He reached to turn the key in the ignition, but they were already even with the car. They'd hear the engine start and look over and see him. He'd have to wait till they were past.

"I'm going to tell," Binnie said.

"You better not!" Alf said, and then, "Look!"

Oh, Christ. They were running right at the car. He'd have to convince them he was Lieutenant Abbott and that he had no idea who this Mike Davis was. But when had anybody ever been able to put anything over on the Hodbins?

They ran straight past the car into the street. He peeked cautiously over the map. A staff car pulled up and stopped. The children ran up to the car window.

Oh, Christ, he'd been right about Eileen being a driver.

"Where's Mum?" Alf asked. "She said to meet 'er 'ere."

Mum?

"She's going to be late," a woman's voice-not Eileen's-said. Ernest slid up on the seat to where he could see the children leaning in to talk to a blonde in an ATS cap and uniform. And now that his adrenaline wasn't raging, he saw what he hadn't before, that both children were wearing school uniforms and carrying book bags, and that their hair, or at least the girl's, was neatly combed. They looked much too well cared for to be Alf and Binnie, in spite of the similarity in looks, in their voices.

"Your mother had to drive General Bates to Chartwell for a meeting," the blonde said, and from what Eileen had told him about Mrs. Hodbin, he couldn't imagine her driving anyone anywhere, and certainly not a general. "She told me to pick you two up and give you some supper."

"Can we go to Lyons Corner House?" the boy asked.

"We'll see," the blonde said. "She also said to see that you did your lessons."

"We haven't any," the boy said. "We done 'em all at school." He turned to the girl. "Didn't we?"

"Don't be a noddlehead," the girl said. "He's got spelling, and I've got maths. But I've done my history lesson." She pulled a paper out of her book bag to show the blonde.

The Alf and Binnie he'd seen that morning at St. Paul's would never have done lessons in their life. Or have voluntarily gone to school.

It wasn't them. He'd jumped to the conclusion it was because he'd been thinking about Eileen. He'd broken off his call to Denys Atherton for nothing, damn it. He watched the children, whoever they were, pile into the car, waiting for it to drive away so he could go call again. He'd have to tell the woman he'd talked to that he'd been cut off. Maybe the interruption would turn out to be a good thing. Atherton might be back by now, and he'd be able to talk to him instead of leaving a message.

The car rounded the corner and was gone. Ernest got out of the car and started over to the phone booth. And there was Cess, trotting toward him, waving. "They told me you'd come over here to park," he said, coming up to him.

"Did you hand the colonel over?"

"Yes," Cess said. "Now all I have to do is report in to Lady Bracknell, and we're free to go home."

If only that were true, Ernest thought, watching Cess as he went into the phone booth to call Bracknell. How was he going to call Atherton now? He might not have a chance to get away on his own for days, and he was running out of time.

"No luck," Cess said, coming out. "I couldn't get through."

"We can try again on the way home," Ernest said. And next time I'll see to it I'm the one who makes the call. "An hour or two won't make any difference now that the colonel's been safely handed over." He got into the car.

"Right," Cess said. "It was a near thing, though."

"A near thing? What do you mean?"

"After I'd handed him over and was leaving, who should I run into but Old Blood and Guts-"

"General Patton?"

"None other," Cess said. "He looked straight at me, and I could tell he was trying to place me, and I was afraid he was about to remember he'd seen me at the reception and shout out 'Holt!' in that carrying voice of his. But luckily his aide came up just then and dragged him off, and I was able to get away with the colonel none the wiser."

"And Patton didn't see you with him?"

"No, and I'm fairly certain he didn't remember where he'd seen me. But the sooner we're out of here, the safer I'll feel," he said.

"My sentiments exactly." Ernest started the car and pulled away from the curb.

"Besides, I'm starving," Cess said. "Turn right. I know a little place on Lampden Road that has-Where are you going? That's the wrong way."

"I know," Ernest said, racing down Gloucester Road. "I just thought of something. If we hurry, we can make it to Croydon before the Call closes, and I can turn in my pieces."

"Croydon?" Cess yelped. "That's miles, and I'm starved!"

"There's a good pub there. Excellent shepherd's pie," he said, even though he'd never set foot in the place. "And a very pretty barmaid." And a phone booth down the street from the Call which I can call Atherton from while you're in the pub.

"I thought you said the Call's deadline was at four."

