When he had finished, Churchill stared at the screen for a few moments, as if he were waiting to find out who had played Bryan. There were times when he was charming, with an engaging smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes, but tonight he seemed sunk in gloom. At last he said, “What does the RAF think?”

“They blame poor formation flying. In theory, if the bombers fly in close formation, their armament should cover the entire sky, so any enemy fighter that appears should be shot down immediately.”

“And what do you say to that?”

“Rubbish. Formation flying has never worked. Some new factor has entered the equation.”

“I agree. But what?”

“My brother blames spies.”

“All the spies we’ve caught have been amateurish-but that’s why they were caught, of course. It may be that the competent ones have slipped through the net.”

“Perhaps the Germans have made a technical breakthrough.”

“The Secret Intelligence Service tell me the enemy are far behind us in the development of radar.”

“Do you trust their judgment?”

“No.” The ceiling lights came on. Churchill was in evening dress. He always looked dapper, but his face was lined with weariness. He took from his waistcoat pocket a folded sheet of flimsy paper. “Here’s a clue,” he said, and he handed it to Digby.

Digby studied the sheet. It appeared to be a decrypt of a Luftwaffe radio signal, in German and English. It said that the Luftwaffe’s new strategy of dark night-fighting-Dunkle Nachtjagd-had scored a great triumph, thanks to the excellent information from Freya. Digby read the message in English then again in German. “Freya” was not a word in either language. “What does this mean?” he said.

“That’s what I want you to find out.” Churchill stood up and shrugged into his jacket. “Walk back with me,” he said. As he left, he called out, “Thank you!”

A voice from the projectionist’s booth replied, “My pleasure, sir.”