Anja did as she was told, putting the mug down on the worn wooden desk.

She looked up at the mechanic expectantly.

He was wearing blue overalls that opened at the neck to show a gray collarless shirt underneath. His throat looked wrinkled, red, angry, and sore. His face seemed to be potted with a million tiny pits of oil; he looked old and tired, but Anja guessed him to be the same age as her father.

He took a rag out of his pocket, wiped his hands with it, and sat down on the edge of the desk, looking down at her as he seemed to search for words.

Anja beat him to it by turning to Harris, who was standing in the corner of the office, drinking tea from a mug that was even dirtier than hers.

“You said you were taking me to a police station.”

“All in good time,” Harris replied.

“I want to go now.”

“In a minute,” Harris said again.

She turned to the mechanic.

“Are you in charge here?”

“Yes.”

“My father will pay you if you take me to him now. He will be very worried about me.”

“I bet he is.”

“You will be rewarded for your trouble, I promise.”

“Who is your father?” the mechanic asked.

Anja shifted in her seat.

“Who he is doesn’t matter. Take me to the German sector and I will be sure to have you rewarded.”

“Who is your father?”

Anja ignored the question and looked at Harris.

“You have a duty to protect me. You are a police officer and you have a duty.”

“I have no duty to you,” said Harris, the smile gone.

Anja looked at the boy, then back at the mechanic.

“I want to go home.” Her voice sounded weaker than she had expected, and she folded her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes.

The mechanic sighed deeply and ran the rag around the back of his neck before stuffing it into his pocket and looking at Harris.

“What time you off duty?”

“Eight. I’ve been on nights.”

The mechanic looked at the clock on the wall; it was twenty to eight.

“You’d better go, come back later. I’ll have to have a think about what we should do.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“She’s only a child.”

“Yeah, but”—­Harris lifted a finger and almost pointed at Anja before dropping it again—­“she’s a German.”

“I’ll have to have a think.”

“If the boss finds out we had her and we didn’t let him know—­”

“Harris, go away and then come back, like I told you.”

“I’m only saying.”

“Go.”

Harris swigged back his tea and picked up his helmet from beside the heater. He stepped past Anja and opened the door, pushing the boy into the gap between it and the wall as he did so. He turned back to the mechanic before leaving.

“Don’t do anything without me, all right?”

“Give me her identity papers.”

Harris frowned, then took out the papers and handed them across to the mechanic, who tossed them onto the desk.

“I mean it—­wait for me, yeah?” Harris tried again.

The mechanic nodded and Harris looked at Anja, and then closed the door behind him. Anja watched him through the window as he went, putting on his helmet and exiting the garage.

“Go lock the door,” the mechanic said to Jack.

“Mr. Adams is coming for the Alvis at eight. We’ve been working on it all night. What was the point of that now? He’ll think we’ve gone home.”

“Go lock the door,” the mechanic replied.

Jack sulked out of the office, giving Anja the same look through the window as she gave him.

The mechanic closed the door, then pulled a small wooden milking stool out from under the desk. He sat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He stared at Anja and then took out the rag again, holding it in both hands, as if waging a tiny tug of war between them.

“You are in a lot of trouble, girl; I’ll be honest with you. You are in a lot of trouble. Do you understand?”

Anja nodded.

“I’m under a lot of pressure here. You’ve put me in a dangerous place. I need you to be honest with me, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Harris told me you were in a house with a machine gun, is that right?”

Anja nodded.

“How did you get there?”

Anja didn’t reply. She looked down at the floor and then back at the mechanic.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

“I don’t matter to you. You’ve got bigger problems than me to worry about if you don’t answer me. Unless you are quick and honest, you’ll not be staying here for long, you’ll be moving on somewhere you don’t want to go. So, how did you get there?”

Anja looked at the floor again.

“Listen to me, child. I don’t wage war on kids. I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to speak to me so I can decide what to do.”

Anja looked up at the mechanic; she watched the rag turn again in his hands and felt a wave building inside, pressure forming so hard her forehead suddenly seemed tight.

“They killed my mother,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“The men who took us, they killed her and then shoved her in the boot of the car.” A tear leaked from her left eye and ran down her cheek; she let it fall, not feeling it through her pain.

“Who were they?”

“Americans.”

“How do you know they were Americans?” The mechanic sat back.

“I used to watch films, with my nanny, back in Berlin, American films.” There was another tear.

“Why did they . . . why did they do what they did?”

“They want my daddy; they were using me, using us, to make him—­”

“Make him?”

“Do something important.”

The mechanic stared at her. A second or two passed between them and Anja sniffed, then wiped her cheek.

“Who is your father?”

“He is a major in the SS. His name is Ernst.”

“Koehler?” The mechanic looked at her papers and then back at her.

Anja nodded and another tear trickled free, then fell to the floor silently.

“What did they want him to do?”

“He was fetching someone important, I don’t know who, from Cambridge. I heard them talking but that is all they said.”

“Where are the Americans who took you?”

“I don’t know.