All Clear

Wales—May 1944

THE PRISON CAMP WASN’T NEAR PORTSMOUTH. IT WAS IN Gloucestershire, and Ernest and Cess ended up driving all night to get there. They got lost twice, once because of their inability to see anything in the blackout and the second time because of the lack of signposts. “Which is a good thing, really,” Cess said, struggling with the map. “If there were signposts, we wouldn’t be able to pull this off.”

If we can’t find the colonel, we won’t be able to pull it off either, Ernest thought irritably. He hadn’t felt this tired since that endless day in Saltram-on-Sea. If the Lady Jane were available, he’d gladly curl up in her hold, but they were nowhere near water. Or anything else. “Have you any idea at all where we are?” he asked Cess.

“No. I can’t find—oh, bloody hell, I’ve got the wrong map.” Cess unfolded the other one, peered at it, and then looked out at the road. “Go back to that last crossroads,” he said, and as Ernest backed the car around, he added, “I’ve just had an idea. I think we should get lost.”

“We are lost.”

“No, I mean after we pick up Colonel von Sprecht. We should pretend we don’t know where we are.”

“We may not have to pretend,” Ernest said as they reached the crossroads. “Which of these roads do I take?”

Cess ignored him. “You could say, ‘Where are we?’ and I could say, ‘Here, at Canterbury,’ and you could say, ‘Give me the map,’ and we could hold the map so he can see it and then argue over where we are. People always say things they shouldn’t when they’re arguing, and it would be far more believable than my saying,

‘Here we are at Canterbury,’ for no reason. What do you think?”

“I think you need to tell me which road to take.”

“Bear left. Oh, and we’re going to need a code in case I need to tell you something we don’t want him to hear. Suppose I say, ‘I believe we have a puncture?’ Then you’ll know to stop the car, and we can get out and talk.”

“No, a puncture’s something he’d be able to feel. How about, ‘I hear a knock in the engine’?”

“Yes, that’s good. It will mean putting the bonnet up, which will keep him from reading our lips. If I tell you I hear a knock, you pull over—No, I don’t mean now.

Why are you stopping?”

“Because left was obviously the wrong way to turn,” Ernest said, indicating the lane, which had ended in the middle of a sheep-filled meadow.

“Oh. Sorry,” Cess said, consulting the map again. “Go back to the crossroads again and bear right.”

“You have no idea where we are, do you?” Ernest asked, backing.

“No,” Cess admitted cheerfully, “but it’s growing light. That should make it easier to find our way.”

If he’d known they were going to spend hours and hours wandering around Wales like this, he’d have insisted on delivering his articles to the Call on the way. It would only have meant a half hour’s detour, and he’d at least have something to show for this damned trip. He obviously wasn’t going to have any chance to ask where Denys Atherton was. There wasn’t even anyone they could ask where the camp was.

“Now which way do I turn?” he asked.

“Left … no, right…,” Cess said doubtfully. “No, go straight ahead.” He pointed. “There’s the camp.”

Ernest drove up to the gate. “Who are we again?”

Cess checked their papers. “I’m Lieutenant Wilkerson and you’re Lieutenant Abbott.”

“Lieutenants Abbott and Wilkerson here to pick up Colonel von Sprecht,” Ernest told the guard. The guard glanced at their papers, handed them back, and waved them toward the camp commander’s office.

“I’ll inform the commander you’re here,” the sergeant there said. “Please wait here.” He disappeared into the commander’s office.

An hour later they were still waiting. “What’s taking so long?” Cess asked anxiously. He stood up and went over to the window to look out. “What if the weather clears?”

“The forecast said it would be cloudy all day, with rain after noon,” Ernest said, looking at the route they were going to be taking. It led straight through the center of the invasion buildup. And Denys Atherton was there somewhere, if he could just find him.

“What if the forecast’s wrong? The one for the dedication of that dummy oil depot in Dover was wrong. It said the weather would be fair that day, and we nearly drowned. If it’s fair today, the colonel will be able to tell by the sun what direction we’re going, and it won’t matter what we tell him.”

