The seaplane droned nearer, and he saw the first bombs drop. The pilot had chosen his altitude well. The bombs would strike before the boat could answer the helm. They landed so close that when they exploded, the boat shuddered. The stove was knocked into the hold, and at the same moment Memling threw the torch against the sail. The canvas flared and he slipped over the side. Francine struggled a moment as the shock of the cold water bit through her delirium, then she was still.

The boat was pulling away rapidly, sail flaming brightly, providing an unmistakable target for the seaplane and perhaps a beacon for the Swedish coastal patrols. Two more bombs plummeted, and Memling held his breath, waiting for the concussions. When they came, it was as if a huge fist had clamped, then flung him away. The oil in the hold ignited, and the flame ran back to the fuel tank. The boat leapt clear of the water with the force of the explosion and fell back, a seething mass of flame. Still moving forward under her own momentum even though the sail had disappeared, she plunged beneath the waves.

The aircraft made a final low-level pass across the burning boat, then, as Memling had hoped, sought altitude and turned south towards Germany before Swedish pursuit planes could come to investigate.

Two hours later a Swedish coastal patrol launch found them. Memling was barely conscious, and although the girl must have died within minutes of entering the water, he was still clinging to her.

Sweden September 1943

‘I say, are you Captain Jan Memling?’

Memling turned over on the bunk and regarded with suspicion the thin, pale young man in a well-tailored suit. He rubbed a hand over his face, grimaced at the three-day stubble, and nodded. ‘Yes.’

The man smiled with satisfaction and dropped down on the bunk opposite. ‘Had the devil of a time finding you. Must have been over this camp three times. None of these chaps want to help. Think ‘I’m a spy.’

‘Are you?’

‘Good heavens, no! ‘I’m the naval attaché at the Stockholm embassy. Name’s Ian Fleming.’ He handed Memling a leather case with his identification.

Memling decided that Fleming was who he claimed to be. A German impersonator would not have failed to mention his rank even though it was listed on the ID card as lieutenant commander, RN.

‘What can I do for you, Commander?’

‘I’d say it’s rather a matter of what I can do for you. But first, let’s establish your bona fides, shall we?’ He took a photograph from his case and held it beside Memling’s face. ‘Well, you look like Captain Jan Memling, late of the Number Two Commando. Perhaps you could tell me your mother’s maiden name?’ Memling grinned for the first time in three weeks. ‘Wells. Anything else?’

‘Oh, quite a bit.’ Fleming consulted a pocket notebook. ‘I believe your father was a Belgian gunsmith?’

‘My father was a British citizen, born in London,’ he corrected.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. My grandfather left Belgium in 1872.’

‘I see. Well then, in 1928 he made a certain type of gun for a rather famous personality. Perhaps you could describe it?’ Memling blinked. His father had made dozens of fine rifles and shotguns for his customers, many of them famous. He took a chance, knowing first-hand just how thorough MI6 could be.

‘He made a ten-bore double shotgun for Lord Esterbrook to use on his East African farm. Lord Esterbrook wanted a serviceable weapon with a steel skeleton stock. It had cast-steel barrels to make up the weight thus lost to reduce recoil.’

‘Very good.’

‘How did they find out about that gun? My father considered it an abomination and even refused to sign it. He made Lord Esterbrook promise never to reveal its maker.’

The naval officer only smiled at the question. ‘You know better than that.’ He slipped the notebook into his pocket, then took a small leather bag from the case and extracted an ink pad and a sheet of celluloid. He pressed Memling’s middle finger to the pad and then to the celluloid sheet and stepped to the window where he superimposed the celluloid over a transparent photocopy of Memling’s fingerprints and studied the results with a magnifying glass.

‘Well, that’s that. You do appear to be Captain Memling.’

‘So. Now what?’

Fleming packed up the kit. ‘Now we get out of here. I have a car outside.’

Memling shook his head. ‘Maybe you haven’t heard, but I’ve been interned for the duration.’

‘I did hear something to that effect.’ Fleming tossed him an envelope with the Royal Swedish cipher embossed discreetly in the upper left corner. ‘Royal pardon. Seems a mistake was made. You were thought to be an Allied combatant when your boat was sunk in Swedish territorial waters. The police should never have arrested a member of the embassy staff. Diplomatic immunity and all that. What’s the world coming to, I wonder? Ready?’