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things in there, Professor. Let's just say it was a parting gift from a friend.' A sergeant radio-operator appeared and crouched down beside Carter, holding a signal. 'Colonel Carter, this came through for you just as we were leaving. Plain language. I hope it makes sense, sir.' Carter glanced at it and smiled. 'Perfect sense, sergeant.' The boy moved away and Luciano said, 'You seem pleased.' 'You could say that. An interesting fact about this war, Mr Luciano, is that the British are actually more thoroughly documented than the Germans. Every man, woman and child has to have a National Identity Card. Remember the piece of paper I gave the President? It was a request for our Intelligence people in London to see if they could run down Maria Vaughan. It didn't take them long.' He passed the signal and Luciano's eyes widened. 'Sister Maria Vaughan. Convent of the Little Sisters of Pity, Liverpool. Holy Mother of God.' 'Careful,' Carter told him as he took the signal back. 'You almost crossed yourself.' 'Little Sisters of Pity. That's a new one on me.' 'It's a nursing order.' 'Liverpool. Isn't that a port?' 'On the north west coast of England. Lancashire.* 'You intend to go see her?' 'Yes, I would say that's a distinct possibility.' 'Everything's click-click with you,' Luciano said. 'I bet you're one hell of a chess player. But no emotion. You ever love anybody, Professor? I mean really love?' Carter nodded. 'Oh, yes, very definitely.' 'When was this?' 'About a thousand years ago - when I was sixteen. Farmer's daughter in Norfolk where we used to go for family holidays. I can see her now, running over the sand dunes in a cotton frock.' 'What happened?' 'She died during the influenza epidemic just after the war. Now me, I ran away from school and joined an infantry battalion just before my seventeenth birthday. I thought it was a romantic thing to do.' 'That figures,' Luciano said, but he was no longer smiling. 'We started the big push in 1918 with a battalion of 752 men. Within three months, we were down to seventy-three. I couldn't get killed and she had to die of bloody influenza.' Luciano said calmly, 'So you never married?' 'Yes, my second cousin, Olive, in 1923.' 67 'You loved her?' 'She was a childhood friend and she loved me/ 'You got children?' 'No, she had the worst kind of miscarriage very early on.' 'You going to see her when we get in?' Carter shook his head. 'Not possible. She died of cancer in 'thirty-eight.' Luciano nodded. 'So, the war came just in time for you.' Carter gazed at him blankly. 'You think so?' 'Don't you?' Luciano tipped the slouch hat over his eyes, folded his arms and slept. It was raining hard in Liverpool the following night when JU88 pathfinders made their first strike on the Liverpool Docks. At the General Infirmary, Sister Maria Vaughan had been due to go off duty at seven, but there was a severe shortage of experienced theatre nurses and at the last moment, she had been asked to assist Professor Tankerley with a post-mortem in the mortuary. It was not a duty she cared for, but it had to be done. In the preparation room, she quickly pulled a fresh white gown over her habit and adjusted her cowl, checking herself in the mirror. She was twenty-three and slightly built with a grave, steady face. One of those plain faces that, for some reason, most people found themselves looking at twice. Only the eyes betrayed her, full of a kind of restless searching that showed that any visible repose had to be fought for. When she went into surgery, Tankerley was already there, a small intense man in a white gown that, from its condition, had already seen considerable service. There was no one else there except for the corpse under a sheet. Tankerley pulled on rubber gloves impatiently. 'Do get a move on, Sister. I've got a ward round in an hour.' He was three years past the retirement age, had only stayed on because of the war; a fine surgeon and convinced atheist who had little time for nuns at the best of