“It won’t turn off fair. Stop worrying,” Ernest said, still thinking about Atherton. How was he supposed to look for him with a German prisoner in the car? Even if he could think of a reason for asking which would satisfy Cess, anyone he asked might mention their real location, and he couldn’t risk jeopardizing the mission they were on.

He wished for the thousandth time he knew whether historians could affect events. And which of Fortitude South’s deceptions had worked. Had the Germans believed what von Sprecht told them? Had they even questioned him? And had they believed the faked photo ops and the carefully planted articles in the Call and the Shopper and the Banner? Which ones? The ones he was supposed to have turned in to the Call yesterday?

“It’s definitely clearing off,” Cess said. “I’m certain I saw a patch of blue. What if he tries to escape?”

“Who?”

“The prisoner. What if he tries to run off? Or to kill us? He might be dangerous—”

“He’s ill,” Ernest said, frowning at the map. “That’s why they’re repatriating him, and if he was dangerous, they’d scarcely have sent us.”

“A lot you know. Remember that farmer’s bull?”

“He’ll be handcuffed. Colonel von Sprecht, not the bull. Come here and show me the route we take.”

Cess traced the route on the map for him. “We go through Winchester—that’s Canterbury—and then south to Portsmouth so he can see the invasion armada and then—”

“We can’t go through Winchester,” Ernest said. “Its cathedral doesn’t look anything like Canterbury’s. We’ll need to go around.” Cess nodded and made a note on the other map. “And we’d best steer clear of Salisbury. He’s likely to recognize the spire.”

“Which can be seen for miles,” Cess said, frustrated. “I’ll need to completely redo the route.”

Good, Ernest thought, it will keep you from constantly looking out the window.

Cess was making him nervous. What was taking them so long? They could have repatriated the entire German Army by now.

Cess calculated a new route, wrote it out for Ernest, and went over to the window again to check the sky. “What if the Americans have put new signposts up? If the colonel finds out where he is—”

“He won’t. Stop worrying. And stop talking. I need to finish memorizing this route before they bring him in,” Ernest said. Which got him five full minutes of silence, and then Cess said, “How long can it take to sign a few papers? You don’t suppose they’re checking up on us, do you? What if Algernon didn’t tell the camp commander what he’s up to, and when they find out we’re not who we say we are, they decide we’re spies?”

“We are spies.”

“You know what I mean.”

“They won’t think we’re spies. And the weather’s not clearing. Stop fretting. Haven’t you ever been to the films? Spies are supposed to possess an icy calm.”

“But what if—” The door opened and the sergeant came in again, followed by the camp commander, two guards, and—between them—the prisoner in a German officer’s uniform.

Ernest had been wrong—he wasn’t handcuffed. But there was no need for him to be. He leaned heavily on the arms of his guards, and his face was gray.

“Lieutenants,” the commander said, nodding at them, and then turned to the prisoner. “Colonel von Sprecht, you are being repatriated to Germany through a program instituted by the Swedish Red Cross. These two officers will drive you to London, where you will be put on a ship to Bremerhaven.”

Colonel von Sprecht gave no indication of understanding what the commander was saying. What if Tensing had been wrong, and he didn’t speak English? But when the commander asked, “Do you understand, Colonel?” he said, with only a trace of a German accent, “I understand very well.” He drew himself up as he spoke, but the guards nearly had to carry him out to the car. He didn’t look strong enough to survive the journey by car, let alone the sea voyage, and apparently Cess was thinking the same thing.

“What if he dies along the way?” he whispered as the guards put the colonel into the backseat.

Cess and Ernest climbed in. Ernest started the car and then adjusted the rear-vision mirror so he could see the colonel. He had leaned back against the rear seat, and his eyes were shut.

