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  He felt a tap on his shoulder. Seiji. Dieter strained against the straps, trying to look backwards, caught the gloved hand, the raised thumb. He answered the only way he could, his own thumb vertical, a gesture – he later realised – of resignation. Bad things happened all the time. He just hoped this wouldn’t be one of them.

  Seiji had slipped the ropes securing the seaplane to the pontoon. A surge of throttle inched them forward until he had the searoom to pull the little plane into the wind. Dieter settled lower in the seat, Keiko’s scarf heaped around his neck. As far as he could see, there was no conflicting traffic on the river. Hunched even lower, he tried to pick an impact point on the far side of the river between the scratches on the tiny disc of windscreen. Given a choice, he’d have settled for one of the sturdier pine trees. The impact alone would spare him burning to death.

  Seiji opened the throttle. The engine, to Dieter’s surprise, responded at once. The plane already felt light as a feather, bouncing along, picking up speed, pushing the water aside. Fat drops on the windscreen blurred his view. Then came the moment of release, a tiny lurch upwards, and the river had suddenly let them go. Briefly ashamed by his lack of faith, Dieter raised his hand again, thumb and forefinger ringed, a private gesture of approval or perhaps deliverance.

  Seiji steadied the seaplane, gaining height before he dipped a wing and began to track south down the river towards the open sea. Perfectly trimmed, this was a plane that would have looked after itself but Seiji flew like a fighter pilot, his fingertips alive on the joystick, a fidget at the controls, constantly adjusting in search of exactly the right balance between the tug of the engine, the suck of gravity and the buffet of the wind.

  From a thousand metres, gazing down, Dieter could make out the scatter of houses on the terraced hillsides that fell away towards the river, the landscape pinked by cherry blossom. They looked like shell bursts against the darker greens and browns and Dieter was suddenly back in the mountains of Galicia, a year earlier, prosecuting a foreign war that had nearly killed him, when he felt another tap on his shoulder. Seiji again. Wanting him to take over.

  Dieter stared down at the joystick. This was the first time he’d been at the controls of an aircraft since his accident. Even flying to Japan as a passenger, a six-day journey hopscotching across the globe towards the wide sweep of Tokyo Bay, he’d felt an anxiety that had never troubled him before. Falling out of an aircraft, he told himself, was an abrupt reminder that in any serious argument the forces of gravity always won.

  His right hand settled around the joystick, thumb on top, wrist loose, the lightest touch, trying to feel his way back into what he’d always done best. The rev counter showed 2,150 rpm. Airspeed was 138 kph. They were heading seven degrees west of south. Dieter smiled, touching all these familiar bases, making himself at home, building a kinship with this ugly little duckling that had so far proved so responsive. He inched the joystick forward and fed in a little left rudder to keep the slip ball in the middle of its small glass tube. The nose dipped and he held the turn until he felt the buffet of his own slipstream, a perfect 360 degree turn with no loss of height. The compass needle settled once again on the original heading. Easy, he thought, his whole body flooded with something he recognised as relief. His touch was still there. He hadn’t lied to Keiko. He could still fly.

  Minutes later, hugging the coast as it curled away towards the east, he thought about Georg. The last time they’d been together was in the hospital in Stuttgart. Georg had arrived with a supply of Dieter’s favourite chocolates, as well as a bottle of schnapps, and it turned out that he’d been posted to an airfield in the north of Germany where the Luftwaffe trained their pilots for the bomber fleet, and at first Dieter had difficulty understanding why on earth Georg would abandon a fighter Jagdstaffel for the tedium of the delivery business. Wasn’t he bored to death? Wouldn’t he miss the excitements of the hunt?

  Not at all. Far from it. The official letter of appointment to the Führer’s elite Reichsregierung had found Georg in Spain where he was still flying against the Reds. His masters in Berlin had selected him for the tiny corps of pilots qualified to ferry Hitler and other luminaries around the country. Membership of this airborne elite came with a huge increase in pay and a series of other perks but in the opinion of his squadron commander, Gunther Lutzow, this was irrelevant. What mattered was that Georg was exactly the man for the job. Hitler was lucky to have him.

