"Yes."

"Then get that damn pipe alight and let's go there now."

In the car, Flick said, "How do you know she's a safebreaker?"

Percy shrugged. "Everyone knows."

"Everyone? Even the police?"

"Yes. In the East End, police and villains grow up together, go to the same schools, live in the same streets. They all know one another."

"But if they know who the criminals are, why don't they put them in jail? I suppose they can't prove anything."

"This is the way it works," Percy said. "When they need a conviction, they arrest someone who is in that line of business. If it's a burglary, they arrest a burglar. It doesn't matter whether he was responsible for that particular crime, because they can always manufacture a case: suborn witnesses, counterfeit confessions, manufacture forensic evidence. Of course, they sometimes make mistakes, and jail innocent people, and they often use the system to pay off personal grudges, and so on; but nothing in life is perfect, is it?"

"So you're saying the whole rigmarole of courts and juries is a farce?"

"A highly successful, long-running farce that provides lucrative employment for otherwise useless citizens who act the parts of detectives, solicitors, banisters, and judges."

"Has your friend the safebreaker been to jail?"

"No. You can escape prosecution if you're willing to pay hefty bribes, and you're careful to cultivate warm friendships with detectives. Let's say you live in the same street as Detective-Inspector Callahan's dear old mum. You drop in once a week, ask her if she needs any shopping done, look at photos of her grandchildren makes it hard for D.I. Callahan to put you in jail."

Flick thought of the story Ruby had told a few hours ago. For some people, life in London was almost as bad as being under the Gestapo. Could things really be so different from what she had imagined? "I can't tell if you're serious," she said to Percy. "I don't know what to believe."

"Oh, I'm serious," he said with a smile. "But I don't expect you to believe me."

They were in Stepney, not far from the docks. The bomb damage here was the worst Flick had seen. Whole streets were flattened. Percy turned into a narrow cul-de-sac and parked outside a pub.

"Mucky Duck" was a humorous sobriquet: the pub was called The White Swan. The private bar was not private, but was so called to distinguish it from the public bar, where there was sawdust on the floor and the beer was a penny a pint cheaper. Flick found herself thinking about explaining these idiosyncrasies to Paul. He would be amused.

Geraldine Knight sat on a stool at the end of the bar, looking as if she might own the place. She had vivid blonde hair and heavy makeup, expertly applied. Her plump figure had the apparent firmness that could only have come from a corset. The cigarette burning in the ashtray bore a ring of bright lipstick around the end. It was hard to imagine anyone who looked less like a secret agent, Flick thought despondently.

"Percy Thwaite, as I live and breathe!" the woman said. She sounded like a Cockney who had been to elocution lessons. "What are you doing slumming around here, you bloody old communist?" She was obviously delighted to see him.

"Hello, Jelly, meet my friend Flick," Percy said.

"Pleased to know you, I'm sure," she said, shaking Flick's hand.

"Jelly?" Flick inquired.

"No one knows where I got that nickname."

"Oh," said Flick. "Jelly Knight, gelignite."

Jelly ignored that. "I'll have a gin-and-It, Percy, while you're buying."

Flick spoke to her in French. "Do you live in this part of London?"

"Since I was ten," she replied, speaking French with a North American accent. "I was born in Quebec."

That was not so good, Flick thought. Germans might not notice the accent, but the French certainly would. Jelly would have to pose as a Canadian-born French citizen. It was a perfectly plausible history, but just unusual enough to attract curiosity. Damn. "But you consider yourself British."

"English, not British," said Jelly with arch indignation. She switched back to the English language. "I'm Church of England, I vote Conservative, and I dislike foreigners, heathens, and republicans." With a glance at Percy, she added, "Present company excepted, of course."

Percy said, "You ought to live in Yorkshire, on a hill farm, someplace where they haven't seen a foreigner since the Vikings came. I don't know how you can bear to live in London, surrounded by Russian Bolsheviks, German Jews, Irish Catholics, and nonconformist Welshmen building little chapels all over the place like moles disfiguring the lawn."

"London's not what it was, Perce."

"Not what it was when you were a foreigner?"

This was obviously a familiar old argument. Flick interrupted it impatiently. "I'm very glad to hear that you're so patriotic, Jelly."

"And why would you be interested in such a thing, may I ask?"

"Because there's something you could do for your country."

Percy put in, "I told Flick about your... expertise, Jelly."

She looked at her vermilion fingernails. "Discretion,

Percy, please. Discretion is the better part of valor, it says in the Bible."

Flick said, "I expect you know that there have been some fascinating recent developments in the field. Plastic explosives, I mean."

"I try to keep up to date," Jelly said with airy modesty. Her expression changed, and she looked shrewdly at Flick. "This is something to do with the war, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Count me in. I'll do anything for England."

"You'll be away for a few days."

"No problem."

"You might not come back."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It will be very dangerous," Flick said quietly. Jelly looked dismayed. "Oh." She swallowed. "Well, that makes no difference," she said unconvincingly.

"Are you sure?"

Jelly looked thoughtful, as if she were calculating. "You want me to blow something up."

Flick nodded silently.

"It's not overseas, is it?"