And if he stays like that the whole way, this scheme will have been for nothing, Ernest thought, driving south to Swindon, glancing occasionally in the mirror at the colonel. His eyes were still closed. Ernest drove into the town, feeling suddenly nervous. If there was even one signboard saying this was Swindon …

But Cess’s fears about the Americans having put up signs were unfounded, and the Home Guard or whoever had been in charge of taking down the signposts at the beginning of the war had done a thorough job. There was no name on the railway station and not even an arrow pointing to “Town Centre.”

“This is Brede, right?” Cess asked, looking at the map. When Ernest nodded, he said, “At the next turning, you go north to Horns Cross and take the Oxney Road to Beckley.”

“Shh. What if the colonel hears you?” Ernest said in a stage whisper.

“Don’t worry, he’s asleep,” Cess said, glancing back at him. “I don’t suppose we can stop in Nounsley, can we?”

“Why?”

“I know a girl there. A Wren. Name of Betty. She’s General Patton’s driver.”

“I thought Patton’s headquarters were in Essex. In Chelmsford.”

“They are, but she’s billeted in Nounsley, and she has a very understanding landlady. What do you say?”

“No,” Ernest said. “We can’t stop in Nounsley. Or Dover. You know our orders are to take the prisoner straight to London and hand him over to the War Ministry—”

“Shh,” Cess said, jabbing a thumb toward the backseat. “He’s awake.”

Ernest glanced over his shoulder and then called back to him, “Colonel von Sprecht, are you comfortable back there?”

“Yes. Thank you,” the colonel said.

“If you need anything, sir, just ask. Our orders are to take good care of you.”

“Would you like some tea?” Cess held up their thermos.

“No, thank you.”

“A cigarette?”

“No,” he said curtly, but at least he was awake and looking at what they’d brought him this way to see: fields full of tents and army vehicles and equipment. Ernest had been worried about their being able to stay on the prescribed route without the aid of signposts, but it wouldn’t matter which road they took. Every one they passed, even narrow country lanes, was lined with Quonset huts or Jeeps parked bumper to bumper or mobile anti-aircraft guns. One of the pastures was crisscrossed with tank tracks just like the ones they’d so carefully made in that pasture. Only the tanks half hidden under the trees at the far end weren’t inflated rubber—they were the real thing. And so were the huge pyramids of oil drums and stacks of ammunition boxes farther on.

But when Ernest glanced in the mirror, the colonel’s eyes were closed again. They shouldn’t have brought such a comfortable car. “Colonel von Sprecht,” he called, “are you warm enough back there? Would you like a rug?”

“No,” he said without opening his eyes.

“It’s rather cold for May,” Ernest said, and when the colonel didn’t answer, Cess asked, “Do you have this sort of weather in Germany?” Still no answer.

“What part of Germany do you come from?” Ernest asked, and the colonel began to snore.

You can’t fall asleep, Ernest thought. We’re doing this for your benefit. He drove into a large mud hole, but even the jolt didn’t wake the colonel. Stopping would, but every field they passed was full of soldiers—drilling in formation, doing calisthenics, loading supplies, standing in line outside mess tents. One of them was bound to come over and ask them if they needed directions, so Ernest had no choice but to keep driving. Straight past everything the sleeping colonel was supposed to be to come over and ask them if they needed directions, so Ernest had no choice but to keep driving. Straight past everything the sleeping colonel was supposed to be seeing.

There was a village up ahead. Good. If there’s a garage there, I’ll stop for gas, he thought, but there wasn’t one on the village’s single street, and just ahead was, oh, Christ, a signpost. He wasn’t close enough to read it, but he could make out letters and arrows pointing in opposite directions. And there was no side lane he could turn off onto.

He glanced in the rear-vision mirror, hoping to God the colonel was still asleep. He wasn’t. And in a minute he’d see the signpost. “Look!” Ernest said, pointing off to the other side of the road. “Parachutists!”

“Where?” Cess said. He leaned across him to look, and the colonel followed his gaze.

“There,” Ernest said, pointing at nothing. “I hear the Americans are planning to land twenty thousand parachutists in the Pas de Calais area the night before they invade,” and while Cess and the colonel were gawking at the sky, he shot past the signpost.

