“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. 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