  At the time, still trying to come to terms with his injuries, Dieter had mustered a smile and limp applause, but the more he thought about it, the more he recognised the logic of the promotion. Georg had the lowest blood pressure of anyone he’d ever met. He flew like an angel. He was utterly dependable. And he showed every sign of being able to ignore all the nonsense that went with the upper reaches of the regime. Good luck, he’d said, giving Georg’s hand a squeeze. Let me know what those bastards are really like.

  Dieter felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Seiji again, directing his attention to the fuel gauge. The tank was three quarters empty. Dieter loosened his straps and half-turned in the seat, gesturing down at the joystick. You take control. Seiji shook his head and then pillowed it against his gloved hands. Too much Asahi. Time for a nap. You fly us back.

  Dieter stared down at the control stick. He was freezing cold. There were bits of him that would never be right. He’d never landed a float plane in his life. Yet here was someone with trust enough in him to get them both back to the comforts of the pontoon. Had word of his adventures in Spain got as far as Nagasaki? Was this rich kid, with his four months combat record, a little in awe of Der Kleine’s twenty-seven kills? Dieter shrugged. He didn’t care. Get them both down in one piece and he might be through the door that would take him back to proper flying.

  Out here, above the ocean, he could see the whitecaps driven by the strengthening wind. Now and again, the little plane bucked and dropped a wing in yet another gust. The wind direction, as far as he could gauge, hadn’t changed. His only landing option was the same kilometre of semi-sheltered water that lay off the pontoon. That meant a steep approach across the city itself, shedding height towards the river, flying as low as he dared until the final moment when he pulled back on the stick and returned the little plane to the water.

  And so it went. Visibility on the approach to the city was perfect: scudding white clouds against the blueness of the sky. He flew into the estuary, comforted by the steady cackle of the engine, slowly losing height over the big estates that overlooked the river. Somewhere down there, he told himself, is Seiji’s property. Might Keiko be there? Might she be out in the garden, peering upwards? Might she recognise the little silver fish with its big bootees? Dieter dropped another hundred metres and waggled the wings just in case, a manoeuvre which brought a bark of laughter from the rear cockpit. Then, quicker than he’d expected, Dieter found himself over the city centre.

  A more cautious soul would have made a turn to the east, maintaining height, giving himself more room for the final approach, but Dieter was starting to panic. This had never happened before, not once, and it took him a second or two to make sense of the symptoms. His mouth was suddenly dry. His heart was racing. His hand was gripping the control stick the way a novice might, white knuckles that spoke of nothing except the imminence of disaster. All he could think of was the moment when he rolled the 109 on its back, thumped the canopy release, and fell into a wilderness of pain and blackness.

  He’d spotted the pontoon and the Packard parked beside it. For some reason the car’s door was open. He didn’t know this plane at all, didn’t know its limits, hadn’t a clue about the control inputs it simply couldn’t cope with, and that ignorance, that recklessness, simply confirmed the inevitable. Aloft, you got no second chance. This time, he thought, it was truly over.

  Easing back on the throttle, he side-slipped, letting the aircraft drop. The prop began to windmill, the rush of air falling off. Below, Dieter was dimly aware of traffic coming to a halt, of
a rickshaw driver pointing skywards, of a woman gathering her little girl in her arms. Too low? Dieter prayed not. He could practically touch the red tiled roofs, spot the birds’ nests in the gutters, taste the woodsmoke curling from an on-rushing chimney. He fed in a little throttle and kicked the float plane straight before an instinctive tweak on the joystick spared him a collision with the tallest of the electricity poles. Seconds later the pontoon was a blur of faded planking beneath them and there was nothing but water ahead. Dieter closed his eyes, easing back on the control stick, letting the aircraft look after itself, knowing that somehow he’d survived.