He needn’t have panicked. Next to one arrow it read, “Berlin” and next to the other, “Good Old USA.”

He almost wished the colonel’d seen it, but when he glanced back, his eyes were closed again.

Ernest drove on another mile and then pulled the car to a jolting stop opposite an aeroplane-filled field. “I don’t think this is the right road,” he said. “We passed these planes before.”

“No, these are Hurricanes,” Cess said. “The ones before were Tempests.”

“No, they weren’t. I think we should have turned left at that last crossroads.” When Cess still didn’t catch on, he said, “We’re lost.”

“Oh,” Cess said, the light dawning. “No, this is the right road.” He opened the map out. “Look, here’s where we are. We came through Newchurch, and Hawkinge’s that way.”

“Here, let me see the map,” Ernest said, snatching it away from him and holding it so the colonel could see it. “Where did you say we are?”

“Here, just north of Newchurch,” Cess said, pointing. “See, here’s Gravesend, where we picked the colonel up. We came across to Beckley and then took the Oxney Road.”

Ernest sneaked a glance in the mirror. The colonel was looking intently at the map as Cess traced their route.

“And this is the road we’re on now. It takes us through Dover, and then we take the Old Kent Road to London.”

“You’re right,” Ernest said. He started the car and yanked on the gear stick. The gears ground. He jiggled the knob back and forth, trying to get it to shift, and it finally slid into reverse. He backed the car out onto the road and went on, past more camps and storage dumps and so many airfields he lost count, full of P-51s and DC-3s parked wingtip to wingtip.

“Good Lord, will you look at all this?” Cess said, sounding awed, and Ernest wasn’t sure that that was just for the colonel’s benefit. He’d known the D-Day invasion had been a massive project, but the sheer magnitude of the undertaking was impossible to get one’s mind around—thousands upon thousands of planes, tanks, and trucks, and tons of equipment.

As they drove, the colonel seemed to grow more and more ashen and to sink into himself, deflating like one of their dummy tanks.

He knows there’s no way they can win against this, Ernest thought. He wondered if that was part of the plan, if the purpose of this trip was not only to fool von Sprecht into believing they were invading at Calais, but also to show him the overwhelming might of the Allied invasion force and convince him of the hopelessness of the Germans’ resistance. If so, the plan was succeeding. He looked more defeated with every passing mile.

But he wasn’t the only one being affected by the sprawling tent cities, the squads and companies and battalions drilling in the fields and crammed into the trucks that passed them. I’ll never be able to find Atherton among all these camps and all these men, Ernest thought. Atherton could be anywhere, in any one of the fifty fields they’d passed or the hundreds of transit camps. There was no way Ernest could find him in the next five weeks—correction, three weeks—even if he dumped Cess and the colonel out of the car right now and started asking for Atherton at every Army HQ from now straight through to the fifth of June.

“A chap I met said there are a million men in this corner of England,” Cess said. “Do you think that could be right?”

No, Ernest thought bitterly, it’s two million.

“I mean, one would think Kent would sink under the weight. Perhaps that’s what the barrage balloons are for,” Cess said, pointing to hundreds of silver specks in the sky ahead. “To hold England up.” He grinned. “We should be coming to Dover soon,” he added, consulting the map.

Which meant Portsmouth. That meant they were on schedule, in spite of their late start. At least something was going right. At this rate they should be in London by three and he might still be able to deliver his articles to Mr. Jeppers before the Call’s deadline.

He’d spoken too soon. Half a mile on, they ran into a convoy of very slow trucks. They were behind a canvas-covered four-by-four that he couldn’t see around at all, and it was slowing down till it was scarcely crawling. “Can you see what’s causing the problem?” Ernest asked Cess.

“No,” Cess said, rolling down his window and leaning out. “We’re coming into a village. Burmarsh, I think.” The behemoth ahead slowed to a stop between a church and a pub, with no room to squeeze past on either side.

