'No, I can't do that either. I don't have the authorization. My only brief, regarding my own organization as well as OSS, is to wait until Germany is almost captured before moving over there.'

's.h.i.t,' Bradley said.

'Orders, dear boy,' Wentworth-King responded. 'And unless you can come up with someone higher than me, I'm afraid you're doomed to remain here.'

'So what about the OSS project to track down the German scientists?'

'That also has to wait until the ground forces get there first. I'm afraid I can't budge on this, old son.'

'You're just keeping it all for your G.o.dd.a.m.ned British Secret Intelligence Service buddies. You want it all for yourself, bud.'

'You said it yourself, Bradley: we're more experienced. So please let us handle it.'

'I'm going to get around you somehow,' Bradley said, standing up and not hiding his frustration.

But Wentworth-King just sighed. 'Unless you get someone with more authority than I have, I'm afraid you'll be staying here.'

'You G.o.dd.a.m.ned Brits!' Bradley exclaimed in disgust, then turned away and stormed out.

He heard Wentworth-King laughing.

'That son of a b.i.t.c.h,' he said to Gladys in the Lyons Corner House by Piccadilly Circus, where it was business as usual. 'He's gonna make sure his SOE buddies get all the glory and leave us out in the cold. So much for the OSS pursuit of the n.a.z.i scientists Wentworth-King has that tied up.'

Gladys lit a cigarette, inhaled, and blew a cloud of smoke. 'Why the h.e.l.l should you care?' she said. 'You only want Wilson.' 'Yes,' he admitted, 'that's true enough; but I think Wilson's more important than the rocket scientists, if only because we don't know what he's up to.'

'And what do you think he's up to?

'You know I can't tell you that, Gladys,' he said, thinking of the extraordinary, saucer-shaped machine he had found in that hangar near Mount Pleasant, Iowa.

Gladys grinned laconically. 'No, of course not. All the officers say the same when I ask what's going on, though I often know more than they do.'

'How?'

'They all talk when they're drunk.'

'Or in bed?'

'Yes,' she said, blowing a cloud of smoke in his face and staring steadily at him. 'There as well, Mike.'

'Recently?'

He was shocked to hear himself say it, as he certainly hadn't planned to, but she responded with the same steady gaze and slight, mocking smile.

'Maybe,' she said. 'Maybe not. Why? Would it bother you?'

'Yes,' he said, taken aback by his sudden, fierce jealousy, and thinking of her life in war-torn London with a resentment he had not felt before. She had led a good life here, he knew, ever since she left New Mexico, first writing a European column for her old newspaper in Roswell, then becoming more well known when her work became syndicated nationwide. Her list of contacts, mostly high-ranking officers of the armed forces, had grown with her reputation, and she had certainly not been short of male company throughout the frantic, s.e.xually liberated war years. She had told him all about it and he had previously enjoyed the stories, but today, for no reason at all, he felt quite the opposite.

'It didn't bother you before,' she reminded him.

'Maybe I just didn't show it. And besides, I had no reason to lay claims upon you.'

'You still don't,' she said. 'We're just good friends, after all, as we constantly remind ourselves.'

He recalled his first air raid, when she had told him she loved him. He'd been too shaken to reply and hadn't reminded her of it since, but he knew that what he was feeling was more than friendship, though he was frightened of saying so.

'Yes,' he said, 'we're just good friends.'

She smiled and blew some smoke rings. 'Come on,' she said, 'you know it's more than that. Why don't you admit it?'

He shrugged helplessly. 'I don't know. I'm not sure of what I feel. I feel foolish even talking like this, because I'm practically fifty.'

'That's not old.'

'It's not young.'

'It's young enough for an adult relationship.'