“We are lost.”
“No, I mean after we pick up Colonel von Sprecht. We should pretend we don’t know where we are.”
“We may not have to pretend,” Ernest said as they reached the crossroads. “Which of these roads do I take?”
Cess ignored him. “You could say, ‘Where are we?’ and I could say, ‘Here, at Canterbury,’ and you could say, ‘Give me the map,’ and we could hold the map so he can see it and then argue over where we are. People always say things they shouldn’t when they’re arguing, and it would be far more believable than my saying,
‘Here we are at Canterbury,’ for no reason. What do you think?”
“I think you need to tell me which road to take.”
“Bear left. Oh, and we’re going to need a code in case I need to tell you something we don’t want him to hear. Suppose I say, ‘I believe we have a puncture?’ Then you’ll know to stop the car, and we can get out and talk.”
“No, a puncture’s something he’d be able to feel. How about, ‘I hear a knock in the engine’?”
“Yes, that’s good. It will mean putting the bonnet up, which will keep him from reading our lips. If I tell you I hear a knock, you pull over—No, I don’t mean now.
Why are you stopping?”
“Because left was obviously the wrong way to turn,” Ernest said, indicating the lane, which had ended in the middle of a sheep-filled meadow.
“Oh. Sorry,” Cess said, consulting the map again. “Go back to the crossroads again and bear right.”
“You have no idea where we are, do you?” Ernest asked, backing.
“No,” Cess admitted cheerfully, “but it’s growing light. That should make it easier to find our way.”
If he’d known they were going to spend hours and hours wandering around Wales like this, he’d have insisted on delivering his articles to the Call on the way. It would only have meant a half hour’s detour, and he’d at least have something to show for this damned trip. He obviously wasn’t going to have any chance to ask where Denys Atherton was. There wasn’t even anyone they could ask where the camp was.
“Now which way do I turn?” he asked.
“Left … no, right…,” Cess said doubtfully. “No, go straight ahead.” He pointed. “There’s the camp.”
Ernest drove up to the gate. “Who are we again?”
Cess checked their papers. “I’m Lieutenant Wilkerson and you’re Lieutenant Abbott.”
“Lieutenants Abbott and Wilkerson here to pick up Colonel von Sprecht,” Ernest told the guard. The guard glanced at their papers, handed them back, and waved them toward the camp commander’s office.
“I’ll inform the commander you’re here,” the sergeant there said. “Please wait here.” He disappeared into the commander’s office.
An hour later they were still waiting. “What’s taking so long?” Cess asked anxiously. He stood up and went over to the window to look out. “What if the weather clears?”
“The forecast said it would be cloudy all day, with rain after noon,” Ernest said, looking at the route they were going to be taking. It led straight through the center of the invasion buildup. And Denys Atherton was there somewhere, if he could just find him.
“What if the forecast’s wrong? The one for the dedication of that dummy oil depot in Dover was wrong. It said the weather would be fair that day, and we nearly drowned. If it’s fair today, the colonel will be able to tell by the sun what direction we’re going, and it won’t matter what we tell him.”
“It won’t turn off fair. Stop worrying,” Ernest said, still thinking about Atherton. How was he supposed to look for him with a German prisoner in the car? Even if he could think of a reason for asking which would satisfy Cess, anyone he asked might mention their real location, and he couldn’t risk jeopardizing the mission they were on.
He wished for the thousandth time he knew whether historians could affect events. And which of Fortitude South’s deceptions had worked. Had the Germans believed what von Sprecht told them? Had they even questioned him? And had they believed the faked photo ops and the carefully planted articles in the Call and the Shopper and the Banner? Which ones? The ones he was supposed to have turned in to the Call yesterday?
“It’s definitely clearing off,” Cess said. “I’m certain I saw a patch of blue. What if he tries to escape?”
“Who?”
“The prisoner. What if he tries to run off? Or to kill us? He might be dangerous—”
“He’s ill,” Ernest said, frowning at the map. “That’s why they’re repatriating him, and if he was dangerous, they’d scarcely have sent us.”
“A lot you know. Remember that farmer’s bull?”
“He’ll be handcuffed. Colonel von Sprecht, not the bull. Come here and show me the route we take.”
Cess traced the route on the map for him. “We go through Winchester—that’s Canterbury—and then south to Portsmouth so he can see the invasion armada and then—”
then—”
“We can’t go through Winchester,” Ernest said. “Its cathedral doesn’t look anything like Canterbury’s. We’ll need to go around.” Cess nodded and made a note on the other map. “And we’d best steer clear of Salisbury. He’s likely to recognize the spire.”
“Which can be seen for miles,” Cess said, frustrated. “I’ll need to completely redo the route.”
Good, Ernest thought, it will keep you from constantly looking out the window.
Cess was making him nervous. What was taking them so long? They could have repatriated the entire German