Cess leaned out again and then got out and walked past the truck to see. “It looks rather bad,” he reported, getting back in the car. “There are vehicles and tanks and artillery as far as one can see, and it doesn’t look as though they’ll move any time soon. Some of them are sitting on the bonnets of their lorries, drinking tea and eating sandwiches.”

“We’ll have to go back the way we came,” Ernest said. Cess nodded and reached for the map. Ernest put in the clutch and tried to shift it into reverse. It ground and then jammed.

A movement from in front of the car made him glance up. An American MP was walking toward them.

Jesus. He was bound to ask them where they were going. Ernest jiggled the gear stick, trying to work it back into gear, but it wouldn’t budge. “Cess,” Ernest said, glancing quickly in the mirror. Hopefully the colonel had fallen asleep again. No, he was awake and watching interestedly.

“Cess, roll up your window before the colonel catches a chill,” Ernest said. “Cess!”

“Hmm?” Cess said from behind the map.

The MP was nearly even with the car. Ernest yanked on the gear stick, trying to force it into gear, any gear. “Roll up the goddamned window. Cess!”

“What?” Cess said, and finally looked up, but too late. The MP was even with the window. Cess shot Ernest a look of panic. “There’s a soldier—”

“I see him,” Ernest said grimly and gave the gear stick one last desperate yank. It slid into reverse, and he let out the clutch. And killed the motor.

The MP leaned in. “You can’t get through this way, sir. The road ahead’s full of troops and equipment. You’ll have to go back the way you came.”

“Right,” Ernest said, restarting the car. “Sorry.”

“Where were you trying to go, sir?”

Don’t say Portsmouth, Ernest ordered Cess silently. Or Dover. “Bunbury,” Cess said.

“We’ll be out of your way in a moment, Officer,” Ernest said, and put the car in gear. He laid his arm on the back of the seat and looked back to see a half-track pull up behind them.

“Bunbury, sir?” the MP repeated. “Do you mean Banbury?”

Which was close to Bletchley Park. Ernest leaned across Cess. “We’re blocked in, I’m afraid. Can you ask the vehicle behind us to move?”

The MP nodded, but the half-track’s driver had already taken matters into his own hands and pulled up beside them on the driver’s side, with inches to spare.

Good, Ernest thought, and started to back. In time to see a Jeep driven by a Wren pull up behind the two of them.

“Bunbury’s near Bracknell,” Cess was saying to the MP, who’d leaned in the window again. “West of Upper Tensing.”

“Upper Tensing? Is that near P—”

“It’s near Lower Tensing,” Cess said desperately.

Disaster was seconds away. Ernest had to somehow get the MP away from the car and out of earshot so he could explain their mission. He snatched up their papers and opened his car door, but there were only inches between it and the half-track, and while he was in the process of squeezing out and making it to the other side, the MP would say something fatal, and he wouldn’t be there to stop it.

The MP was already saying it. “Never heard of any of them. Are they on the road to Por—”

“We’re looking for Captain Atherton,” Ernest cut in, leaning across Cess. “Can you tell us where to find him?” and Cess shot him a look of relief he hoped the MP didn’t see.

He didn’t. He’d pushed back his helmet and was scratching his head. “Captain Atherton?”

“Yes, we were told he was up ahead. Go tell him—”

“What’s the holdup?” the Wren who’d been driving the jeep demanded, walking up to the MP. “Why are we stopped?”

“You can’t get through this way,” the MP said to her, and Ernest grabbed the opportunity to squeeze out the door—snatching up their papers as he went—and dart around to the passenger side of the car, where the MP was explaining to the Wren that the Jeep would have to turn around. “This whole division’s being moved to their transit camp,” he was saying. “There’s no way you can get through.”

The Wren looked annoyed. “But I must get through to Por—”

“I need to speak to Captain Atherton immediately,” Ernest barked. “Take me to a field telephone. Now, soldier.”

“Yes, sir,” the MP said.

“Wait!” the Wren said. “What about—”

“And move that Jeep, Lieutenant!” Ernest ordered her.

