Things were more or less on schedule. He wound down the window on the stolen German staff car, sucking in deep breaths of the cold night air, and gazed up at the sky. Utter blackness. Thick clouds blotted out the moonlight. There was no sound, save the gentle creak of the pine trees and the odd scurry of wildlife. The narrow forestry track had been a good choice; concealed from the road but, equally, not far from the target area – Kummersdorf. He fidgeted in the driver’s seat, scratching at the stolen German uniform. It would have to do. He checked it over again for bloodstains. He wouldn’t pass as a German officer with a dirty uniform. He brushed off a grubby mark on the labels, and glanced at the corpse in the adjacent passenger seat; the guy looked well and truly dead. It was all part of the deception. Nash stepped out of the car, pulling the pistol from his pocket. He screwed the silencer into place and after instinctively checking the balance of the gun, he flicked off the safety.
