He closed the case, put it back on the top bunk, and checked his watch. The train would be in Osnabruck in fifteen minutes. It was impossible for him to do anything about the American until after he had seen Muller.

There was a discreet tap on the door and the attendant entered, a tray balanced on one hand. “Coffee, mein Herr?”

Chavasse nodded. “Yes, I think I will.” The man quickly filled a cup and handed it to him. Chavasse helped himself to sugar and said, “Are we on time?”

The attendant shook his head. “About five minutes late. Can I get you anything else?” Chavasse said no, and the man bade him good night and went out, closing the door behind him.

The coffee wasn’t as hot as it could have been and Chavasse drained the cup quickly and sat on the edge of his bunk. It was warm in the compartment, too warm, and his throat had gone curiously dry. Beads of perspiration oozed from his forehead and trickled down into his eyes. He tried to get up, but his limbs seemed to be nailed to the bunk. Something was wrong – something was very wrong, but then the lightbulb seemed to explode into a thousand fragments that whirled around the room in a glowing nebula, and as he fell back across the bunk, darkness flooded over him.

AFTER a while, the light seemed to come back again, to rush to meet him from the vortex of the darkness, and then it became the lightbulb swaying rhythmically from side to side. He blinked his eyes several times and it became stationary.

He was lying on his back on the floor of the compartment and he frowned and tried to remember what had happened, but his head ached and his brain refused to function. What am I doing here? he thought. What the hell am I doing here? He reached for the edge of the bunk and pulled himself up into a sitting position.