Jacques spirited Sibyl back to Colmar within the hour. She could not risk a Château Gauthier vehicle; one had to assume the SS would be swarming everywhere; and they were. They went by foot, on bicycle, by horse carriage and delivery van, from village to village, friendly farm to friendly farm. Not that Sibyl considered herself a prime suspect, but she was the perpetrator, and her heart was galloping, and not until she was safely behind her counter at the cobbler’s did her breath flow comfortably again. And not even then.

News of the bomb attack was all over town, said Oncle Yves, who had gone to the market to hear the gossip. Everyone knew. Everyone knew it had failed. No-one knew the details.

What had gone wrong? There was no way of knowing. Had the room been checked for explosives, and evacuated at the last moment? Had the conference been postponed for other reasons? Where was Himmler now? Where was von Haagen?

Did he suspect her?

That was the question hammering at the back of Sibyl’s mind, for a guilty mind is a restless mind, perception biased to the point of paranoia.

He had told her. He must suspect her. They would come after her…

But perhaps not. She should have stayed away from Colmar. No. It was right to return. Suicide pills, hidden in shirt pockets and lingerie – just in case. Brazen it out. If they came for her: deny, deny, deny. Or did they have proof? Had von Haagen confessed to indiscretions? To pillow talk, even without a pillow? What did they know? What did he think? Would he be back?

Sibyl sat in the cobbler’s shop behind the counter, reading Rilke poetry, or trying to read, as her mind was chaos.

The window was still boarded up; she could not see the street, which made it all so much worse. If the Gestapo came it would be without warning, bursting through the door; no jangle of bells to announce them. No polite small talk. No Guten Tag, Frau Schuster. They’d charge in with pointing pistols, frogmarch her away.

But maybe not.

It was, she realised, the ultimate test for von Haagen. Trust no-one: it was the fundamental warning given to all wartime players. Trust no-one. As a good German he should turn himself in, turn her in. Yes: I told my fiancée. She knew. I am the leak. She is the leak.

And yet. Von Haagen’s face hovered before her mind’s eye, and in it was a trust so inviolable, so intimately fused with his very sense of survival, his need to survive this war and live on with her at his side: it generated a reciprocal trust, trust in him. That he would not betray her.

You are the other half of my soul, he had said at their last meeting. My better half.

He clung to that belief as a drowning man to a lifebelt. She knew he would never let go, never betray her. Betrayal was her game, not his. And it would continue. Her job was not yet over.

And yet: she had wept for him, believing him dead, believing she had killed him. She had not only wept for him: it had been a complete breakdown, a crumbling of self, faced with the magnitude of her betrayal, faced with the knowledge that she had done the unthinkable, betrayed love that was true and genuine.

In a matter of hours she had regained her professional identity, put such sentimental notions behind her. She had done her job, and that was all. She would continue to do it; she would wear the mask she had been contracted to wear, and life as Marlene Schuster, cobbler’s assistant, would continue. Von Haagen would return. She would betray him again and again; for the duration.

---

They came that evening. They did not burst through the door in the scenario of her imagination and her fears. They came, indeed, to the familiar jangling of bells, and they greeted her by name. Again, it was two of them; but not the same two.

‘Sicherheitspolizei. Sturmbannführer Weber. This is Obersturmführer Müller. Good evening, Fräulein Schuster. Please be so kind as to show us your identity papers.’

Sibyl did as asked. Her identity card was passed between them, inspected and handed back. Sturmbannführer Weber nodded. Obersturmführer Müller took a notebook out of his uniform pocket and held it with a pencil poised above it. Sturmbannführer Weber nodded at his colleague.

‘In Ordnung. Now, Fräulein Schuster, if you don’t mind, we have a few questions regarding some of your personal relationships. We believe you are the niece of Herr Schuster. Is that correct?’

Sibyl nodded. ‘Yes. That’s true.’

Obersturmführer Müller scribbled in his notebook.

‘But you did not grow up in Colmar. You came from Paris, recently. Is that also true?’

‘Yes. But I was born in Colmar and my parents are both Alsatians. Were. My father died when I was a child.’

That was a mistake. Answer questions, but only what was asked. Don’t offer them more.

Sturmbannführer Weber nodded again, as if to agree with her. ‘Now, Fräulein Schuster, we are interested in your more personal relationships. Your friends and – ah – lovers. We believe you are the mistress of Oberst Wolfgang von Haagen?’

She shook her head. ‘I am not his mistress. I am his fiancée.’

Sturmbannführer Weber smirked. ‘Often those two are one and the same. But we will accept your terminology. Our next question is, how long have you been intimate with the Herr Oberst – though I believe he was a Major back then?’

‘We met in July.’

‘We would like details of that first meeting. How did you approach the Herr Oberst? And why?’

‘I did not approach him. He approached me.’

‘Go on – tell us how this encounter took place.’

‘I was walking from the station with a heavy suitcase. Major von Haagen very kindly offered to carry the suitcase for me.’

‘You did not approach him, ask for help?’

‘No.’

They both nodded, as if Sibyl’s denial confirmed information they already had. Obersturmführer Müller scribbled furiously.

‘Now, we would like to know more about the details of your relationship. I assume the two of you have many intimate conversations?’

‘Well, we have conversations. I don’t know what you mean by intimate.’

‘Well – of an intimate nature. Lovers are after all inclined to share the details of their lives, their hopes and fears, their – ah – most intimate secrets. Do you have this kind of conversation with the Herr Oberst? What do you discuss?’

‘We talk about culture, books, music, art. We like the same things. And we talk about our future together. We plan to marry soon.’

‘When a man has met the woman he plans to share his life with, sometimes he is inclined to discuss matters that – ah – are better kept to himself. Did Herr Oberst speak to you of military matters?’

‘No. Of course not. Only things that are generally known.’

‘But how do you know what is generally known and what is not?’

‘Because they are in the newspapers. My uncle buys a newspaper sometimes and I read it.’

‘Did you know of any visiting dignitaries in Colmar?’

‘No.’

‘Did you know of any planned conferences? The dates and times?’

She held his gaze. Steady. In spite of a heart thumping so loud she was sure he could hear it.

‘No.’

‘Fräulein Schuster – did you hear of a somewhat large explosion in Colmar this morning?’

‘I heard of it, yes. People were speaking of it in the market.’

‘Where were you, Fräulein Schuster, last night?’

‘I was in bed.’

‘You did not go out?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you at about nine thirty this morning?’

‘I was working. Here.’

‘You were not in a black Renault, which was seen in the vicinity of the explosion?’

‘No.’

‘When did you go to the market?’

‘I don’t know the exact time. Around lunchtime.’

‘Can you recall anyone you spoke to at the market? Do you have witnesses, for your whereabouts last night and this morning?’

‘Well, my uncle, for one. I spoke to a few people at the market. I don’t know if they will remember me.’

Sturmbannführer Weber looked at Obersturmführer Müller. ‘Have you got that, Herr Kollege? Good. Fräulein Schuster, we thank you for your cooperation. We will check the details of what you have told us and if necessary get back to you. In the meantime, we would like to speak to your uncle. Please could you…’