All Clear (81 page)

“Which is what the Germans are worried about,” Ernest said, “and why they’re demanding the information.”

“Yes, but it’s in our interest to keep them from correcting the trajectory, to see to it that the V-1s continue to fall short.”

“So you switch the bombs that fall short for the ones that reach their target,” Ernest said.

“Exactly.”

“What?”
Cess said, looking thoroughly confused. “How can you switch bombs?”

“Bomb A falls in Stepney at nine o’clock at night,” Ernest explained. “Bomb B falls on Hampstead Heath at half past two in the morning. Our agent tells the Germans bomb A was the one that fell at half past two.”

“In Hampstead,” Tensing said. “And the Germans think it overshot its target, and they shorten its trajectory.”

“Which makes the next one fall short,” Cess said, catching on. “But how do we ensure it falls somewhere where it won’t do any damage?”

“Unfortunately, we can’t, but we
can
increase the chances of a rocket falling in woods or a field—”

“Or a pasture,” Cess said. “Worthing, this is your chance to eliminate that bull that caused you so much trouble.”

Tensing went on as if Cess hadn’t spoken. “But we
can
increase the chances of their landing in a less-populated area than central London.”

That’s why you were so eager to point out the thousands of lives we saved
, Ernest thought.
Because now we’re going to start killing people
.

“The retargeting will allow us to provide false information without arousing suspicions regarding our double-agents,” Tensing said. “And to significantly lower the number of casualties.”

And kill people who wouldn’t otherwise have died
, Ernest thought. “So what’s our job?” Cess asked. “We’re to match up the bombs?”

“No, I need you two to provide corroboration,” Tensing said, and handed Ernest a photograph of a pile of rubble. It was impossible to tell what it had been from the tangle of bricks and lengths of wood.

“This happened in Fleet Street Tuesday afternoon at 4:32
P.M.
, but we’re telling the Germans it’s Finchley. The high level of destruction makes substitutions comparatively easy. We’ve told the newspapers they’re not to print any photographs or information about rocket attacks without our authorization.”

“What about the casualty lists in the papers?” Ernest asked. “Won’t the addresses of the people killed give the location away?”

“We’ve thought of that,” Tensing said. “You’ll need to write false death notices to go with the incidents, and we’ve requested the newspapers to hold theirs for several days and list only the name of the deceased. In instances where several members of the same family are killed, we’ve asked them to publish them on separate days, and you’ll do false corroborating stories.”

“What a bloody business,” Ernest said bitterly.

“Yes,” Tensing said. “I’ll need captions and news stories to go with the photographs, and anything else you can come up with—eyewitness accounts, personal ads, letters to the editor—the same sort of thing you were doing before. No direct mention of location, of course. We want the Germans to work that out on their own, and our double agents will be confirming it.”

“When do we begin?” Cess asked.

“Now,” Tensing said, pulling a sheaf of black-and-white photographs from his briefcase and handing them to Cess. “These need to be checked for identifying landmarks or signboards which may need to be cropped out.”

He handed a second sheaf to Ernest. Each one had a memo paper-clipped to it with the actual time and location and the falsified one. “A basic news story for the London dailies,” Tensing said, “and a local connection for the village papers—local resident visiting someone in the town when it hit. You know the sort of thing, Worthing.”

He knew exactly, and he couldn’t have asked for a better job. Not only did he not have to worry about being sent to Burma, but he’d be able to imbed his own coded messages in the articles.

“Cess, you’ll do the London dailies,” Tensing said. “Worthing, you’ll do the village papers. Chasuble will be in on this, too.” Tensing shut his briefcase. “I’d like to speak to him before I leave.”

“I’ll go see if he’s back,” Cess said, and went out.

“Shut the door,” Tensing said to Ernest, and after he did, added, “It
is
a bloody business. That’s why I chose you. I know I can count on you.”

“What do the higher-ups say about this scheme?” Ernest asked.

“They don’t know yet. We have a meeting to discuss the deception plan with them week after next.”

“And if they vote not to approve it?” Ernest asked, looking at Tensing closely.

