I received a transcript of the radio transmission mere hours before the dockside cranes of Marseilles came into view. A few terse lines which signified a future restored.
TAGGART AWAKE. CHARGES DROPPED.
TIME TO COME HOME.
SAM.
I held the note in my hand and stared out at a sea the colour of topaz. I gripped the railing tight and breathed, long, slow breaths, and gave thanks to the gods. They had delivered me. I went to my cabin, quickly penned a reply and took it to the wireless operator. Then I returned and packed the last of my things.
The day was grey and the seagulls called out in complaint against the rain. I pulled my overcoat tight, grabbed my case and descended the gangplank onto the soil of France. Taggart’s return had vindicated me. In the eyes of the British, I was exonerated. That though did not mean that all was forgiven; at least not from my side. I had worked these past years for a system which I now realised was built to keep my people in subjugation, regardless of morality, regardless of the cost. It was a system I would no longer work for.
I would go home.
But not just yet.