  The landing itself felt brutal, a sudden lurch as the floats bit into the curling wavelets, but the aircraft quickly settled down and when it felt right Dieter used the rudder to circle back. Finally secured against the pontoon, Dieter cut the engine and let Seiji help him out of the cockpit. His lower back was on fire. His legs were trembling. He felt physically sick. He clambered awkwardly down on to the pontoon, sucking in the cold air. Seiji took a tiny step backwards and offered a deep bow. Dieter didn’t know whether it signalled admiration or relief but either way it didn’t matter. At all costs, despite the churning in his belly, he had to save face.

  ‘Thank you for that.’ He nodded towards the little plane.

  ‘You like?’

  ‘Very much.’

  He extended a hand. Seiji didn’t move.

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Seiji nodded towards the tall figure standing beside the Packard. ‘She takes you to the zoo.’

  4

  LONDON, 7 APRIL 1938

  Tam Moncrieff’s sister Vanessa lived in a three-storey Regency mansion in the heart of Belgravia. The house had served for generations as the London home of the Nairn dynasty, a Scottish family with extensive estates in the rolling Border hills south of Edinburgh. As a young graduate, fresh out of St Andrew’s University, Vanessa had been hired to tutor the two Nairn children in Spanish and Italian. Six years later, after the sudden death of Alec Nairn’s wife, she became Lady Nairn.

  Tam and Vanessa had never been close. Tam had met Lord Nairn only once, on the day of their wedding. He was nearly twenty years older than his new bride, tall and conversationally distant, and Tam had always struggled to understand why Vanessa had taken him for a husband. Watching them together at the lavish reception after the service, it was difficult to detect any real warmth between the newlyweds and when they’d appeared later in the evening to lead off in the first reel, the mismatch was painfully obvious. Faced with his wife’s vivacity, Alec Nairn was shy as well as physically awkward. He plainly loathed highland dancing and quickly excused himself to spend the rest of the evening with a table of old friends, all male.

  At the time, to Tam, this had felt like the grimmest of omens but nearly a decade and a half later the marriage appeared to be in rude health. Mutual friends praised Vanessa for bringing Alec out of himself. The Nairns had even become something of a fixture on London’s social circuit. Only last week, waiting for a dental appointment, Tam had leafed through an ancient copy of the Tatler and found himself looking at a photograph of the happy couple in the steward’s enclosure at Henley. The news that Alec Nairn had once won a rowing blue at Oxford was another surprise.

  The house was in Upper Belgrave Street. Tam had never been here before. Three steps took him up from the pavement to the front door. He rang the bell and then stepped back. Ionic columns supported the handsome portico. A fresh coat of paint gleamed on the tall Georgian windows. This was a world away from the make-and-mend of The Glebe House.

  The door opened. It was Vanessa. She was wearing a pair of ancient corduroy trousers and a bulky old pullover darned at the elbows. The last time they’d met was a couple of years ago in Edinburgh. Tam had just left the Royal Marines and was visiting a stockbroker in a bid to tease some order into his father’s financial affairs. Emerging from the office with nothing of any value accomplished, he’d found his sister sipping a glass of sherry in the waiting room. Vanessa had looked up at him, making no attempt to get to her feet.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she’d said.

  Seconds later, summoned to the inner sanctum, she’d left Tam with an image of a stylish woman in her early forties with a blaze of red curls and a face that needed no make-up. Since he could remember, his sister had always had the physical presence to make any man take a second look, a fact that made the choice of Alec Nairn even stranger. Was it his money? His title? The thousands of acres of prime Berwickshire? Or what?

  These were questions that Tam had never been able to answer. Now, on the doorstep, she offered him a brief frown.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘We agreed eleven.’

  Tam didn’t answer. The occasion demanded a handshake, at the very least, maybe even the briefest peck on the cheek, but his sister had already turned on her heel and was leading the way into the depths of the house.

  ‘Alec’s out,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘He’s not very keen on family occasions.’

  ‘Is that what this is?’

  ‘Of course. You want to talk about dad. That’s what you said on the phone.’

