David rose at the telephone's summons, crossed the room in three quick strides and lifted the earpiece from its hook. "Yes?"

The hotel operator's voice came through faintly, slightly distorted by the line. "Monsieur Meier, a trunk call has just come through from Bern. The party is waiting. Shall I connect you?"

His shoulders eased at once, though only a little. "Yes, please. Thank you."

He sat in the desk chair, listening to the clicks and faint electrical crackle as the line was transferred through the exchanges. Then came a longer pause, followed by a soft hum and the distant suggestion of another room.

A familiar voice, careful and composed, said, "David?"

He closed his eyes and sighed. "What a relief to hear your voice, Maria. Is all well?"

"It is. I returned rather later than expected, and Stanley told me where you were."

"My day was also longer than expected, but productive."

There was a tiny pause, as if she were arranging her next words before letting them out. "And your host? Was he gracious?"

David smiled at her creativity. "Exceptionally so. The wines were appreciated, and the conversation ... useful."

"Good." Another pause. "I had imagined it might be."

"And your condition? Still hungry?"

"Yes, but for you, even stronger."

David chuckled. "As with me, I ..." He paused as the line hummed and a switch clicked. "I expect to return tomorrow after a visit with Hans."

"It would ease my mind if you promised to relax tonight, slow your mind and enjoy. You have earned it."

He looked across to the table, smiling at his dinner. "I am partway through enjoying the hotel's superb cuisine and a bottle of wine."

"Excellent! The rewards of a successful visit."

"Much more than I had hoped. I will tell you about it tomorrow – after showing you how much I love you."

"I will come home early, then. Love you, David."

"Pleasant dreams, Maria."

The faint hum withdrew, replaced by the soft deadness of a line gone open. He returned the earpiece to its hook and stood. All is well. Or as well as can be said on a watched wire.

He drew a deep breath, let it out, and returned to the table. The room was unchanged – the rose in its vase, the polished silver, the dinner as he left it – yet everything felt steadier now.

Then after savouring a large sip of wine, he picked up his knife and fork to resume eating. His mind now clearer, he again turned his thoughts to the German situation, running his observations through his mind to keep them fresh. Piecing these together with reports from the men and intelligence briefings from London, he knit an overview.

A short while after he finished the sweetbreads, Jean-Luc returned to clear the dinner service. Then lifting a linen cloth, he said, "The sommelier suggested a cheese selection to complement the remainder of your wine, sir. A sharp, aged Gruyère, a creamy Vacherin, and our local herbed Appenzeller."

David examined the selection, thought about the bottle in the ice bucket, and smiled. "A fine excuse to continue with it, then."

"From what he told me about it, sir, it needs no excuse." He sliced a portion of each onto a small marble slab, then set down a small wicker basket lined with a checkered cloth. "To accompany the cheeses, we have slices of our crusty baguette, providing a canvas for the creamy Vacherin. This dark rye bread, the chef insists, is the only proper match for the sharp crystals of our aged Gruyère. And these water biscuits are neutral, allowing the Appenzeller full opportunity."

"Thank you, Jean-Luc. There is too much wine for me to finish; I will pour myself a final measure, and you may have the rest."

"Thank you, sir. Enjoy the remainder of your evening."

After Jean-Luc left, David rose and locked the door. Then he moved the cheese slab, the basket and the wine glass to the low table by the chaise longue. Leaning back against the plush cushions, he looked out at the reddening sky. A world at peace – or the tense version of it that Switzerland is. How much longer will this last?

But in Germany, with the steel, copper, glass, fertiliser and food shortage? How much longer there? How much longer before there's a soldier shortage?

As he nibbled and sipped, he recalled overheard conversations on the platforms, the deification of Hindenburg, and the joking about his yes-man, Ludendorff. The hope many expressed – so different from König's fear. What would change? Better or worse for them? More importantly, for us?

