Page 83 of The Berlin Agent (John Cook #2)

The siren wailed from below, not loud enough to cover the sound of men running into the cinema, twenty feet below me. I heard confused shouts, then shots. I pulled my legs out of harm’s way, just in time. Bullets clinked against the hatch as I closed it. I turned a circular handle to lock the mechanism and shoved an iron bar through the handle, wedging it tight against the concrete. Nobody would be coming through from below.

With the hatch closed, it was strangely quiet. Even the siren sounded muffled, like a radio playing in a distant room.

There was a thick mist. I could barely see Vaughn, four feet in front of me, kneeling by his sister, holding a compress to the wound on her shoulder.

There was the merest hint of purple morning light. Enough to give a dull illumination to the rising mist, but not enough to pierce it. The only discernible shapes in the blankness were looming columns. The trees, and the towers.

I pulled a compass from my jacket pocket and orientated myself. I was facing south. Taking a route to my left would get us out, in the direction of the Leckies’ house.

I knelt by Vaughn. Miriam’s skin was as pallid as the mist. She was in shock.

I showed Vaughn the compass.

‘Head that way,’ I said, making a chopping gesture towards the east, into the mist. ‘Keep going until you’re clear of the trees. You’ll come to Palehouse Lane. Stay off it, but keep it on your right. I’ll meet you at the Leckies’ house.’

‘Is she going to make it?’ he asked. He was lost, on the verge of tears. Suddenly the war games and debates meant nothing. How different history would be, if all men had to confront the reality of failure as much as the excitement of victory, before they chose their path.

‘Two possible outcomes,’ I said. ‘She either lives or dies.’

I pulled bandages from his rucksack. I wrapped a length of bandage around her, pulling it tight. With luck, it would hold the compress against the wound.

‘If you stay here, she’ll either die or end up in prison. They’ll execute her for treason. If you take her, she’ll either die, or she’ll survive and there’ll be a chance we can all evade capture.’

He picked her up.

I pressed the compass into his hand.

‘Go to the Leckies’ house,’ I said. ‘I’ll catch up with you.’

He nodded, and stumbled forwards, into the mist.

‘Where’s Freddie?’ I shouted after him, but he didn’t turn around.

How far would he get, carrying her? What would he do when he realised his own chance of escape was vastly -improved without his dying sister in his arms? Not a -decision I’d wish on any man, even my enemy.