By this time they had brought a couple of seamen down and told them to get the kit off her. These boys set to work grinning. The prisoner fought and kicked, but it didn't do her any good. In a trice she was shackled to a bulkhead and every shred of clothing was ripped away. It was freezing cold down below decks, but in the overhead light her olive skin was beaded with sweat. Front on, she looked pathetically young and emaciated. I felt no anger now, only pity and disgust. I wondered what they were going to do with her. This was war, and in war spies are shot. I knew the procedure. I'd been through it myself on an escape-and-evasion exercise during the SAS initiation test in the Brecon Beacons before the war. Next she'd have the full treatment: the body cavity searches, the physical and verbal abuse, the threats, the hooding, and banging on the walls and door to induce disorientation. I could have told them they were wasting their time; she was never going to talk - but it wouldn't have done any good.

The two seamen stayed in attendance to see that she didn't kill herself. Though God knows how she was going to manage that, the way they had her trussed up.