“Then I suppose we shall have to think of something else,” he said. “But I can’t imagine them doing anything so irresponsible. It would mean jeopardizing hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives—so many that if I was told they’d voted the idea down, I’d be forced to conclude that the person who told me had got the story wrong.”

In other words, he intended to ignore the order and continue deceiving the Germans till he got caught and then plead ignorance. Like Lord Nelson had done at the battle of Copenhagen. Tensing was risking his career. And his future. He could be court-martialed, or worse, for disobeying orders, but he’d do it anyway. In order to save lives.

I didn’t get to observe Chaplain Howell Forgy at Pearl Harbor
, Ernest thought,
or the firemen at the World Trade Center, but I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve gotten to observe heroes
. Not just Tensing, but the Commander and Jonathan. And Cess and Prism and Chasuble, fighting recalcitrant inflatables and angry bulls. And Turing and Dilly Knox, patiently deciphering code.

And Eileen, driving an ambulance through burning streets and coping with the Hodbins. And Polly, dealing daily with the threat of certain death.

If I ever get back to Oxford, I won’t need to go to the Pandemic and the Battle
of the Bulge
, he thought.
I’ve collected more than enough material for my work on heroes right here
.

“So, I take it you won’t be at this meeting where the policy’s to be discussed?” Ernest asked.

“Of course I’ll be there.” Tensing drew himself up indignantly. “Unless, of course, my back is acting up. Old war injury, you know.” He allowed himself a smile. “Lord Nelson’s not the only one who has a blind eye he can turn.”

Cess opened the door and came in. “Chasuble just rang from Tenterden. He says the Austin’s acting up again.”

Right outside the Plough and Bull, no doubt
, Ernest thought,
where his barmaid Daphne works
.

“You two will need to bring him up to speed, then,” Tensing said. He picked up his briefcase and started out. “Those photographs need to be in the dailies by tomorrow and the village papers by their next deadline.” He opened the door.

“Wait,” Cess said. “I’ve only just thought of something. These rockets, we wouldn’t be sending any of them down on our own heads, would we?”

Tensing shook his head. “You’re too far east. If this works as planned, the bulk of the bombs will fall on Bethnal Green, Croydon, and Dulwich.”

“HERE SHE IS, MR. KNIGHT,” TALBOT SAID. “EILEEN!” SHE
shouted, waving across the room at the woman who’d just come into the Blitz exhibit.

She was just as Talbot had described her: gray hair, medium height, rather stout. “Lambert! Over here!” Talbot called, and then turned to Calvin, beaming. “I told you she’d be here soon, Mr. Knight.”

“Her name’s Eileen?” he asked, hoping to God he’d misheard her.

“Yes. Eileen! Goody!” Talbot called, waving again. Mrs. Lambert hadn’t looked up. She was fumbling in her handbag, apparently looking for a pen to write on the name tag she held in the other hand.

There were lots of Eileens in the war
, he told himself over the sickening thud of his heart.
That’s why Merope chose the name, because it had been so common
. And this Eileen looked nothing like the slim, pretty, green-eyed redhead he’d seen in Oxford eight years ago.

But she would have aged fifty-five years since then, and the curly-haired brunette WAAC in the photo had looked nothing like the elderly woman he’d talked to either. And Mrs. Lambert’s gray hair as she bent over a display case, writing her name on the name tag, bore hints of what might be faded red.

Now she was struggling to put her name tag on. And what if, when she finally managed to pin it on, it read “Eileen O’Reilly”?

“What did Mrs. Lambert do in the war?” he asked Talbot.
Let her say she was a Wren. Or a chorus girl
, he prayed.

“She drove an ambulance,” Talbot said. “Oh, dear, she still doesn’t see us. Come along.” And Talbot dragged him across the room to Mrs. Lambert. She didn’t look as old as Talbot, but that was no doubt due to her plumpness, and Merope had been younger than Polly. The evacuation of the children had been her first assignment. And, if this was her, her only one.

“Eileen,” Talbot said. “Here’s someone who wants to meet you.”

Eileen had finally got her name tag attached, but it was no help. It merely read “Eileen Lambert,” and “Women’s World War II Alumni Association,” and when she looked up, her eyes were a pale aqua, which might or might not have been green when she was younger.

