An aircraft was struck squarely by an anti-aircraft shell. Its high-explosive and incendiary bomb load ignited instantly, and the blast flared across the sky as the aircraft vanished into burning remnants floating to the ground. Now the engine drone was louder, insistent, rattling windows, and the guns fired with increased fury. Fire engines added the sounds of their emergency bells, and the building shuddered as a bomb exploded somewhere close. The smells of cordite and burning buildings rose, smoke thickened the air, and shell splinters rattled down on the rooftops. London was burning.
“Sir, we really should go down,” Thompson said. “It’s getting far too dangerous up here.”
“No, not yet, and please do not worry so much, Thompson,” Churchill grunted and pointed heavenward. “He who put me here will take care of things. He will not let harm befall me until my work is done.”
“While you were in discussion with Him about your immortality, did you perchance put in a word for me?”
“I’m afraid I did not,” Churchill said and laughed. “But your proximity to me gives you immunity from disasters great and small. Another one! Hope it’s one of theirs, not ours.”
A burning aircraft tumbled out of formation, and Churchill followed it through his binoculars. “A Heinkel, I think.” He turned in his seat to face Thompson. “The Germans are a precise people who can be relied on not to make small mistakes but always the big ones. By concentrating their bombers on London, they have given our brave fighter pilots a rest. Soon Mr. Hitler and Mr. Der Dicke Göring will come to regret that decision.”
The rooftop door opened a few inches, and a woman’s hand shot out, clutching a file as she squeaked, “Mr. Thompson.” The hand vanished, and the door slammed shut the instant he took the file.
“Read it for me,” Churchill said, his binoculars fixed on the aircraft armada passing overhead.
Thompson opened the file. “It says our newlyweds are on their way to Greenock. It all goes well.”
“Thank God something is, because Norway was a horror. I wonder if our Welsh tigress has driven Lord Hecky insane yet?”
* * *
They had been rattled around, blind, for what seemed like hours when the lorry lurched hard left and stopped. The canvas cover was untied, and the tailgate unlatched. Captain Murray nudged them out to where his men, now all armed, were waiting for them as they dropped to the ground.
It was silent, dark, with black hills on one side and a vast lake, a dull hammered gray, on the other. A star-speckled sky stretched above them. There were no signs, no lights, no buildings.
“Where are we?” Caitrin asked.
Captain Murray sniffed the air, coughed, and said, “On the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. It’s a pretty enough place in daylight; they even wrote a song about it. We won’t be here to see the beauty, though.” He gestured to a stand of trees a few yards away. “My apologies, but that’s the best I can offer for your . . . your conveniences. The lady first, and just so you know, if you run away, I will shoot Lord Marlton. Off you go.”
Caitrin slipped into darkness under the trees. There was something strange, some odd dissonance she could not comprehend, about what was happening. Captain Murray was familiar to her, although she still could not retrieve him from memory. Why were they not told sooner about civilian vehicles being barred from entering the dock? Was that actually true, and surely Hector’s “magic” letter would have gained them access anyway? Murray knowing exactly where to meet them with the lorry meant there was a spy—more than a spy, someone deep in the government who was making decisions. Someone who probably knew everything about the operation. The lorry had a civilian number plate, and apart from blackout white visibility stripes, there were no military markings. She noticed the men were no longer wearing uniforms. And last, they were heading north, away from any major towns, ports, or airfields. Why?
Caitrin was shivering on her return to the lorry because the night was cold, with damp air drifting in from the loch, and she was wearing just slacks and a light blouse. Hector slipped his jacket around her shoulders as he passed and went into the trees.
“Captain Murray,” she said. “You were kind enough to tell us where we are, now would you mind explaining where we are going?”
“I cannot possibly do that, I’m afraid.” Murray grinned, but his automatic pointed at her was unwavering. “I want you to think of it as a free grand tour of Bonnie Scotland. Unfortunately it will remain a mystery, though, because it’s night.”
Caitrin put a hand to her stomach.
“Would you at least ask your man to drive a little more smoothly? I travel badly.”
“I will try my best, but the road follows the contours, and we are heading into the Highlands.”
Hector returned, they were pushed back into the bed, the tailgate was shut, and the lorry moved north, away from Loch Lomond.
18
In London that week German bombs killed over two thousand people, wounded two thousand eight hundred, and destroyed countless homes and warehouses. The numbers were heartbreaking, as were the totals of the previous weeks, and the future promised to be worse. The Blitz had become a malign presence that was a constant and jagged thorn in his side, but Churchill had other problems to face, and he intended to share them with the two people who had just been dragged from their beds.
On the other side of his desk, Brigadier Sir Alasdair Gryffe-Reynolds, a slender, ascetic man who rumor had it was once destined for the church but instead chose the army, sat upright, eyes blinking away what remained of his sleep. Churchill knew Gryffe-Reynolds quite well and had in fact suggested him to the Special Operations Executive. A secret organization, the SOE had recently been established to run espionage and sabotage in occupied Europe. It had been nicknamed the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, although Churchill much preferred the other title: Churchill’s Secret Army.
Winston’s command to them was Set Europe Ablaze.
The other person was Bethany Goodman, a neat, middle-aged woman dressed in a tweed suit. He knew little about her or 512, the organization she commanded.
“So it seems Caitrin Colline is not a policewoman but instead a member of your organization?”
“She is both. I encourage my women to maintain their civilian occupations while not on service. It makes a good cover.”
“Why is your organization a complete mystery to me?” he asked.
“That’s because it was, and is, supposed to be a secret, Sir,” she said.
“Not to me, your prime minister.”
“We were created during the last government, Sir. My apologies—actually it was initiated at the tail end of Stanley Baldwin’s office. I naturally assumed they would have told you.”
“That is an incorrect assumption. Now tell me, what does 512 actually do?”
Goodman’s mouth tightened as she glanced at Gryffe-Reynolds, who diplomatically pretended to be fascinated by a picture on the wall.
“Sir, my remit is to keep the organization confidential. Perhaps you—”
“Perhaps you, Miss Goodman, should appreciate we are at war.”
“I am well aware of that, Sir, and it is Mrs. Goodman. My husband served on the Exeter fighting against the Graf Spee. He was killed on the bridge.”
“My sympathy. Brave fellow, and we are forever in his debt. However, as prime minister I need to know about 512, and Gryffe-Reynolds here is in the SOE and so knows all about keeping secrets. You said: I encourage my women.”
