"MI6 would never have gotten away with it if your boss had been at the meeting this morning to tell SOE's side of the story. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he had been called away at the last minute."

Percy looked dubious. "He was summoned by the Prime Minister. I don't see how MI6 could have arranged that."

"The meeting was not attended by Churchill. A Downing Street aide took the chair. And it had been arranged at the instigation of MI6."

"Well, I'm damned," Flick said angrily. "They're such snakes!"

Percy said, "I wish they were as clever about gathering intelligence as they are about deceiving their colleagues."

Chancellor said, "I also looked in detail at your plan, Major Clairet, for taking the chteau by stealth, with a team disguised as cleaners. It's risky, of course, but it could work."

Did that mean it would be reconsidered? Flick hardly dared to ask.

Percy gave Chancellor a level look. "So what are you going to do about all this?"

"By chance, I had dinner with my father tonight. I told him the whole story and asked him what a general's aide should do in these circumstances. We were at the Savoy."

"What did he say?" Flick asked impatiently. She did not care which restaurant they had gone to.

"That I should go to Monty and tell him we had made a mistake." He grimaced. "Not easy with any general. They never like to revisit decisions. But sometimes it has to be done."

"And will you?" Flick said hopefully.

"I already have."

THE THIRD DAY

Tuesday, May 30,1944

CHAPTER 11

FLICK LEFT LONDON at dawn, driving a Vincent Comet motorcycle with a powerful 500cc engine. The roads were deserted. Gas was severely rationed, and drivers could be jailed for making "unnecessary" journeys. She drove very fast. It was dangerous but exciting. The thrill was worth the risk.

She felt the same about the mission, scared but eager. She had stayed up late last night with Percy and Paul, drinking tea and planning. There must be six women in the team, they had decided, as it was the unvarying number of cleaners on a shift. One had to be an explosives expert; another, a telephone engineer, to decide exactly where the charges should be placed to ensure the exchange was crippled. She wanted one good marksman and two tough soldiers. With herself, that would make six.

She had one day to find them. The team would need a minimum of two days' training-they had to learn to parachute, if nothing else. That would take up Wednesday and Thursday. They would be dropped near Reims on Friday night, and enter the chteau on Saturday evening or Sunday. That left one spare day as a margin for error.

She crossed the river at London Bridge. Her motorbike roared through the bomb-ravaged wharves and tenements of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe; then she took the Old Kent Road, traditional route of pilgrims, toward Canterbury. As she left the suburbs behind, she opened the throttle and gave the bike its head. For a while she let the wind blow the worries out of her hair.

It was not yet six o'clock when she reached Somersholme, the country house of the barons of Colefield. The baron himself, William, was in Italy, fighting his way toward Rome with the Eighth Army, Flick knew. His sister, the Honorable Diana Colefield, was the only member of the family living here now. The vast house, with its dozens of bedrooms for houseguests and their servants, was being used as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers.

Flick slowed the bike to walking speed and drove up the avenue of hundred-year-old lime trees, gazing at the great pile of pink granite ahead, with its bays, balconies, gables, and roofs, acres of windows and scores of chimneys. She parked on the gravel forecourt next to an ambulance and a scatter of jeeps.

In the hall, nurses bustled about with cups of tea. The soldiers might be here to convalesce, but they still had to be wakened at daybreak. Flick asked for Mrs. Riley, the housekeeper, and was directed to the basement. She found her staring worriedly at the furnace in the company of two men in overalls.

"Hello, Ma," said Flick.

Her mother hugged her hard. She was even shorter than her daughter and just as thin, but like Flick she was stronger than she looked. The hug squeezed the breath out of Flick. Gasping and laughing, she extricated herself "Ma, you'll crush me!"

"I never know if you're alive until I see you," her mother said. In her voice there was still a trace of the Irish accent: she had left Cork with her parents forty-five years ago.

"What's the matter with the furnace?"

"It was never designed to produce so much hot water. These nurses are mad for cleanliness, they force the poor soldiers to bathe every day. Come to my kitchen and I'll make you some breakfast."

Flick was in a hurry, but she told herself she had time for her mother. Anyway, she had to eat. She followed Ma up the stairs and into the servants' quarters.

Flick had grown up in this house. She had played in the servants' hail, run wild in the woods, attended the village school a mile away, and returned here from boarding school and university for the vacations. She had been extraordinarily privileged. Most women in her mother's position were forced to give up their jobs when they had a child. Ma had been allowed to stay, partly because the old baron had been somewhat unconventional, but mainly because she was such a good housekeeper that he had dreaded losing her. Flick's father had been butler, but he had died when she was six years old. Every February, Flick and her ma had accompanied the family to their villa in Nice, which was where Flick had learned French.

The old baron, father of William and Diana, had been fond of Flick and had encouraged her to study, even paying her school fees. He had been very proud when she had won a scholarship to Oxford University. When he died, soon after the start of the war, Flick had been as heartbroken as if he had been her real father.

The family now occupied only a small corner of the house. The old butler's pantry had become the kitchen. Flick's mother put the kettle on. "Just a piece of toast will be fine, Ma," said Flick.

Her mother ignored her and started frying bacon. "Well, I can see you're all right," she said. "How is that handsome husband?"

"Michel's alive," Flick said. She sat at the kitchen table. The smell of bacon made her mouth water.

"Alive, is he? But not well, evidently. Wounded?"

"He got a bullet in his bum. It won't kill him."

"You've seen him, then."

Flick laughed. "Ma, stop it! I'm not supposed to say."

"Of course not. Is he keeping his hands off other women? If that's not a military secret."

Flick never ceased to be startled by the accuracy of her mother's intuition. It was quite eerie. "I hope he is."

"Hmm. Anyone in particular that you hope he's keeping his hands off?"

Flick did not answer the question directly. "Have you noticed, Ma, that men sometimes don't seem to realize when a girl is really stupid?"

Ma made a disgusted noise. "So that's the way of it. She's pretty, I suppose."

"Young'?"

"Nineteen."

"Have you had it out with him?"

"Yes. He promised to stop."