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      Barquentine Deutschland 26 August 1944. Eleven days out of Rio de Janeiro. At anchorage in Belém. Begins hot. Moderate trades. Last of the coal unloaded. No cargo available. In ballast with sand for run to Rio. Hatches battened down and ready to sail. Rain towards evening.

      As Prager turned the corner, thunder rumbled far out to sea and lightning flashed across the sky, giving for one brief moment a clear view of the harbour. The usual assortment of small craft and three or four coastal steamers were moored at the main jetty. The Deutschland was anchored in midstream, distinctive if only for the fact that she was the one sailing ship in the harbour.

      Rain came suddenly, warm and heavy, redolent with rotting vegetation from the jungle across the river. Prager turned up the collar of his jacket and, holding his old leather briefcase under one arm, hurried along the waterfront towards the Lights of Lisbon, the bar at the end of the fish pier.

      There was the sound of music, muted yet plain enough, a slow, sad samba with something of the night in it. As he went up the steps to the verandah he took off his spectacles and wiped rain from them with his handkerchief. He replaced them carefully and peered inside.

      The place was empty, except for the bartender and Helmut Richter, the Deutschland’s bosun, who sat at the end of the bar with a bottle and a glass in front of him. He was a large, heavily-built man in reefer jacket and denim cap, with long, blond hair and a beard that made him look older than his twenty-eight years.

      Prager stepped inside. The bartender, who was polishing a glass, looked up. Prager ignored him and moved along the bar, shaking the rain from his panama. He dropped the briefcase on the floor at his feet.

      ‘A good night for it, Helmut.’

      Richter nodded gravely and picked up the bottle. ‘A drink, Herr Prager?’

      ‘I think not.’

      ‘A wise choice.’ Richter refilled his glass. ‘Cachaca. They say it rots the brain as well as the liver. A poor substitute for good Schnapps, but they haven’t seen any of that since thirty-nine.’

      ‘Is Captain Berger here?’

      ‘Waiting for you on board.’

      Prager picked up his briefcase again. ‘Then I suggest we get moving. There isn’t much time. Has anyone been asking for me?’

      Before Richter could reply a voice said in Portuguese, ‘Ah, Senhor Prager, a pleasant surprise.’

      Prager turned quickly as the curtain of one of the small booths behind him was pulled back. The man who sat there, a bottle of wine in front of him, was immensely fat, his crumpled khaki uniform stained with sweat and bursting at the seams.

      Prager managed a smile. ‘Captain Mendoza. Don’t you ever sleep?’

      ‘Not very often. What is it this time, business or pleasure?’

      ‘A little of both. As you know, the position of German nationals is a difficult one these days. Your government is more than ever insistent on a regular report.’

      ‘So, it is necessary that Berger and his men are seen by you personally?’

      ‘On the first day of the last week in each month. Your people in Rio are most strict in this respect.’

      ‘And the good Senhora Prager? I am given to understand she was on the plane with you.’

      ‘I have a few days’ leave due and she has never seen this part of the country. It seemed the ideal opportunity.’

      Richter slipped out without a word. Mendoza watched him go. ‘A nice lad,’ he said. ‘What was it he used to be? Chief helmsman on a U-boat. Obersteuermann, isn’t that the word?’

      ‘I believe so.’

      ‘You’ll have a drink with me?’

      Prager hesitated. ‘Just a quick one, if you don’t mind. I have an appointment.’

      ‘With Berger?’ Mendoza nodded to the barman who poured brandy into two glasses without a word. ‘When does he leave to go back to Rio? In the morning?’

      ‘I believe so.’ Prager sipped the brandy, on dangerous ground now. He was sixty-five, an assistant consul at the German embassy in Rio until August 1942, when the Brazilians, enraged by the torpedoing of several of their merchant ships by U-boats, had declared war. Little more than a gesture, but it had presented the problem of what to do about German nationals – in particular the increasing number of sailors of the Kriegsmarine who found themselves washed up on her shores.

      Prager, having spent twenty years in the country, and being acceptable in high places, had been left behind to cope with that. There were, after all, five thousand miles of ocean between Brazil and Germany so no need to set up expensive internment camps. The Brazilian government was content with the monthly reports he presented on his fellow citizens. As long as they were gainfully employed and not a charge on the state, everyone was happy.

      Mendoza