It was Whitsun and tomorrow was a holiday – or was it already today? Whatever time was it? The telephone bell was ringing and ringing insistently. ‘If that’s C,’ Caroline hissed to Yves, ‘tell him the operator has the wrong number.’ A call in the middle of the night could only mean a top-level call from the SSB; she supposed she had no right to grumble because it was only due to the need for Yves and Luke to be reached at all times from all places that the stingy secret service had provided them with a telephone at all at Queen Anne’s Gate. Caroline glanced sleepily at the clock; half past one, and they had not long been in bed, thanks to the air raid. ‘I’ll go.’ Yves was already up and disappearing through the door. Caroline comforted herself that the call could not be for her, for C would hardly be calling the office clerk. Unless – sudden fear made her sit bolt upright in bed, for the night brought nightmares to the semi-wakeful as well as the sleeping – it was bad news for one of them.
