Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett

places. After twentyminutes’ silent work he took the pane out of the frame and laid it gently on the grass. He shone a flashlight through the empty hole to make sure there were no noisy obstacles in his way, opened the catch, raised the window and then climbed in.
    The darkened house smelled of boiled fish and disinfectant. Faber unlocked the back door—a precaution for fast exit—before entering the hall. He flashed his pencil light on and off quickly, once. In that instant of light he took in a tiled hallway, a kidney table he must circumvent, a row of coats on hooks and a staircase, to the right, carpeted.
    He climbed the stairs silently.
    He was halfway across the landing to the second flight when he saw the light under the door. A split-second later there was an asthmatic cough and the sound of a toilet flushing. Faber reached the door in two strides and froze against the wall.
    Light flooded the landing as the door opened. Faber slipped his stiletto out of his sleeve. The old man came out of the toilet and crossed the landing, leaving the light on. At his bedroom door he grunted, turned and came back.
    He must see me, Faber thought. He tightened his grip on the handle of his knife. The old man’s half-open eyes were directed on the floor. He looked up as he reached for the light cord, and Faber almost killed him then—but the man fumbled for the switch and Faber realized he was so sleepy he was practically somnambulating.
    The light died, the old man shuffled back to bed, and Faber breathed again.
    There was only one door at the top of the second flight of stairs. Faber tried it gently. It was locked.
    He took another tool from the pocket of his jacket. The noise of the toilet tank filling covered the sound of Faber picking the lock. He opened the door and listened.
    He could hear deep regular breathing. He stepped inside. The sound came from the opposite corner of the room. He could see nothing. He crossed the pitch-dark room very slowly, feeling the air in front of him at each step, until he was beside the bed.
    He had the flashlight in his left hand, the stiletto loose in his sleeve and his right hand free. He switched on the flashlight and grabbed the sleeping man’s throat in a strangling grip.
    The agent’s eyes snapped open, but he could make no sound. Faber straddled the bed and sat on him. Then he whispered, “One Kings thirteen,” and relaxed his grip.
    The agent peered into the flashlight, trying to see Faber’s face. He rubbed his neck where Faber’s hand had squeezed.
    “Be still!” Faber shone the light into the agent’s eyes, and with his right hand drew the stiletto.
    “Aren’t you going to let me get up?”
    “I prefer you in bed where you can do no more damage.”
    “Damage? More damage?”
    “You were watched in Leicester Square, and you let me follow you here, and they are observing this house. Should I trust you to do anything?”
    “My God, I’m sorry.”
    “Why did they send you?”
    “The message had to be delivered personally. The orders come from the top. The very top—” The agent stopped.
    “Well? What orders?”
    “I…have to be sure it’s you.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “I must see your face.”
    Faber hesitated, then shone the flashlight at himself briefly. “Satisfied?”
    “Die Nadel.”
    “And who are you?”
    “Major Friedrich Kaldor, sir.”
    “I should call you Sir.”
    “Oh, no, sir. You’ve been promoted twice in your absence. You are now a lieutenant-colonel.”
    “Have they really nothing better to do in Hamburg?”
    “Aren’t you pleased?”
    “I should be pleased to go back and put Major von Braun on latrine duty.”
    “May I get up, sir?”
    “Certainly not. What if Major Kaldor is held in Wandsworth Jail and you are a substitute, waiting to give a signal to your watching friends in the house opposite?…Now, what are these orders from the very top?”
    “Well, sir, we believe there will be an invasion of France this