Working late, as I am. Need to focus here. Can't do anything beyond here, anyway. Except worry – and that won't help.

A bath would – and there's running hot water.

Twenty minutes later, bathed and settled back on the chaise longue in a silk dressing gown, a discreet, rhythmic knock sounded at the door. David stood, adjusting the robe fronts and tightening the sash as he strode to the door and opened it.

A middle-aged man in an immaculate black tailcoat stood in the corridor. "Bonsoir, Monsieur," he said, offering a slight bow. "I am Jean-Luc. The concierge informed us that you prefer to dine in your room this evening."

"Good evening. Yes, thank you, Jean-Luc. I have eaten nothing since a rather grim, cold breakfast in Metz at seven this morning. Though quite ravenous, I am far too tired to endure the dining room."

Jean-Luc smiled, stepping inside and uncapping a fountain pen. "A wise choice, sir. The restaurant promises to be raucous tonight, crowded with patrons of the Old Boys."

"Old boys?"

"Ah, yes. You have been away. Our local football club, the BSC Old Boys, have defied all odds and reached the Serie A finals – it was in all the newspapers. On Sunday, they will play FC Winterthur for the championship."

"Such a different mood from that in Germany." David shook his head. "But to present matters, dinner. The concierge mentioned fresh river salmon and veal sweetbreads. Might I begin with the salmon, poached gently in white wine and served with a rich beurre blanc?"

"Certainly, sir." Jean-Luc's pen glided across the paper. "And to follow?"

"Could they sear the sweetbreads in foaming butter and accompany them with sautéed wild mushrooms?"

"The morels are scarcer this time of year, but we have sources, and this morning, we received the season's first chanterelles from the Jura foothills. Which would you prefer?"

"Both. To bring back memories. To experience the old with the new."

Jean-Luc nodded and wrote again. "And to drink?"

"To remind me of my great-aunt's wine, a Corton-Charlemagne. A mature vintage, but one still with vigour."

"A superb choice, but beyond my expertise. I shall have the sommelier come and advise you, Monsieur Meier." He pointed to his notes. "Might I recommend beginning with chilled chervil and asparagus cream soup? Our chef is famous for his rendition of it."

David nodded. "Please."

After writing again, Jean-Luc said, "I will have the sommelier sent as soon as he is available, the soup in ten minutes when dinner service begins, and salmon and sweetbreads timed to follow. Do you wish to dine slowly or more quickly?"

"Slowly, please. I have much to contemplate."

After Jean-Luc left, David settled again on the chaise longue and allowed his mind to drift. Such a different feeling here. Far less need to be wary. Tense. Edgy. He breathed a deep sigh. But still mindful. Agents come in many shapes.

A soft, authoritative knock announced the next visitor, and David called, "Enter, please." The door swung open, and a slender, silver-haired gentleman stepped in. "Bonsoir Monsieur Meier, I am Pierre Fontaine. Jean-Luc informed me that you possess a discerning palate and a memory for the grand wines of Burgundy."

"Thank you, Monsieur Fontaine. My great-aunt's Klettgau wine has often been compared to the finest Corton-Charlemagne, and I continue seeking one that might match its quality."

Fontaine tilted his head, a spark of genuine interest replacing his formal demeanour. "Ah, the Klettgau. A region of steep slopes and particular climates, Monsieur Meier. The reds get the fame, but whites from the sheltered limestone banks often possess astonishing merit."

He stepped further into the room. "To honour such a memory, and to stand up to the earthiness of the morels and chanterelles, we must choose a bottle that has survived its youth. I have two paths we might take."

David shifted on the chaise longue, gesturing for the sommelier to proceed. "Tell me."

"The first is a Louis Jadot 1911, a magnificent, hot summer, the finest one before Europe turned to madness. It has aged into a brilliant, deep amber-gold, and it retains a striking, smoky minerality – much like wines from the limestone of the Klettgau. Its persistent acidity will slice through the beurre blanc of your salmon, while its rich, nutty weight will embrace the sweetbreads flawlessly."

David nodded. "As I remember Tante's 1911. And the alternative?"

"A Bouchard Père & Fils 1906. With nearly a decade in our cellars, the primary fruit has surrendered to the secondary, offering notes of honeyed beeswax, dried stone fruit, and toasted hazelnuts. It possesses an immense, quiet power, but it is a meditative bottle. It demands that you sit with it as it changes in the glass."

David pursed his lips, nodded, then said, "The 1911 is more fitting. Something fresher, brighter. Besides, I have no experience of Tante's 1906."

Fontaine bowed from the waist. "A choice of great discernment, Monsieur. I will return with it before the arrival of your soup."

Shortly after the sommelier left, a soft, rhythmic knock sounded, and David called, "Please, enter."

Two waiters glided a damask-clothed table into the room. With silent, synchronised movements, they arrange the heavy silver cutlery, the porcelain bearing the hotel's crest, and a vase with a single red rose.

Before they could finish setting the silver, Fontaine returned, carrying the bottle in an ice bucket and a crisp white napkin draped over his forearm." He angled the bottle so David could see the label. "The 1911 Corton-Charlemagne, Monsieur Meier."

