Designated Targets

“I’m sure it does,” he said with surprising tenderness. “I have not been unaware of the blackguarding of your name, Captain. But I judge my captains by results. When Stalin betrayed us, I thought we’d have the barbarians at the gates of London within the week. Your fast arrival here, and your actions since that time, have given us a chance to save ourselves. I asked Major Windsor to stay, so that this conversation, while private, would not be secret.”

Churchill turned his ample frame so he could face the prince.

“I would appreciate it if you would apprise your family of my feelings in this matter. It will be most important, particularly if I do not survive the coming weeks.”

Harry didn’t bother with any melodramatic objections. He simply agreed. “Of course, Prime Minister.”

On the surface, Halabi was a picture of professional restraint, but she reeled within. Ever since she had set herself on course for a life in the Royal Navy, she’d felt the constant weight of judgment upon her, as though a long, foreboding line of ancient mariners and warriors were all watching to see if she was worthy of them. Yet here she was, almost in tears that this old man—who was the antithesis of her wretched father—had made that judgment in her favor.

“There is one final matter I would like to discuss,” said Churchill. “There are contingency plans, outlining how to evacuate the king and his family, myself, and the War Cabinet to Canada in the event that the situation here becomes hopeless. The Trident plays an important role in those contingencies, as well. Whatever happens, she is not to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Halabi nodded firmly. She reviewed her own operational plans for the coming battle every day.

“But even if those plans are activated, I will not be going with you,” said Churchill. “I cannot declare to the world that we will never surrender, then go scarpering off to leave the common people to their fate. I will be staying here in England, no matter what.”

Captain Halabi nodded again. This time a single tear tracked down her cheek, to fall to the carpet.

18

NEW YORK

The Bayswater was actually nowhere near water. It was located in a hotel on Broadway, near Washington Heights in northern Manhattan. The crowd was fantastically eclectic. Jewish refugees fleeing Germany and Austria in the late thirties and early forties had colonized the area, and quite a few of their more bohemian number were likely to be found in the Bayswater at any time of night.

It was a determinedly open establishment. A sign on the door read, no dogs or bigots. Jazz and bluesmen like Muddy Waters and Charlie Parker were regular guests. The city’s boho art scene had adopted it as a second home. Magazine editors met with senior contributors there. Even Albert Einstein had dropped in one evening.

“I know the guys who run this place,” Julia said as they stepped from the town car when it pulled up at the hotel portico. “They were reporters, not embeds, though. Jakey worked for PBS, and Joybelle was over at Fox. You wouldn’t have thought they’d have worked together so well.”

A line three or four deep stretched down to the corner, hopefuls waiting to see if they could get in. Dan moved to join the end of the line, a gesture that caused Julia to roll her eyes.

“Oh, puh-lease!”

She took his arm and strolled on up to the velvet rope. A one-armed colossus bowed as they approached. He wore a white dinner jacket, and a lapel pin that Dan was almost certain read doorbitch.

“Ms. Duffy,” he said, unhitching the rope and waving them through. He sounded as though he took voice coaching from grizzly bears. “That was a great piece you wrote the other day.”

“Thanks, Max,” she said, throwing a kiss as she swept past, carrying a bemused Commander Black along in her wake. She was wearing one of her magic dresses, a little black thing that came out of a bag not much bigger than his fist, then slid over her body like oil. The hopefuls in the line were all rugged up for a cruel wait in the cold, but her only warmth came from a thin wrap of some sort of material Dan couldn’t identify.

They moved into the Bayswater via French doors that were policed by another wounded giant, this time a man with only one eye. The short hallway opened up into a restaurant and a bar, depending on which way you stepped. The bar was roaring and packed so tightly that Dan wondered how anyone could raise a hand to actually take a drink. After the chill of the night air outside, it was almost uncomfortably heavy with the steamy heat of confined humanity.

A band was playing back in there somewhere, a tune he didn’t recognize, but at least it was a tune, unlike so much of the music from Julia’s world.