"It is, but the editor's sometimes there late, and if he hasn't finished setting the type, I may be able to persuade him to put my articles in."

He shot along Cromwell Road and turned onto the road south.

"What about Lady Bracknell?" Cess asked. "We were to report in."

"We can do it from Croydon. After we eat. If we phone him now, he'll tell us to come straight home, and then you'll really be starving."

"All right," Cess said, "but if he loses his temper, you have to tell him this was your idea."

"I will. Thanks. It's important I not miss this deadline."

Cess nodded, and then, after a minute, said, "Do you really think the German High Command reads the Croydon Fish and Chips Wrapper or whatever it is?"

"The Clarion Call," he said. "I don't know. But we don't know that they're listening to our wireless messages either, or taking aerial photos of our cardboard camps and rubber tanks. Or that Colonel von Sprecht actually bought our little charade. Or, even if he did, that he'll tell the German High Command. Or that they'll believe him."

Cess nodded. "The poor devil might not even live long enough to make it to Berlin." He sighed. "That's the hell of doing this sort of thing. We never know whether anything we've done has had any effect at all."

And perhaps we're better off not knowing, Ernest thought, speeding through Fulham.

"Will we find out after the war, do you think?" Cess asked. "Whether it worked or not?"

"If it didn't work, we won't have to wait that long. We'll know next month. If the entire German Army's waiting for us in Normandy, then it didn't."

"True," Cess said, and after a minute added, "History will sort it all out, I suppose. Will we make it into the history books, do you think? Von Sprecht and our encounter with that bull and all your letters to the editor of the Bumpkin Weekly Banner?"

If I can't get through to Atherton, those letters to the editor had better, Ernest thought, driving into Croydon. He turned off the high street at the cinema so Cess wouldn't spot the phone booth and drove past the Call's office.

Mr. Jeppers's bicycle stood outside it. Ernest had been lying to Cess about being able to make it to Croydon before the Call closed. He hadn't expected the office to be open this late, but the printing press must have jammed again. Which meant he really might be able to get his articles in this week's paper.

"I'll drop you at the pub," he told Cess, stopping in front of it, "and I'll go deliver my articles. It may take some time. Mr. Jeppers likes to talk. Order for me," he said, and drove back to the phone booth.

The operator put him through immediately, and the same young woman answered. "This is Lieutenant Davies," Ernest said. "General Dunworthy's aide. I telephoned earlier this afternoon, but we were cut off."

"Oh, yes," she said.

"I need to speak with Major Atherton."

"Oh, dear, he came back, but he's gone out again."

Damn.

"Is it a medical emergency? This is his nurse. If it's an emergency, I can try to contact Dr. Atherton."

Dr. Atherton. He was a doctor. Which meant he wasn't Denys. Historians posed as lots of things, but there were no subliminals for medicine. Even Polly's driving an ambulance had been unusual, and all she'd had was emergency first-aid training. Which she'd done here. There was no way Atherton could have got a medical degree here since February.

"Sir?" she said. "Are you still there?"

"Yes. I think I may have the wrong Major Atherton. I'm trying to contact Major Denys Atherton."

"Yes, sir. That's Major Atherton's name."

"Tall man, dark curly hair, mid-twenties?"

"Oh, no, sir. Major Atherton's fifty and has scarcely any hair at all. Is your Major Atherton an Army surgeon, too?"

No, he thought grimly. He's an historian, and he's not here under his own name. Dunworthy would have insisted Research run a check on the names of everyone involved in the invasion buildup. Two soldiers with the same name would automatically attract attention, and historians were supposed to blend in, to avoid being noticed.

There's no way you'll be able to find him if he's here under another name, Ernest thought. He'd always known it was a long shot, but the knowledge still hit him with the force of a punch to the gut. He hung up the receiver and then just stood there.

I should go take the messages to Mr. Jeppers, he thought. It's even more important now that I get them into the Call. But he continued to stand there, staring blindly at the telephone.

Cess was knocking on the phone-booth door.

Oh, Christ, he hadn't just messed up rescuing Polly and Eileen, he'd been caught by Cess. He'd demand to know who he was phoning and why he'd lied about delivering the articles. He'd tell Lady Bracknell, and Bracknell would tell Tensing, and they'd have to cancel Fortitude South. They couldn't take a chance that a German agent had infiltrated Special Means. And Eisenhower would postpone the invasion and try to come up with a new plan. And they'd lose the war.