“This way, sir,” the MP said, and led Ernest past the lorry. “I’ll take you to Captain Atherton right away, sir.”

If only that were true, Ernest thought, following him. It was unbelievably tempting to make the MP get on the field telephone and try to locate Atherton, but he didn’t dare, not in the middle of hundreds of soldiers, any of whom might blurt out “Portsmouth” at any second. Finding Denys wouldn’t mean a thing if von Sprecht told Hitler troops were massing in southwestern England. He had to get them out of here. Fast.

So, as soon as they were out of earshot—Cess still hadn’t rolled the damned window up—Ernest stepped ahead of the MP and said in a low voice, “We’re on special assignment from British Intelligence. It’s imperative that we reach Portsmouth by fourteen hundred hours.” He pulled the papers out of his pocket and flashed them at him so the MP could see the “PRIORITY” and “ULTRA-TOP-TOP SECRET” stamped at the top. “Invasion business.”

The MP’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir,” he said, looking ahead at the traffic jam. “I’ll see to it that these vehicles are moved out of your way—”

Ernest shook his head. “There’s no time for that. Just move those that are blocking us in.”

“Yes, sir.” He started back toward the car.

The Wren was coming toward them, looking determined.

“Have you moved your vehicle?” the MP demanded.

“No. Officer, you don’t understand, it’s imperative that I get to Portsmouth.”

Ernest shot a look at the car. Cess had finally rolled up the window, thank God.

“I have an important dispatch to deliver,” the Wren was saying.

The MP ignored her. “Do you still want me to locate Captain Atherton, sir?”

Ernest shook his head. “There’s no time for that.”

“Atherton?” the Wren said. “Do you mean Major Atherton?”

Ernest stared at her.

“No,” the MP said. “The lieutenant wanted Captain Atherton—”

Ernest cut him off. “Major Denys Atherton?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

Jesus. “Do you know where he is?”

“Yes. At the holding camp at Fordingbridge.”

“How far is that from here?” Ernest demanded.

“Thirty miles,” she said, and the MP added, “It’s just outside Salisbury.”

Which meant going there today was out, but it didn’t matter. He had the name of the camp. If Atherton didn’t move to a transit camp in the next few days, like this division.

The Wren was rummaging in her shoulder bag. “I’ve got his number,” she said, produced it, and handed it to him.

And that was that. After over three years of plotting and searching, it had been handed to him, just like that. It can’t be this easy, he thought. Something will go wrong at the last minute.

But it didn’t. The Wren, smiling and waving, moved her Jeep, Ernest got into the car and said, “The whole division’s moving to their transit camps. Patton’s orders.

He said we’ll have to go all the way back to Aylesham and take the other road to Dover”; the MP held up traffic till they were turned around; and the Winchester Road was not only empty of traffic but lined with B-17s and Flying Fortresses.

“That was brilliant,” Cess said when they stopped to check on a fictional knocking sound in the engine. “I thought we were for it back there, but you saved the day.

How did you know Atherton was there?”

“I didn’t,” he said, keeping his voice low so the colonel wouldn’t hear. “It was a lucky shot. I used a name from one of my letters to the editor.”

“Well, it was a very lucky shot. And lucky we went past those bombers. Did you see the colonel’s face? He’s utterly demoralized. We’ve fooled him completely.”

“If nothing happens between here and London,” Ernest said grimly. “We’ve still got to get through Portsmouth—”

“You mean Dover,” Cess corrected.

“Through Dover, and the next roadblock we run up against, we may not be so lucky. And there’s still London. If he sees St. Paul’s in the wrong spot—”

“I suppose you’re right,” Cess agreed. “The moment you think you’re in the clear is when something disastrous always happens.”

He was right. They were no sooner back in the car than the cloud cover began to break up and patches of blue began to show. Ernest jammed his foot down on the accelerator, praying it would be cloudier near the coast.

It was. By the time they reached Portsmouth, wisps of fog were beginning to drift across the road.

