Where are you?”
Ernest yanked the sheet of paper he was working on out of the typewriter, slid it under a stack of papers, and threaded a new one in. He called out, “In here!” and began typing, “On Tuesday, the Welcome Committee of Derringstone held a ‘Hands Across the Sea concert.’ Mrs. Jones-Pritchard—”
“There you are,” Cess said, carrying in some papers. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Didn’t you hear me?”
“No,” Ernest said, typing, “—sang ‘America the Beautiful’—”
“What does Mrs. Jones-Pritchard have to do with the First Army Group?” Cess asked, coming around the desk to read it as Ernest had been afraid he might.
“ ‘—and Privates First Class Joe Makowski, Dan Goldstein, and Wayne Turicelli,’ ” Ernest recited, typing, “of the Seventh Armored Division, who gave a spirited rendition of ‘Yankee Doodle’ on the spoons. A good time was had by all,” he typed with a flourish. He pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and handed it to Cess.
“Ingenious,” Cess said, reading it. “The Seventh Armored Division only moved to Derringstone last week, though. Would they have had time to practice?”
“All Americans are born knowing how to play ‘Yankee Doodle’ on the spoons.”
“True,” Cess said, handing the sheet of paper back.
“Did you come to tell me something?” Ernest asked.
“Yes, we must go to London.”
“London?”
“Yes, and don’t say you’ve got to stay here and finish your newspaper stories because you’ve been in here typing all day.”
“But I have to deliver them to Ashford and Croydon,” Ernest protested.
“Not a problem. Lady Bracknell said we can drop them off on the way.”
“Exactly where in London are we going?” Ernest asked, wondering if he was going to have to fake a sudden toothache.
“Bookshops. We’re buying up travel guides to northern France and copies of Michelin Map 51. The Pas de Calais area.”
Bookshops should be safe enough. He just needed to be careful. And Cess said they were going as British Expeditionary Force officers, but after he handed in his articles to Mr. Jeppers at the Call in Croydon, he put on a false mustache just to be certain. He talked Cess into doing Oxford Street while he did the secondhand bookshops on Charing Cross Road, which meant he was able to make several calls, and the whole thing went off without a hitch, but he was still relieved when it was over—so much so that he didn’t even complain when Lady Bracknell sent him to pick up a load of old sewer pipe for the dummy oil depot Shepperton Film Studios was building in Dover.
The assignment left him smelling so bad no one would come near him for two days, and he took advantage of the time to get caught up on his fake wedding announcements and roadway-accident reports and irate letters to the editor, all referencing Americans and the fictional First Army Group. And to work on his own compositions. He also tried to wangle ways to deliver his work to the newspaper offices on his own, but without success, and on Saturday Cess informed him they had to go to London again.
“More travel guides?” he asked.
“No, rumor-mill duty, and this time we get to be Yanks. Do you think you can manage an American accent?”
Absolutely, he thought. “I believe so,” he said. “I mean, you bet, kiddo.”
“Oh, good show,” Cess said, and Ernest went back to typing, “Special Yank Movie Night at the Empire Theatre in Ashford Saturday. American servicemen admitted half price.”
Half an hour later, Cess reappeared with an American major’s dress uniform. “I thought you said we were on rumor-mill duty,” Ernest said. “Isn’t that a bit dressy for a pub?”
“We’re not going to a pub. We’re going to London. To the Savoy, no less.”
“Is it the Queen again?”
“No. Someone far more important,” Cess said. He draped the uniform over the typewriter. “Make certain you’ve a crease in your trousers and that your shoes are polished.”
“Lady Bracknell will have to find someone else. I haven’t any shoes that could pass as a major’s.”
“I’ll find you a pair.” He came back in a few minutes with a pair of Lady Bracknell’s.
“These are two sizes too small,” Ernest protested.
“Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Cess handed him a tin of shoe polish and a rag. “They need to be shined to a high gloss. He’s a stickler.”
“Who is?” Ernest asked, thinking, It can’t be the King. He’s in Dover with Churchill touring the “fleet.” He’d just written up the press release. “Is this reception for Eisenhower?”
“No,” Cess said. “He’s running the real invasion. We’re in charge of the phoney one, remember? And tonight’s star attraction is in charge of us,” he said mysteriously.
Who did he mean? Special Means was in charge of them, but they didn’t frequent the Savoy, and neither did Intelligence’s top brass. The whole idea was invisibility.
Prism came in, dressed as an American colonel. “Did you hear we’re going to dinner with Old Blood and Guts?”
“Who?”
