculations are correct, then the prisoner should be beginning to show the first symptoms. Her name is Bernice Summerfield, but you are not to use it in front of her. If I do give you permission to speak, she is to be referred to simply as "the prisoner". Bring that beaker and that bag.'

Without waiting for an answer, Wolff unbolted the door and ushered Kitzel inside. A woman, a long-legged brunette in her mid-thirties, sat in the corner. The skin around her eyes was grey-rimmed, as though it had been bruised. The eyes themselves were brown, but dull.

'Stand.'

The prisoner shuffled to her feet. She was wearing a dress with a floral pattern and was barefoot. She swayed slightly as she stood.

'Water.' Kitzel handed Wolff the beaker. He took a sip, all the time watching the prisoner's reaction.

'Lovely,' he said, presumably an English word, Kitzel didn't speak much English. Finally, he handed the prisoner the water, which she drank eagerly.

'Where am I?' the prisoner asked, when she had finished.

'In a prison cell. Nurse Rosa Kitzel, may I introduce the prisoner?'

'Delighted to make your acquaintance,' the prisoner said weakly in German, but with a trace of sarcasm. What occupied Kitzel's attention more was the fact that Wolff knew her Christian name.

'Undress.'

'Yeah, right. Look, I know this psychological stuff is meant to make me feel inferior, less secure, et cetera. In a culture with a nudity taboo, like yours, it probably works all the time, reinforcing both your male authority and the female prisoner's self-image as victim. Textbook stuff, well done for remembering your training and all that, but it won't work on me.' She had unb.u.t.toned her dress, and now she stepped out of it. 'See? Perfectly relaxed about the whole sans frock sans frock deal. To be honest, it's having the opposite effect to the one intended: I'm just wondering whether you'd feel secure enough in your... masculinity... to do all this to a male prisoner. Where I come from we're a relatively uninhibited lot, and so it's pretty d.a.m.n difficult to play on our inhibitions. To be honest with you,' she unclipped her bra and handed it to Kitzel, who blushed at the prisoner's shamelessness, 'I'm feeling queasy, I'm still hungover, my stomach's empty, I've not slept for three days, and I'm scared poohless just being here, because I know what the n.a.z.is do to prisoners.' She pulled off her knickers, and handed them to Kitzel, before continuing, 'it's those things that you should be playing on. All you prove by torturing me is your mental inferiority. Oh, thanks for the water, by the way.' deal. To be honest, it's having the opposite effect to the one intended: I'm just wondering whether you'd feel secure enough in your... masculinity... to do all this to a male prisoner. Where I come from we're a relatively uninhibited lot, and so it's pretty d.a.m.n difficult to play on our inhibitions. To be honest with you,' she unclipped her bra and handed it to Kitzel, who blushed at the prisoner's shamelessness, 'I'm feeling queasy, I'm still hungover, my stomach's empty, I've not slept for three days, and I'm scared poohless just being here, because I know what the n.a.z.is do to prisoners.' She pulled off her knickers, and handed them to Kitzel, before continuing, 'it's those things that you should be playing on. All you prove by torturing me is your mental inferiority. Oh, thanks for the water, by the way.'

Whatever the prisoner had said, there was undoubtedly a trace of anxiety in her voice. She stood erect now, trying to look defiant in her nakedness, but she couldn't disguise the paleness of her skin, or the toll that rationing had taken on her body. Her legs and arms were thin, her hair lank. She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than Wolff, but the Standartenfuhrer seemed so much larger. Her stomach and thighs were covered with bruises. Kitzel looked away, a little embarra.s.sed.

Wolff took the parcel from her hands and pa.s.sed it to the prisoner. 'Open it.'

She did as Wolff said, and pulled out the contents: a short-sleeved b.u.t.tonless shirt, and a pair of trousers in the same thin material with an elasticated waistband. Both were in the same pattern, black stripes on white. A serial number, F319-350042, was printed on the left breast and up one of the trouser-legs. It was what the slave workers wore, the standard outfit for inmates of the Reich's prison camps.

Before Kitzel's eyes, the last vestige of the prisoner's resolve vanished. Shaking, even paler than before, she put her uniform on. All the time she tried to speak, but nothing came from her mouth except an inhuman whimpering noise. Not wanting to think about it, Kitzel picked up the bag, and put the beaker and the woman's clothing in it. Wolff was speaking.

'Thank you for the tip, prisoner. Incidentally, you have been here less than two days, not three. I wonder if you remember what that means from your textbook? I will talk to you tomorrow morning, after we've shaved your scalp. Come on, Kitzel.'

The nurse saw the prisoner slump to the floor again. She was on the verge of tears, but was too weak to cry. Wolff left.

Kitzel followed, closing the door behind her.

One hundred yards ahead was the ten-foot wire fence. Signs hung at regular intervals informed the locals in French and German that the fence was electrified. The young Canadian, Cwej, reached out, and would have touched it had Monsieur Gerard not slapped his hand down. Despite what he had said before, the young man was still acting as though this was a game.

'The fence is live, Mr Cwej, take my word for it, there is no need to check,' the farmer grunted.

'The base is behind that?' Chris asked.

'There is no base, Christophe. But the Germans have set up these defences. It is utterly forbidden to go in there. We'd better go back, there are foot patrols.'

Chris peered through the mesh, but could see only hills, gra.s.s and pine trees. Countryside, indistinguishable from the surroundings.

'There aren't any guard towers, though, there are no buildings at all. This is weird.'

'I think they must have something underground,' the farmer gestured uncertainly. 'To be honest, I have no idea what it might be.'

'Perhaps I could pretend to be a delivery man, or a...'

'No one goes in there,' the farmer said.

'Cooks and cleaners must.' Cwej had a wounded expression, but the farmer was telling the truth.

He continued. 'No locals. Not even the Germans from Granville. The guards come direct from Germany, on three-month postings. They are barracked inside the fences; as I say, they must have some underground facility. Obviously, the guards do leave here, they frequent the bars and brothels in Granville. But even they do not seem to know what is going on in the base. They have been ordered not to say a word of what they do. Three German soldiers have been court-martialled for their indiscretion. One was sent back to Berlin simply for admitting that this fence exists. The Germans themselves bring supplies here, from the town.'

'There must be clues. Are they army, Luftwaffe, SS?'

'All three. No navy personnel. No civilians.'

'That's very odd. The structure of the German army is very rigid. Albert Speer claimed that the n.a.z.i state is really feudal. The various leaders all jealousy guard their power and their personal interests. They very rarely co-operate with each other.'

'If Speer said that, then he would have been shot!'

Gerard exclaimed.

'Perhaps it was a different Albert Speer,' Cwej said hurriedly. 'Tell me anything else you know. They order food from the village? For how many people?'

'Not many... one hundred, maybe?' The farmer shrugged.