The label showed the faint, damp greyness David recognised from those he had seen in Michael's cellar, and he nodded. "Excellent."

Fontaine set the silver bucket on the corner of the table, then, with a small pocket knife, he cleanly cut the foil below the lip of the bottle and wiped the exposed neck with his napkin. Then, with a heavy iron corkscrew, he drew the cork in a smooth, silent pull and held it to his nose, nodding.

After pouring a small splash into a large crystal glass, he said, "To ensure it is correct."

David lifted the glass, noting the clear, pale amber hue. He swirled it once, lifted it to his nose, then took a sip. "Vibrant acidity, almost lemon, but softer. Baked apple in buttery brioche with cinnamon and roasted almonds. Hints of freshly-struck flint. Very much like Tante's 1911."

"You taste very well, Monsieur Meier, and more, you know how to express it."

"Generations of winemakers allow that."

"If your family produces a wine such as this, then our cellars here at Les Trois Rois are poorer for its absence. On your next journey through Basel, you must permit me to taste it."

"There is also a pinot noir that is often confused with Chambertin."

"Oh, my! Why am I unaware of these?"

"Before the war, the market was mainly in Germany."

"Yes, of course, much closer." As he poured more wine into David's glass, he added, "Then, with no established Swiss market, she must have substantial unsold stock."

"I am uncertain of her current situation – my concern has been elsewhere this last long while."

"Yes, of course. Enjoy your evening, Monsieur Meier. I shall leave my information with the concierge, and perhaps, we can talk further before your departure."

As the sommelier left, Jean-Luc entered carrying a heavy, domed silver tureen, set it on the table and lifted the cover, releasing a fragrant aroma. "Chilled chervil and asparagus cream soup, sir"

"It smells divine – particularly so after hours of dust and hunger."

With a silver ladle, Jean-Luc gently transferred pale green soup into David's wide-rimmed bowl. "The kitchen wishes you an enticing start to your meal, sir." Then with a polite bow, he withdrew, closing the heavy mahogany door behind him.

The first spoonfuls of soup began to ease his hunger, then he slowed to enjoy the sharp freshness of the greens as the flavours and texture lifted the lingering fog of his journey. He had not long finished when a soft tap preceded the return of Jean-Luc, wheeling a mahogany room service cart draped in snow-white damask.

After clearing the soup service, he lifted a silver cloche to reveal a thick fillet of salmon, perfectly opaque and glistening under a glossy coat of beurre blanc. "Voila, Monsieur Meier, poached Rhine salmon." With a silver server, he transferred the large filet onto a plate and, while arranging the small potatoes, said, "Pommes vapeur tournées, and to add colour and complexity, the last of the season's asparagus tips."

As the plate was set in front of him, David leaned forward to capture more of the aroma. "So much like my mother used to prepare."

"We are pleased, sir. I will inform the chef." With a low bow, Jean-Luc slipped out, leaving the room silent once more.

David cut a small piece, dredged it in the sauce and lifted it to his mouth to savour. The richness of the butter and the tenderness of the fish brought to mind the salmon runs on the Columbia. Like the June hogs mamère prepared. Must write home again.

After a sip of wine, he took another bite. The Rhine is like the Columbia, with salmon swimming upstream from the ocean to spawn. But here, it flows from a neutral country into a belligerent one. There, it flows from a country forced to defend itself against aggression into one that profits from the war.

While he ate and sipped, he tried to focus on the new intelligence he must send to London, but his mind kept drifting to Maria. For diversion, he thought about his family back home in Trail. But it is no longer home. Nor will it be when this craziness ends. This is home. Maria, Tante, Rachel and Georg, Michael and Mary – they are my family.

But Mamère? Still a desolate life with Dad? Maybe it will resolve, improve ...

His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock, and he called, "Enter."

Jean-Luc opened the door and glided the service cart in. As he cleared the empty plate, he smiled and said, "It appears it was entirely to your satisfaction, sir."

David smiled back at him. "I found the porcelain too tough, so I left it."

Jean-Luc chuckled, lifted the cloche to reveal a plate and said, "Les ris de veau on a bed of chanterelles and morels in a golden croustade de feuilletage." Then, with a silver spoon, he placed a bright emerald arrangement next to the pastry. "And to complete the plate, petits pois à la française. Encore, bon appétit."

"Thank you. Your service is impeccable."

Jean-Luc nodded, then wheeled the cart out.

David examined the presentation, leaning forward to enjoy the complex aromas. Then after a sip of wine, he gently shattered the edge of the puff pastry, cut a piece from a sweetbread lobe, speared slices of chanterelle and morel, and rolled a few small peas onto his fork.

As he savoured, his thoughts went to what his father called this style of cooking. Sissy food. Working men need steak and roasts, not Frenchified frivolity.

After a sip of wine to tie all the flavours together, he built another bite while thinking: When peace returns, would it make sense to bring Mamère here? Would she want that? From her recent letters – her sense of emptiness ...

His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone's bell.