The case was not locked; he went through it carefully and then moved across to the wardrobe and went through the stuff there. He ran his hands over the top and bent and peered underneath. When he straightened up, I shut my eyes again. I thought he’d be trying the bed next, under the pillow, the mattress. I didn’t know what to do if he looked under the coverlet. The Norstrund was there. I could feel it against my side. I had given no serious thought to the nightmarish contingency of being discovered. I was too appallingly frightened to do so now. I thought: shall I let him take the Norstrund if he finds it? God, no. But why not? He wouldn’t find anything inside it, unless he was specifically looking. And if he was specifically looking, what chance would I have anyway? The only prospect then would be to try and brazen it out. I wondered where the British Embassy was, if I could somehow get down into the street, jump on a tram, hide. My heart was going like a steam hammer. I couldn’t control my breathing.
