For a couple of minutes, silence lay over the Kommandant's sitting room. Anne-Marie sat back in her chair, her eyes fixed on Hogan, but he could read nothing in her expression.

He pressed his fingertips together, frowning as he concentrated all his thoughts on the implications of Project Termite. Finally, he spoke. "What's in the dossier Wolfert's got in his briefcase? We managed to get into the safe and grab photos of it, but it's in some kind of weird script, and we can't make any sense out of it. It looks like Germanic runes."

"It is a modern version of them," said Anne. "It is also in code, for additional security. From conversations I have overheard between him and his aides, I believe it is his master file, and contains the details of all his agents - their names, and where they have been placed, and the contacts from whom they receive their instructions. Not all of them are German. He used to spend time at certain prisoner of war camps, talking to some of the Allied prisoners."

"Recruiting?" Hogan's jaw tightened. He kept a special kind of contempt in reserve for Allied soldiers who threw in their lot with the Nazis.

"Possibly. But it came to an end, after an inspection party from the authorities in Switzerland arrived at one of the camps while he was still there. He was very concerned about what they might include in their report, and whether it could alert the Allies to his presence there."

"So that's why he backed off when I threatened him with the Geneva Convention," murmured Hogan. "I'd love to know what he was up to. I don't suppose you can translate those runes into something comprehensible?"

She shook her head. "I am sorry, Colonel. He does not trust me, or anyone, to that extent."

"Never mind. Once we send our copy of the file to England, they'll find some expert in Germanic languages who can read it." Once again, Hogan's eyebrows drew in. "The trouble is how long that's going to take. The Underground are laying low at the moment, so they can't help us. It means waiting till we can find a safe courier, and every day wasted means Wolfert's termites get to do more damage. If we could at least rough out a letter-by-letter translation, we could transmit it by radio, and give our cryptology experts a head start."

A tiny spark kindled in Anne's eyes. "He has a notebook. It has the key to the runic alphabet in it. It may even have the code as well. After three years, he no longer needs it, as he knows it by heart. But he keeps it as an aide-mémoire."

Hogan leaned forward. "Could we get hold of it?"

"He never lets it out of his sight," Anne replied. "He even sleeps with it under the mattress, and he is a very light sleeper."

"In that case, we'll have to find some way to divert his attention from it," said Hogan. "We'll need to make sure he stays at Stalag 13 for an extra couple of days, to give us a shot at it. Think you can help with that?"

Her colour rose slightly. "Not for long. One day, maybe two. He will want to go over the plan, after his discussions with the Führer, but he does not need to go back to Berlin. He can work on it anywhere, even here."

"And if he was working on it, he'd have his little codebook handy?"

"Always."

"Then we're in with a chance." Hogan stood up, and went over to the stove, where he paused, thinking. "I don't know yet how we're going to do it," he said. "So right now I can't tell you what to expect. But one of my men will be in the kitchen, so if I don't get the chance to talk to you again, he'll pass on any messages."

"I understand," said Anne. "If there is anything I can do to help..."

He didn't let her finish. "You've already done more than enough. It's safer for you if you're not directly involved in any of this. Safer for Louis, as well," he went on quickly, cutting off any argument. "If you're implicated, he'll be the next one in Wolfert's sights. I'm not prepared to take the risk, for either of you. You can help by playing along with whatever happens, but that's it."

Just as he had expected, the mere hint of any danger to LeBeau's safety was enough. "Does he know?" she whispered, after a moment.

"He knows about Nightingale," replied Hogan gravely. "But how he feels about it is more than I can tell you."

"Is it possible that I could..." The question faltered, and fell away half-asked. "Will you tell him?" she asked instead.

Had she been looking at him, she might have noticed the infinitesimal softening of his expression; but she couldn't have missed the warmth in his voice as he replied. "I'll make sure he understands. That's a promise."

He rolled the stove aside to expose the tunnel entrance, and with a final look, and a reassuring smile, he went down the ladder into the darkness below.