I hope it doesn’t get too foggy, Ernest thought. We won’t be able to see the ships, but they were clearly visible, troop transports and destroyers and battleships riding at anchor as far out as they could see. The fog actually helped, obscuring the surrounding coast so that when Cess asked, “Which way are the white cliffs of Dover?” he was able to point confidently off toward an invisible shore and say, “Over there.”

Cess sang, “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,” and then said, “How long do you think it’ll be before the”—he glanced back at the colonel, who promptly closed his eyes, and dropped his voice—“before … you know?”

“Not before mid-July at the earliest,” Ernest said. The fog looked like it was beginning to thin. He started inland from the docks before the colonel could see there weren’t any cliffs, white or otherwise. “One can’t count on good weather before that. And the American troops haven’t all arrived.”

Cess said, “My brother—he’s in the Second Corps in Essex—says it’ll be August, but he says they”—another surreptitious glance at the “sleeping” colonel—“may launch an attack somewhere before that to fool the Germans. Turn here.” He consulted the map. “And then at the next street, right again, and that will be the road to Kingston.” And they were safely out of Portsmouth and on the road to London.

“I don’t care what you say about not getting overconfident,” Cess said jubilantly when they stopped at the border of the staging area to show their papers. “I say we’ve pulled it off.”

Yes, Ernest thought, and so have I. In spite of impossible odds and obstacles, he’d found out where Atherton was, and with over a month to spare. And even if he couldn’t get to him in that time, he could phone him and tell him where Polly and Eileen were.

I need to do it as soon as possible, though, he thought, driving through Haslemere, in case his drop’s somewhere outside the staging area or is on a once-a-week schedule like Eileen’s was. But how? He couldn’t phone him from the post. If Cess or Prism saw him making unauthorized calls …

I’ll have to get to a phone somehow, he thought. I’ll tell Cess it’s too late to deliver my write-ups to Mr. Jeppers tonight, that the Call’s office will be shut, and find a way to take them over alone tomorrow.

But that’ll mean my messages won’t get in till at least week after next, he thought, and realized it no longer mattered.

You don’t need to send any more messages, he thought jubilantly. You’ve found Atherton! All you’ve got to do is get to London without von Sprecht realizing he’s been duped and hand him over to the War Ministry.

And even that proved simple. The colonel’s feigned slumber turned into the real thing, and Ernest took advantage of his sleeping and Cess’s—he’d fallen asleep against the door, his mouth open—to speed through Kingston and Guildford and across the southern edge of London so they could approach the city the way they would have if they’d really been coming from Dover. That way they wouldn’t have to worry about a glimpse of St. Paul’s in the wrong spot ruining the entire illusion.

They were both still asleep when he turned north onto the Old Kent Road. Home free, he thought. Now all we have to do is deliver the colonel to the authorities and—

Cess woke up. “Where are we?” he asked sleepily, and then said, “I think I hear a knock in the engine.”

Oh, God, what now? He glanced back at the colonel, but he was still asleep, and Ernest could see his chest moving, so he hadn’t died.

“There’s a garage ahead,” Cess said, pointing.

Ernest pulled in to it and stopped the car, and they both got out. “What’s wrong?” he whispered as soon as he had the hood up.

“Nothing. I need to look at the map. Where are we?”

“On the Old Kent Road. What do you need the map for? This’ll take us straight to Whitehall and the War Ministry.”

“We’re not taking him to the War Ministry,” Cess said. “They’re having a state dinner for him. With General Patton. To put the finishing touches on.” And after a minute he added, “Oh, good, we can take the same route in as I do when I deliver my press releases. Look”—Cess showed Ernest the map—“we take this to the Holborn Viaduct and then the Bayswater Road to Kensington—”

Kensington? Jesus. “Where’s this dinner being held?”

“Kensington Palace. It’s at the western end of Kensington Gardens. Just before Notting Hill Gate.”

Just waiting, waiting, waiting till your number came up …

—WAR CORRESPONDENT IN A

HOLDING CAMP BEFORE D-DAY