All Clear

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.

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—”