His mind continued to review and analyse as he finished the cheese, bread, and biscuits. As he savoured the last sips of wine, his thoughts turned to Maria. He rose, got a washcloth from the bathroom, took the slim, silver cigarette case from his suitcoat pocket, flipped the duvet aside and lay on his back. With the case open to her photographs, he let his mind caress her body. A while later, relieved of another tension, he cleaned and drifted to sleep.

Thursday, 15th June 1916

The brilliant glare of the June sun pierced the riverfront windows and landed on David's closed eyelids. He woke with a sudden, sharp intake of breath, squinted against the blinding light and rolled away. Damn! Slept in. He lifted his wrist to check the time: Not quite five thirty. Stopped?

Lifting it to his ear to hear it still steadily ticking, he realised. Of course. Almost the solstice. He rose and walked to the window to see the sun barely above the rooftops across the river. After closing the drapes, he returned to bed and was quickly asleep.

He woke for the second time and looked at his watch. Seven thirty-five. A more civilised hour. He rose and went to the bathroom to refresh. Breakfast here or downstairs? Here. More restful.

Dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, he lifted the telephone receiver and cranked. A moment later, a cheerful voice asked, "Comment puis-je vous aider?"

Room Service, please."

"I will connect you, sir."

After David ordered a pot of coffee, a basket of fresh croissants, two soft-boiled eggs and a selection of meats and cheeses, the voice said, "Oui, Monsieur Meier. Would you care for the morning papers?"

"Yes, the National-Zeitung, if you have it – otherwise the local."

"Right away, Monsieur."

Ten minutes later, David stood on the balcony in shirtsleeves when the knock sounded. He strode across and opened the door, then pointed and asked, "The morning is calm and warm – can you set it up out there?"

"Certainly, sir."

David stood at the rail, watching the Rhine roiling past as the young waiter laid the breakfast table, the heavy silver pots steamed in the morning air, and croissants exhaled the sweet, warm scent of baked butter. When the waiter finished and left, David locked the door, returned to the sun-soaked balcony and sat.

As he poured the dark coffee into his porcelain cup, the intense rising aromas both surprised and stimulated him. He ventured a sip. Too intense. He glanced at the pot of hot, frothy milk, realising its purpose. But there's no room left in the cup. So, this is what Michael meant about Basel coffee.

He took another sip. So much stronger than boiled or percolated and that ersatz stuff in Germany. After a few more sips, he found it increasingly enjoyable. As he sipped and ate, he unfolded the National-Zeitung to scan the columns, hunting for the subtle truths hidden behind the neutral Swiss reporting.

The front page remained a battlefield of ink, dominated by the lingering shockwaves of the North Sea. But now, two weeks after the clash at Jutland, the editors noted that the earlier German chest-thumping had been unfounded by facts. The British blockade was still tightly fastened around the empire's throat.

Beside the naval dispatches sat the grim post-mortem of Lord Kitchener's death, and the paper detailed the solemn memorial service held at St. Paul's in London on Tuesday. Then he turned to the editorial columns. German-leaning papers were already printing whispers that the sinking hadn't been mere bad luck with a mine – they hinted that an inside tip had doomed the Secretary for War on his way to Russia.

Turning to the internal European pages, a smaller piece regarding the Eastern Front caught his eye: The terrifying momentum of the Russian offensive, currently shattering the Austro-Hungarian lines. The analysts hinted at a growing concern in Berlin, but the emphasis was on the surging public clamour within Germany for Field Marshal von Hindenburg to be brought to the capital to salvage the war effort.

David took a slow sip of his coffee, now enjoying its depth and intensity. He used a piece of crusty Brötchen to gather a fold of the rich, air-dried beef as he assessed the editorial opinion. If Hindenburg and his shadow, Ludendorff, took the reins in Berlin, the fragile civilian government would be crushed beneath a regime of total war. The fear I saw in König's eyes.

London already knows the shape of this, but perhaps my details can add flesh to it.