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Inside, he orders coffee, if it can be called that, and positions himself by the window. The château is visible from here, perched above the town like a watchful eye. He counts guard rotations, notes vehicle movements, memorizes faces.

“You’re not from here.” The voice comes from behind him. An old man, weathered, suspicious.

Cat turns, smiles easily. “Just passing through. On my way to Nantes to visit family. Thought I’d stop, stretch my legs. Beautiful town you have here.”

“Was beautiful. Before they came.” The old man spits the words. “Before they took the château, filled it with their machines and their soldiers.”

“The château? I remember it as an equestrian center years ago. What are they doing there now?”

The old man leans closer, voice dropping. “Communications. Radio equipment. Trucks coming and going at all hours. And officers. High-ranking ones. Someone said their uniforms were those of U-boat officers, but you don’t see any ocean down the street, do you? Something big is happening up there.”

“Interesting,” Cat murmurs, filing this away. “Do they bother the town much?”

“Some. Requisitions, mostly. Food, wine, whatever they want. And there’s Bertrand.” The old man’s face darkens. “Local boy. Joined the Militia. Now he struts around like he owns the place, reporting on neighbors, arresting anyone he doesn’t like. He’s a filthy traitor.”

A warning. Cat files this away too. “Sounds unpleasant. I’ll be on my way soon. Don’t want any trouble.”

He leaves the café as dusk falls, walks the perimeter of the town, getting closer to the château. There’s a service road for delivery trucks, with fewer guards at this entrance. Perhaps he can get in this way too.

Returning to his car, he finds the town’s only inn and takes a room for the night. The proprietor is nervous, asks too many questions, but Cat is charming, spinning his cover story once again, adding details about his family in Nantes. He is going to help his elderly relatives, but now it’s curfew, and he has no choice but to spend the night. Boring yet believable. Eventually the man relaxes.

“You’ll want to stay inside tonight,” the proprietor warns. “Curfew is strict here. The Militia patrol, and they’re not gentle with anyone they find on the streets.”

“I appreciate the warning.”

Cat has no intention of staying inside.

At midnight, he slips from his room. He is dressed in black, a small flashlight in his pocket. The service road beckons. He needs to get close enough to count the aerials, identify the equipment and anything else that might be useful.

Cat slips through shadows, keeping to the cover of the trees. The château looms above, lit from within. He can hear generators humming, see the silhouettes of guards on patrol.

Closer. Just a bit closer. There, a ground-floor window, partially open, for ventilation no doubt. He has a clear view inside. Radio equipment. Maps on the walls. Officers bent over documents.

He’s counting aerials, six, seven, eight visible from this angle, but he reckons there will be more on the other side of the roof. That’s when he hears footsteps. Heavy boots on gravel. Coming ever closer.

Cat freezes, presses himself against the château wall. It’s a patrol. Two soldiers, rifles slung over shoulders, talking in low voices. German. They’re heading straight for him.

No time to run now. They’d hear him in any case. See him. He has just seconds to decide. He spots a door recessed in shadow. He tries the handle. Locked. Of course it’s locked.

The footsteps draw closer. Ten meters. Five.

Cat does the only thing he can. He steps out of the shadows, straightens his jacket, adopts an expression of irritation. When the soldiers round the corner, they find him standing there, looking annoyed.

“Excuse me,” he says in perfect German, his accent aristocratic, bored. “I seem to have gone the wrong way. I’m looking for the east entrance. I have a meeting with Oberst Richter.”

The soldiers stop, lower their rifles slightly. One of them, the older one, squints at him. “Who are you? What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Frédéric Garlon. I’m with the telecommunications advisory committee from Paris. The Oberst requested my presence to consult on the new relay system.” He says this with perfect confidence, as if it’s obvious, as if they should know this already.

The younger soldier looks uncertain but accepting. The older one is more sceptical. “Papers.”

Cat reaches slowly into his jacket—no sudden movements—and produces his identity card. The soldier examines it by flashlight. The forgery is excellent, but will it hold up to scrutiny?

“This says you’re from Paris. Tell us exactly why you’re here.”

“I’m here because your communications equipment keeps failing, and the Oberst is tired of excuses. So here I am, at midnight, trying to find the east entrance to inspect the relay station before tomorrow’s official meeting. If you’d prefer, I can report to the Oberst that his own guards prevented me from doing my job . . .” He lets the threat hang in the air.

The soldiers exchange glances. Authority. Threats of disciplinary action. It’s a gamble, but it’s the right gamble. The older soldier hands back the papers.