Cess was still banging on the glass. Ernest opened the door. "Oh, good," Cess said. "You remembered to phone Bracknell. I was going to tell you to, and then I forgot, so I came after you. You were right about their barmaid. Very pretty. What did Bracknell say? Were you able to reach him?"

"No," Ernest said. "I wasn't able to get through."

I'm in this thing with you to the end, and if it fails, we'll go down together.

-WINSTON CHURCHILL TO DWIGHT

D. EISENHOWER, BEFORE D-DAY.

London-Spring 1941 POLLY RAN OUT OF THE ALHAMBRA AND THROUGH THE firelit streets to Shaftesbury, and into dense fog.

No, not fog. Dust from the explosion. It smelled of sulphur and cordite and was completely impenetrable. I'll never find the Phoenix in this, she thought, but as she felt her way forward, it began to thin and she could see the Phoenix's marquee. Reggie must have been wrong-it was still standing.

But the street in front of it was roped off. And as she came closer, she saw that half of the theater's front was missing, exposing the lobby and the gold-carpeted staircase. An officer in a white helmet was standing next to the blue incident light, peering at a clipboard. Polly ducked under the rope and ran over to him. "Officer-"

"This is an incident," he said brusquely. "No civilians allowed."

"But I'm looking for-"

He cut her off. "The theater was standing empty. I must ask you to leave. Warden!" He beckoned to an ARP warden. "Escort this young lady-"

"But there's someone inside," she said. "Sir God-"

"Officer Murdoch!" another warden called from up the street. "Quick!" and the incident officer hurried off.

Polly started after him, but so did the warden he'd called to have her thrown out, and she was afraid he'd do it before she could explain. And even if he'd listen, they obviously had their hands full.

She darted across the street and climbed over the heap of wood and plaster that had been the front of the theater and into the lobby. Scarcely any damage had been done to it. The bomb must have been only a hundred-pounder, in spite of its loudness. She tried to open the double doors to the theater proper, but they were locked.

The mezzanine doors weren't. She slipped through them.

Into chaos. The balcony and boxes had collapsed onto the rows of red-plush seats below, and the seats themselves were piled atop one another as though tossed there by a wave. The walls still stood, and there was still a ceiling except for a large, jagged hole on one side. Through it, the fiery sky lit this part of the theater with a pinkish-orange light. The front part of the theater and the stage lay in shadow.

"Sir Godfrey! Are you in here?" Polly called, and started carefully across the sea of openwork metal supports, cushions spilling out stuffing, and splintered mahogany from the balcony. Some of the rows of seats were still intact and upright, with discarded playbills still on their red-plush seats. But they were unstable, threatening to topple as Polly walked across them, grabbing for seat backs as she worked her way forward, and her shoes made it worse.

I have no business trying to do this in high-heeled shoes, she thought, stepping carefully over a curved panel which had been part of one of the theater boxes.

Sir Godfrey had said he'd be backstage looking at sets. She looked out across the jumble of upended seats, seeking something that would tell her when she'd reached the stage-a footlight or a curtain or a fallen catwalk-but there was nothing beyond the rows of tangled seats except what looked like a huge blanket, as if the rescue squad had covered the site with a tarpaulin to hide the wreckage.

As if it were a dead body, Polly thought, and realized what the tarpaulin was. The asbestos safety curtain. It had collapsed backward, draping the entire stage. At least it can't catch fire, she thought, but if Sir Godfrey was under it, there was no way she'd be able to lift it off him. The one at the Alhambra weighed a ton.

She started toward the shrouded stage, calling, "Sir Godfrey! Where are you?" and stepping gingerly from seat to seat as if across stepping-stones. She remembered the governess at the pantomime telling her charges, "No, no, you mustn't stand on the seats. You'll tear the cloth," and even as she thought it, her gilt heel went through the plush upholstery, her ankle twisted, and she fell sideways.

She grabbed for the back of the chair, which threatened to go over, steadied herself, and attempted to free her foot. The shoe's heel was caught on something. One of the springs. She jerked her foot sharply upward, but it wouldn't budge.

"Blast these heels," she said, and tried to tear the upholstery further so she could see what she was caught on, but it was much stronger than it looked. She would have to take off the shoe. She tried to slide her foot out of it. No good. She bent awkwardly over to unstrap it. The stiff buckle wouldn't budge either, and she bent over farther, struggling with it.