As he hastened back along the tunnel, his mind was working overtime, trying to figure out how to get his hands on the notebook, without putting Anne-Marie in the firing line. But his concentration was broken by a murmur of sound echoing along the tunnel walls, which gradually resolved into speech.

"...the Gestapo have been investigating your participation at a Strength Through Joy camping weekend which took place at Arkona in August of 1937. We were very interested to learn that during those two days, you became very friendly - let us call it that - with a certain Fräulein Sperling, known to her associates as Flossie. The police have several other names for this woman. What can you tell me about her?"

The voice, familiar and foreign both at once, had its usual disorienting effect. Carter had entered into his role with his customary thoroughness. He was good. Sometimes he was almost too good. This was one of those times; it almost seemed as though his own personality had been evicted, leaving a stranger in charge.

As Hogan reached the alcove where the telephone exchange had been installed, Newkirk met his eye, and winked. Carter, however, didn't break character for a moment.

"You say you did not go to Arkona in 1937?... I see. Where were you?... You can't remember? What kind of an alibi is that?... Yes, of course you need an alibi. This is Germany. Everyone needs an alibi." He glanced up at Hogan, who made a winding-up gesture. "Your story is highly suspicious. We will have to investigate further, Colonel Fink...What did you say? Klink, with a K? Ah, I see. It appears we may have our wires crossed, and you are in fact not involved, this time... No, not at all. Sorry for the inconvenience. Heil Hitler."

And in an instant, the stranger vanished, as Carter's features fell back into their usual good-natured lines.

"All sorted, Colonel?" asked Newkirk.

"Hardly. We've got work to do," replied Hogan. "Come on." He headed for the radio room, followed by one of those small arguments which frequently arose out of nothing.

"And just what kind of a name is Flossie?"

"I dunno. It was the first thing that came into my head. My grandma had a cat called Flossie, so..."

"Oh, I'm sure it's quite appropriate, for a cat. But when it comes to disreputable women..."

"Well, how am I supposed to know? I never met any disreputable women. Anyhow, it worked, didn't it? Boy, Klink practically squeaked all the way up to high C."

The conversation ceased on reaching the radio room, where Kinch was in the middle of receiving a transmission. Hogan folded his arms, rested his shoulder against one of the posts supporting the roof, and waited.

"Dubois?" he said, as soon as Kinch had finished.

"Uh-huh. He's got nothing on Bloch that we don't already know," replied Kinch. "But the other question you had, about a magistrate - well, Dubois remembered that. It was all over the newspapers at the time. Seems the man in charge of the Pontvallon case - name of Chauvel - had lost his wife a couple of months earlier. As soon as it looked like he was getting somewhere with the inquiry, the police got a tip-off that she didn't die of natural causes. Chauvel was taken off the case, and a few weeks later they found his car in the river, with him inside. Could have been an accident, could have been suicide..."

"Or murder," Hogan finished up. No wonder she hadn't wanted to talk about it.

"Either way, it worked out well for Bloch. The whole case against him collapsed," said Kinch. He glanced questioningly at Hogan. "Dubois didn't say anything about Chauvel having a daughter," he added.

Hogan's eyes narrowed slightly, turning from Kinch to Carter, and then to Newkirk, who shrugged. "We're none of us completely daft. Is that why she got herself mixed up with Bloch's little lot, to clear her dad's name?"

"That's about the size of it," replied Hogan. "And one thing led to another, which is why she's now in a position to help us put Project Termite out of business."

"You've got a plan, Colonel?" said Kinch.

"Not yet. But I'm working on it." Hogan straightened up. "My office, in ten minutes, for a briefing. I just need to have a quick word with Addison first."

"Addison?" The query came simultaneously, in three separate voices

"Yep," replied Hogan briskly, as he started up the ladder leading to the barracks. "Gotta find out if he knows how to make macaroni and cheese. If he doesn't, we're in real trouble."

Notes: there are at least two candidates for the modern runic alphabet used by Wolfert - Guido von List's "Armanen runes", devised (or, according to von List, "revealed") in the early 20th century; and a system proposed in 1934 by Karl Maria Wiligut.