  Tam found himself in a sunny drawing room at the back of the house. The windows offered a view of a generous garden, trees already in full leaf, and a pair of spaniels lounged in front of a spitting wood fire.

  ‘Alec gets chilly, even in this weather.’ Vanessa was looking for another log. ‘I think it must be his age. One day I might open a convalescent home. Tea?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she left the room. Tam heard the low mumble of conversation from across the corridor and the fall of water into a kettle. Then Vanessa was back. She peeled off the pullover. Underneath was a plaid shirt several sizes too big for her. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing a man’s watch on one wrist and a collection of silver bangles on the other. Tam’s gaze seemed to amuse her.

  ‘I’ve been out in the garden.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘Paid help costs the earth and it’s getting worse and worse.’

  ‘You’re running out of money?’

  ‘I’m running out of patience. You pay these bloody people a fortune and end up doing the job yourself. People expect everything these days. Not just money but conversation. The last man we had used to spend his summers down in Kent. If you want to know about hop-picking, just ask.’

  She shook her head, uninterested in a reply, and made space for a tray of tea in the hands of a youngish woman with a sallow complexion and huge brown eyes. She offered Tam a nod and a smile and left.

  ‘That was Maria. She’s Italian, comes from a little village down in the south. A woman of low expectations and immense wisdom. We talk and talk and talk. She’s a treasure, that woman. If you want the truth, she’s the only person who keeps me sane.’

  ‘And Alec?’

  ‘Alec is Alec. One acquires good habits and bad habits. In Alec’s case, mercifully, it’s the former. Fondness is all. He’s back for lunch so we don’t have much time. Sugar?’

  Tam nodded, wondering what had happened to her accent. Only a trace of her native Scots seemed to remain. Was this what happened if you lived in Belgravia? Acquired a title? Consorted with the rich?

  She wanted to know about their father. On the phone, Tam had used the word ‘deranged’. What, exactly, did that mean?

  ‘He’s crazy. He’s been losing touch for a while but recently it’s got worse. Most mornings I suspect he doesn’t have a clue who he is. He’s as thin as a rake, won’t eat proper food, won’t look after himself. When I try and have a conversation, he just talks about Mum. He thinks she’s living in the attic. He’s certain she’s refusing to come down and talk to him. And that makes him cry.’

  ‘How horrible. What does the doctor say?’

  ‘The doctor says he’s got dementia.’

  ‘Then I suspect the doctor’s right. Dementia’s everywhere. Alec’s got chums who think Belgravia’s something you pour on roast beef. Well done to you for looking after
him.’

  Chums was new, a word he’d never heard her use before. Along with the accent, she seemed to have become someone else. The next few minutes, Tam knew, were going to be far from easy. Way back, when they were kids in Scotland, she’d had a family nickname.

  ‘He needs proper care, Nessie.’

  ‘Then put him in a home.’

  ‘I can’t. He’d hate it. It would kill him.’

  ‘Then get someone in to help.’

  ‘I can’t do that, either.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Times are challenging. We’re trying to run a business.’

  ‘You’ve come to ask for money?’

  ‘I’ve come to tell you that our father’s very ill. The least we owe him is company.’

  ‘But you’re there. You’re on the spot.’

  ‘Not for much longer.’

  She frowned. She had a thorn in one of her fingertips. Sucking it, she suddenly looked like the child he remembered from his nursery days, for ever looking for ways to hurt him.

  ‘You’re suggesting he comes down here? You think we can look after him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Impossible. Alec wouldn’t have it. And neither would I.’ She was staring at him. ‘Are you serious? About Dad?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am.’

  ‘Then where are you going? What’s so special it can’t wait until…’ she shrugged, ‘… he doesn’t need you any more?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Really? It’s some kind of secret?’

  ‘In a way, yes it is.’

  She nodded and then reached for the teacup, balancing it carefully on her knee. She didn’t bother to hide her irritation.

  ‘You’re really going away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Abroad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For long?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She took a sip of tea, and then another, studying him over the rim of the cup.