“I should visit our Miss Colline,” James said. “To make sure she’s not planning to dive over the side and swim to freedom. Although I would not be surprised if she has already walked to shore. Are you coming, Hector?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Hector said. “Better not.”
Caitrin was standing outside her cabin, flanked by two of his men, and gazing out at the coastline. They looked wary, even though she had her hands tied. “Good morning, Caitrin,” James said.
“You might want to replace these two sorry gargoyles soon. With the ship wallowing like a drunken pig, they’re turning a bit green and wobbly,” she said and stage-whispered, “Between you, me, and Admiral Dönitz, they are not exactly Kriegsmarine material.”
James could not hold back a smile. This woman was irrepressible. “If I untie your hands, will you promise not to do anything heroic?”
She shook her head. “No promises to traitors. My job is to escape, and that is what I will do.”
“All right, have it your way,” he said. “Put her back in the cabin, and change guards.”
Caitrin retched, pretending to throw up, and her theatrics were rewarded by one of the seasick guards vomiting. “It’s the little talents that are often most rewarding,” she said with a pert grin, stepped into the cabin, and closed the door behind her.
The tug arrived promptly, took the ship under tow, and brought them up the River Tagus and into the heart of Lisbon. They were assigned a mooring at Cacilhas in Almada, next to the shipyard on the south bank. There they would have to wait until it was their turn to be berthed and repaired. James and Hector went out onto the flying bridge with Brandt.
“I had planned to be moored on the north side of the river,” James said. “Now we’ll have to get a boat to carry everything across, and that’s another unnecessary step.”
Hector shrugged. “We have no choice, and we still have plenty of time. It will be all right.”
“I’ll take care of getting a boat,” Brandt said as he gazed out over the river. “This is a fascinating city. Right here in 1588 is where the Spanish Armada started from when it sailed for England.”
“Let’s hope we have more success than it did,” James said with a frown.
34
Miss Edna Warbery was much more nervous than she looked. To begin with, she was not supposed to be in the Cabinet War Rooms, and she didn’t like the place one little bit. It was cramped, with steel girders everywhere to protect against air raids, and smelled of damp wool, lavatories, and Churchill’s cigars. As assistant to John Cardington she was supposed to stay in the background and only offer information, but he had begged off the meeting, saying he had a tremendous migraine. That, Edna knew from experience, translated as tremendous hangover. So here she was, sitting at the end of a table with military officers and politicians on either side, and a glowering Winston Churchill at the other end. He was prime minister and the man solely responsible for saving Britain and the Empire from the Nazis, but to Edna he looked daft in that silly blue romper suit.
“Explain, if you will, please, exactly why you are here, Miss?” he growled.
“I am Miss Warbery, Prime Minister,” Edna said. “First, Mr. Cardington sends his profuse apologies and—”
“Let’s ignore profuse apologies and get to the heart of the matter, shall we?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“And there’s no need to keep calling me Prime Minister. Everyone knows who I am by now. Sir will suffice.”
“Yes, Prime . . . Sir.” Edna sat straighter, coughed, and opened the folder on the table in front of her.
To Churchill she looked a little like one of those Hollywood film stars who was supposed to be a mousy creature until she took off her pebble-lensed glasses, unpinned her hair, shook it free, and transformed into the most alluring woman in the world. And for some unfathomable reason, no one had ever noticed her before. He coughed and shook his head to banish the enticing thought and asked, “What have you for us, Miss Warbery?”
“When the Luftwaffe started bombing Britain, their aim was somewhat puzzling. Apart from London, which is a large target with many landmarks and easily identifiable, they scattered their bombs all over the place. We assumed that was because their bomb-aiming skills were rudimentary. But that is all about to change.”
“Where are you from, Miss Warbery?”
“Cockfosters, Sir.”
“I meant what government department?”
Edna colored. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to say, Sir.”
Professor Lindemann, sitting next to Churchill, leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“All right, hush hush, then. Please continue,” an irritated Churchill said, his cigar jabbing the air.
“For the Luftwaffe, bombing by day was not successful because the RAF shot down many of their aircraft, and bombing by night is difficult, except when there’s a full moon to illuminate the target.”
“We already know this.”
Edna sat back and squared her shoulders. She was not supposed to be there and did not want to be there, as usual the only woman in the room. But no man—be he prime minister, president, or Grand Poobah—was going to intimidate her, especially a short, fat, bald one in a blue velvet romper suit. “All German aircraft, military and civil, use the Lorenz radio beam system, which allows them to land in bad weather conditions. The Luftwaffe has taken Lorenz and developed it further into something called Knickebein. I believe it means crooked leg, or the name of a magical raven in their mythology. Who knows with the ever-annoying Germans?” she said. “Put simply” (she was tempted to add, “because you might not be smart enough to understand,” but did not), “there are two radio beams sent out from separate stations some distance apart that intersect over the chosen target. One transmits dots, the other dashes. The pilot flies along one beam, and when he hears a steady tone in his earphones knows he is over the target and releases the bombs. It is very effective.”
“And what are we doing about it?”
“Nothing particularly successful at first, until we bought an American Hallicrafters S-27 amateur radio set from a shop in Lisle Street, stuffed it into an RAF Anson, and sent it to fly around until they found the beams. Our next task is to send out spoof beams and/or deflect theirs.”
“Is there any other way, more aggressive?”
“Yes, Sir, there is one. We could send one of our bombers along the beam, but going away from the target and toward the transmitter. When the signal stops, they would be directly over the station and could drop their bombs.”
“Splendid.”
“We have had some difficulties, though,” Edna said. What she was about to tell them would set several cats among flocks of pigeons. Or at least she hoped so. “There is a secret Luftwaffe unit known as Kampfgeschwader 100, or KG100. They are a highly trained unit and experts at using Knickebein. Recently one of their bombers, carrying Knickebein radios, went down in the sea off Bridport. It landed more or less intact and close to the shore. We were looking forward to examining the radios and getting valuable information. But.” She stopped.
“But what?” Churchill’s head shot up. “Go on. What happened?”
“A Royal Navy retrieval squad immediately wanted to dive down and remove the equipment, but unfortunately the army declared it had jurisdiction over the aircraft and refused them access. While the two services were squabbling over who had command, heavy weather broke up the wreck.”