“I’m sorry,” Talbot was saying. “I’ve forgotten what your name was, Mr.—”

“Knight. Calvin Knight. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lambert,” he said, watching her closely as he shook her hand. “I’m from Oxford,” he added, and thought he saw a flicker of recognition. Oh, God, it
was
her.

“Mr. Knight is looking for someone who might have known his grandmother,” Talbot said. “Where were you, Goody? Browne said you had to run some sort of errand?”

“Yes. At St. Paul’s. I’d asked my brother to go for me, but he couldn’t. He’s down at the Old Bailey this morning, so I had to go.”

Brother. She had a brother. It wasn’t Eileen after all. The relief hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach.

“And the traffic was
wretched
,” Mrs. Lambert was saying.

Talbot nodded. “They simply
must
do something about that area near St. Bart’s. It’s impossible.”

Pudge came up. “Oh, you two have found each other. Excellent. Did Lambert know your grandmother?” she asked him.

“I haven’t asked her yet.”

“His grandmother was in London during the Blitz,” Talbot explained to Eileen. “Her name was Polly—what did you say her last name was, Mr. Knight?”

“Sebastian. Polly Sebastian.” Both ladies looked expectantly at Eileen Lambert, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, there isn’t anyone by that name in the organization,” she said. “Was Polly a nickname for Mary?”

“Yes.”

“We had a Mary in our ambulance unit,” Talbot said, “but her last name was Kent.”

Mrs. Lambert ignored her. “What was your grandmother’s maiden name, Mr. Knight?”

“Sebastian. Her married name was O’Reilly,” he said, just in case, but he couldn’t detect any reaction from her.

“No, sorry,” she said. “We haven’t any Mary O’Reillys either. Have you tried the museum’s archives?”

Yes
, he thought.
And the British Museum’s. And the Public Record Office’s. And the morgues of the
Times
and the
Daily Herald
and the
Express.

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’m afraid I haven’t time today, but I’ll certainly come back. Thank you for your help. And for yours, Mrs. Vernon,” he said to Talbot, “and yours.” He shook hands with each of them in turn. “I don’t want to keep you from the exhibition.”

“Yes. Oh, Eileen, you must see the ‘Beauty in the Blitz’ display,” Talbot said. “They have nylons from the American PX and that dreadful face powder made from chalk. And there’s a lipstick just like the one I lost when Kent pushed me into the gutter that time. It may even be the same one. I’ll never forget that lipstick. Crimson Caress, it was called.” She and Pudge dragged Mrs. Lambert off, and Calvin headed for the exit, winding his way through the displays to the VE-Day exhibit, which was complete with cheers and simulated fireworks.

It was already after eleven, but if he hurried, he might be able to reach St. Paul’s by noon and catch some of the visitors having lunch in the cathedral’s café. He walked swiftly toward the exit.

“Mr. Knight!” someone called from behind him. He stopped and looked back. Mrs. Lambert was bustling along the corridor after him. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “Oh, good,” she panted, “you’re still here. I was afraid you’d already gone.” She hurried up to where he was standing.

“What is it?” he said. “Did you remember something?”

She shook her head, attempting to catch her breath, her hand to her bosom.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Can I get you a glass of water or something? We could go into the cafeteria.”

“No, they’ll all be coming in for lunch shortly. I’m sorry about that just now. I couldn’t say anything with Talbot and Pudge there.” She took his arm and led him past the gift shop and into the main hall, looking around, presumably for somewhere they could talk. “I’d hoped to catch
you when you first arrived, but I wasn’t certain where you’d be. St. Paul’s is opening their exhibition today as well, and I thought you were more likely to go there to look.”

Oh, God, it
was
Eileen, and the story about the brother was a fabrication, part of the identity she’d had to adopt after Polly died and she’d been left to fend for herself. She’d had to cope all alone with the duration of the war and all the long years after.
And how could she stand there smiling
, he wondered.
Knowing what I did to her, to them
?

She couldn’t
, he thought.
It isn’t her. She’s talking about something else, a reporter she was supposed to meet or a
—