There was a tap at the door, and Percy's secretary looked in. "There's someone to see you, Colonel Thwaite." The girl looked coquettish. The fatherly Percy never inspired that sort of behavior in secretaries, so Flick guessed the visitor must be an attractive man. "An American," the girl added. That might explain it, Flick thought. Americans were the height of glamour, to secretaries at least.
"How did he find this place?" Percy said. Orchard Court was supposed to be a secret address.
"He went to number sixty-four Baker Street, and they sent him here."
"They shouldn't do that. He must be very persuasive. Who is he?"
"Major Chancellor."
Percy looked at Flick. She did not know anyone called Chancellor. Then she remembered the arrogant major who had been so rude to her this morning at Monty's headquarters. "Oh, God, him," she said in disgust. "What does he want?"
"Send him in," said Percy.
Paul Chancellor came in. He walked with a limp that Flick had not noticed this morning. It probably got worse as the day wore on. He had a pleasant American face, with a big nose and a jutting chin. Any chance he might have had of being handsome was spoiled by his left ear, or what remained of it, which was the lower one-third, mostly lobe. Flick assumed he had been wounded in action.
Chancellor saluted and said, "Good evening, Colonel. Good evening, Major."
Percy said, "We don't do a lot of saluting at SOE, Chancellor. Please sit down. What brings you here?"
Chancellor took a chair and removed his uniform cap. "I'm glad I caught you both," he said. "I've spent most of the day thinking about this morning's conversation." He gave a self-effacing grin. "Part of the time, I have to confess, I was composing wittily crushing remarks I could have made if only I had thought of them in time."
Flick could not help smiling. She had done the same. Chancellor went on. "You hinted, Colonel Thwaite, that MI6 might not have told the whole truth about the attack on the telephone exchange, and that played on my mind. The fact that Major Clairet here was so rude to me did not necessarily mean she was lying about the facts."
Flick had been halfway to forgiving him, but now she bridled. "Rude? Me?"
Percy said, "Shut up, Flick."
She closed her mouth.
"So I sent for your report, Colonel. Of course the request came from Monty's office, not me personally, so it was brought to our headquarters by a FANY motorcyclist in double-quick time."
He was a no-nonsense type who knew how to pull the levers of the military machine, Flick thought. He might be an arrogant pig, but he would make a useful ally.
"When I read it, I realized the main reason for defeat was wrong intelligence."
"Supplied by MI6!" Flick said indignantly.
"Yes, I noticed that," Chancellor said with mild sarcasm. "Obviously, MI6 was covering up its own incompetence. I'm not a career soldier myself, but my father is, so I'm familiar with the tricks of military bureaucrats."
"Oh," said Percy thoughtfully. "Are you the son of General Chancellor?"
"Yes."
"Go on."
"MI6 would never have gotten away with it if your boss had been at the meeting this morning to tell SOE's side of the story. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he had been called away at the last minute."
Percy looked dubious. "He was summoned by the Prime Minister. I don't see how MI6 could have arranged that."
"The meeting was not attended by Churchill. A Downing Street aide took the chair. And it had been arranged at the instigation of MI6."
"Well, I'm damned," Flick said angrily. "They're such snakes!"
Percy said, "I wish they were as clever about gathering intelligence as they are about deceiving their colleagues."
Chancellor said, "I also looked in detail at your plan, Major Clairet, for taking the chateau by stealth, with a team disguised as cleaners. It's risky, of course, but it could work."
Did that mean it would be reconsidered? Flick hardly dared to ask.
Percy gave Chancellor a level look. "So what are you going to do about all this?"
"By chance, I had dinner with my father tonight. I told him the whole story and asked him what a general's aide should do in these circumstances. We were at the Savoy."
"What did he say?" Flick asked impatiently. She did not care which restaurant they had gone to.
"That I should go to Monty and tell him we had made a mistake." He grimaced. "Not easy with any general. They never like to revisit decisions. But sometimes it has to be done."
"And will you?" Flick said hopefully.
"I already have."
THE THIRD DAY
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Flick left London at dawn, driving a Vincent Comet motorcycle with a powerful 500cc engine. The roads were deserted. Gas was severely rationed, and drivers could be jailed for making "unnecessary" journeys. She drove very fast. It was dangerous but exciting. The thrill was worth the risk.
She felt the same about the mission, scared but eager. She had stayed up late last night with Percy and Paul, drinking tea and planning. There must be six women in the team, they had decided, as it was the unvarying number of cleaners on a shift. One had to be an explosives expert; another, a telephone engineer, to decide exactly where the charges should be placed to ensure the exchange was crippled. She wanted one good marksman and two tough soldiers. With herself, that would make six.
She had one day to find them. The team would need a minimum of two days' training-they had to learn to parachute, if nothing else. That would take up Wednesday and Thursday. They would be dropped near Reims on Friday night, and enter the chateau on Saturday evening or Sunday. That left one spare day as a margin for error.
She crossed the river at London Bridge. Her motorbike roared through the bomb-ravaged wharves and tenements of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe; then she took the Old Kent Road, traditional route of pilgrims, toward Canterbury. As she left the suburbs behind, she opened the throttle and gave the bike its head. For a while she let the wind blow the worries out of her hair.
It was not yet six o'clock when she reached Somersholme, the country house of the barons of Colefield. The baron himself, William, was in Italy, fighting his way toward Rome with the Eighth Army, Flick knew. His sister, the Honorable Diana Colefield, was the only member of the family living here now. The vast house, with its dozens of bedrooms for houseguests and their servants, was being used as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers.
Flick slowed the bike to walking speed and drove up the avenue of hundred-year-old lime trees, gazing at the great pile of pink granite ahead, with its bays, balconies, gables, and roofs, acres of windows and scores of chimneys. She parked on the gravel forecourt next to an ambulance and a scatter of jeeps.
In the hall, nurses bustled about with cups of tea. The soldiers might be here to convalesce, but they still had to be wakened at daybreak. Flick asked for Mrs. Riley, the housekeeper, and was directed to the basement. She found her staring worriedly at the furnace in the company of two men in overalls.
"Hello, Ma," said Flick.
Her mother hugged her hard. She was even shorter than her daughter and just as thin, but like Flick she was stronger than she looked. The hug squeezed the breath out of Flick. Gasping and laughing, she extricated herself "Ma, you'll crush me!"
"I never know if you're alive until I see you," her mother said. In her voice there was still a trace of the Irish accent: she had left Cork with her parents forty-five years ago.
"What's the matter with the furnace?"
"It was never designed to produce so much hot water. These nurses are mad for cleanliness, they force the poor soldiers to bathe every day. Come to my kitchen and I'll make you some breakfast."