And when was the Führer going to make his move? They’d all been waiting for it for weeks now, but so far there was nothing. What was he doing? What was he waiting for?
He glanced over his shoulder and peered down the darkened street before hurriedly crossing the road between slow moving vehicles. They had lowered the speed limit to twenty miles per hour because of the increase of accidents and fatalities in the blackout, but it didn’t alleviate his discomfort in navigating the streets at night. Just last week a car had driven up onto the pavement when the driver lost his bearings and killed a twenty-three-year-old sailor. The blackout was accounting for more deaths than the actual war was at this point. Bloody ridiculous.
He gained the opposite side of the street and strode around the corner. His umbrella tapped along the pavement in time with his stride and he exhaled as the new direction put the wind at his back. At least for a few minutes his face would be saved from freezing off. As soon as he collected his message, he would hail a cab to take him home. If he’d wanted to live in the arctic, he would have moved to Antarctica. London was never this cold. His lips twisted briefly. Perhaps it was God’s way of punishing them for declaring war.
A telephone booth loomed out of the darkness and the man reached out a gloved hand to open the door, stepping inside and pulling it closed behind him. Out of the wind altogether now, he sighed in relief and picked up the handset. With swift fingers, he unscrewed the mouthpiece and tipped it into his open hand. A rolled up piece of paper fell out and he laid the handset down as he reached into his overcoat to pull out a slim torch. Switching it on, he read the single line of text. A wave of satisfaction went through him and he smiled, nodding in approval.
He switched the torch off, put it back in his pocket, replaced the mouthpiece and hung the receiver back in its cradle. Then, with a swift glance around through the glass panes of the booth, he pulled out his lighter and set the paper on fire. He held it for a moment as the flame licked across it, then dropped the burning scrap onto the floor of the phone booth. Once the paper had been destroyed, he put his foot over the burning embers, putting them out. The smell of charred paper filled the phone booth and he turned to open the door, stepping back out into the cold.
He closed the door to the booth, signaling that nothing had been left in response, and turned to continue down the street, his umbrella resuming the steady tapping. His lips curved again into a cold smile.
Operation Nightshade was a go.
February 20
Miles Lacey tucked his chin into his collar and went into the pub quickly, ducking out of the cold, steady rain drenching Croxley Green. The welcoming warmth of the Fox and Hounds embraced him as the door closed and he exhaled, straightening his shoulders and removing his hat. He looked around as he unbuttoned his coat with one hand. The establishment was crowded and noisy, and the smells of good hearty food mixed with beer filled his nostrils. It was a familiar and comforting sight after the long drive to get here.
Removing his coat and draping it over his arm, Miles elbowed his way to the bar and ordered a pint. There was no sign of Evelyn among the crowd, but he wasn’t worried. The rain had made the roads more slick than usual, slowing him down on his drive from Duxford. The same had probably happened to her on her way from Northolt.
“Miles Lacey!” A voice cried from his left and Miles turned in surprise. A young man with curly gold locks nudged and squeezed his way towards him. “My God, it really is you! I thought you were off in the army somewhere, fighting in mud.”
Miles laughed. Good old Barnaby. They had been up at Oxford together and he hadn’t seen him since they’d all come down. Barnaby Langton shoved his hand out, his blue eyes sparkling and Miles clasped it firmly.
“Hardly, dear boy. I’m in the RAF, defending jolly old England’s sainted skies.”
Barnaby looked surprised. “Never say the old rumors are true for once!” he exclaimed. “You’re really flying? I thought that was just lark up at Oxford!”
“It turned into a passion, Barny. I’m flying Spitfires now.” Miles picked up his pint and took a sip. “What are you doing all the way out here? I’d have thought you’d be comfortably ensconced in the family pile in Cornwall.”
“Not bloody likely,” Barnaby muttered, motioning for a pint and joining Miles at the bar. “A man can’t say boo in his own home these days, Miles. I’ve escaped from a swarm of bees, my friend, and it will be some time before I go back.”
Miles looked at him sympathetically. “The women are at it again?” he translated. “What’s the problem this time?”
Even when they were at Oxford, Barnaby had been plagued by his three sisters and mother every few weeks. A more demanding group of women Miles had never encountered, and poor old Barnaby had to deal with it constantly after his father had, perhaps wisely, departed this earth.
“Aside from the war and this new rationing? Do you know they’ve rationed butter, bacon, ham and sugar?”
“Yes. Well, they have to do something. We keep losing supply ships. The bloody Jerries are sinking them before
