The tunnel disgorged them at last into the grey light beyond Saverne Pass. As the train began its descent, it lurched and swayed, then gathered speed again, smoke from the locomotive continuing to find its way through the imperfect seals of the windows and corridor doors. David closed the book on his knee, more relieved than disappointed to leave Gregor Samsa behind.

Enough surrealism. The real thing is heavy enough.

He checked his watch and recalculated. The lost hour and a quarter on the Arzviller siding had bitten deeply into the margin, but not enough to ruin the day. If the train ran cleanly from here, he should still reach Straßburg at a quarter to one.

The Passierschein should ease him through whatever security there might be, and thirty minutes ought to be ample to cross the station, bypass the worst of the civilian bottlenecks and reach the eastbound platform. From there, the shuttle over the Kehl Bridge to Appenweier and Offenburg should take no more than three-quarters of an hour, even with the stop for the security inspection.

That would put him into Offenburg before half-past two – enough time to retrieve the Lancia and still have the bulk of the afternoon for the run south to Weil-am-Rhein and the crossing before its dusk closing.

After a stop in Saverne, the wheels clicked steadily beneath him as the train ran eastward. At Steinbourg, they stopped only long enough to exchange mail sacks and board a few passengers. At Hochfelden and Brumath, they did not stop at all; the points were already set to let their priority consist through, while local traffic sat waiting on the sidings.

The land slipped by in long planes of green and grey under a brightening sky. Villages sat low and withdrawn, church towers dark against the receding rain clouds. Here and there, women bent in the fields, small figures working by hand where once horses would have drawn the plough. David watched them until the train curved away and the view was swallowed by poplars and embankments.

By the time the outlying railyards and rooftops of Straßburg appeared, the day had sharpened into clear afternoon light. The train glided beneath the vast glass and iron vault of the Hauptbahnhof and settled with only the lightest jolt. David checked his watch. 12:53. Better than feared.

He rose at once, lifted his suitbag from the rack and slung it over his shoulder, pleased with how light it was – almost insubstantial after the burden of the previous day. With the sample case now inside, it no longer marked him as sharply as before.

The corridor was already filling with officers and officials anxious to step down before the troops at the rear surged forward. David waited only long enough to avoid the first crush, then moved into the flow, the Passierschein in his hand, the red seal visible.

On the platform, the air was thick with smoke, shouted orders and the hot-metal smell of locomotives and brakes that had worked hard. Soldiers in field-grey trailed along behind NCOs toward westbound troop trains, while civilians clogged the central approaches to the concourse. Mail trolleys, baggage carts and Red Cross orderlies competed for the same strips of paving.

He paused to survey the civilian press, then turned toward a station guard posted near the head of the train. Holding the Passierschein so that the wax seal caught the light, he said, "Im Dienste des Kronprinzen ... In the service of the Crown Prince, I must make the eastbound shuttle for Offenburg as quickly as possible."

The guard's eyes went straight to the document, then he clicked his heels and pointed toward the side passage. "This way, Herr. Through the staff corridor. It will bring you directly to the eastern platforms."

Exactly what I hoped. Making up time lost on the siding.

Within minutes, David had been conducted through a narrow passage behind the ticket windows, up a short stair, then down again into a quieter section of the station where railway clerks and military messengers moved with more purpose and less confusion. He thanked the guard, checked the board, and found the shuttle already announced.

APPENWEIER – 13:10 – GLEIS OST 2

Ample time. Would have been late through the crowds.

David stepped onto the platform just as the short consist pulled in under a cloud of steam – a windowless mail car, two plain carriages, and the same type of compartment coach he had ridden eastward the previous day. Smaller crowd, better order. The worst of the congestion had indeed been left behind in the civilian hall.

He watched at least twice as many disembark as were waiting with him on the platform. Of course, feeding the Front.

When the last had descended from the sleek green car, David headed toward it, making sure the red seal was visible. The platform official nodded him aboard. Inside, he entered the first compartment, laid the suitbag on the seat beside him, and settled by the window. At 13:12, after a brief delay waiting for a military freight to cross, the shuttle pulled out and curved eastward toward the Rhine.

The ride was as efficient as he had hoped. Through the outskirts of Straßburg, across the approach to Kehl, and then slowing for the checkpoint on the bridge. This time, the inspection was brief and perfunctory. A Feldgendarmerie patrol walked through the corridor, looked in through the glass, saw the seal in David's hand and moved on without opening the compartment door.

As the wheels squealed around the curve at Appenweier, David checked his watch. 13:57. Excellent.

When the shuttle slowed along the Offenburg platform, the station clock showed 14:09, and as he stepped down, he felt the first true easing of pressure since leaving Metz. The military urgency was still all around him, but now the shape of the journey had resolved itself. He was back on the side of the river where his arrangements held firm, his suitbag light, his papers in order, and the rest of the day still before him.

The walk to the military motor pool took only three minutes. At the gate, the same depot sergeant as the day before greeted him, "Herr Meier. Your car is washed, fuelled, and ready, as instructed."

David thanked him, signed the release book, and followed him inside. The Lancia stood in the shade of the garage, its deep blue bodywork clean again, the dust of the Höllental road washed away. He placed the suitbag on the rear seat, checked the petrol gauge, kicked tyres and thumped the four spares, then climbed in.

At 14:20, he was back on the road. The route south ran clear enough to allow good speed. Villages, orchards, and the first rising folds toward Freiburg slipped past. The military traffic was there, of course – wagons, ambulances, troop columns – but nothing dense enough to halt him for more than a minute or two at a crossing or bend. And, of course, at the checkpoints.

A few minutes south of Lahr, he felt the rear of the car begin to wallow. Bugger damn! Why now? He eased the hand throttle and gently depressed the brake pedal, bringing the car to a stop at the side of the gravelled roadway.

He removed his linen driving coat and suitcoat, laid them on the seat and stepped out. At the rear of the car, he opened the boot, took the folded smock from its bag, shrugged into it and pulled on his motoring gloves. Then he took out the plank, axle jack and toolbag and set them by the rear right wheel. At least, it's out of the direct dust.

With the wheel wrench placed, he lifted a foot onto it and bounced to crack the nut free. After cracking the others, he slid the plank under the axle, set the jack on it, and began cranking. As the car rose, he examined the tyre. Probably repairable.

Four minutes later, with the wheel removed and replaced, he reversed the process. After securing the flat in the running board slot, he walked around the car, kicking the tyres to prove them. Satisfied, he returned the jack, plank, and tools to the boot, removed the smock and gloves, and examined and smelled his hands.

Then as he took a piece of pumice cloth from a bag and scrubbed, he thought: Need new gloves. After wiping with a linen cloth splashed with lavender water, he smelled again. Passable.

Replacing everything, he donned his suitcoat and driving cloak, got in and glanced at his watch – Eighteen minutes. Still time in hand for another flat, perhaps two. He continued southward.

He approached Weil-am-Rhein with the sun high above the horizon and slightly over his right shoulder. Still well before their dusk closing. For the first time since stepping out of the Kaiserlicher Pavillon, he allowed himself to relax. Not fully, though – there were still two sets of border guards to placate.

Damn! Damn, damn, damn. Too focused on protecting the wine. Don't have an entry stamp in my passport. Likely also needed one for Wilhelm's pass.

He blew a loud breath. Too close to turn around. Do nothing but add suspicion. They'd follow me. Catch me. Or inform the next checkpoint.

As he eased toward the gate, his mind churned. Play privileged? Eccentric? Befuddled?