Colin flushed. “I think I should go with you. With two people looking, we can find Polly twice as fast, and I know where every single bomb fell on the tenth.”
“As do I. Give me my money and identity card.”
“And here’s your ration book,” Colin said, handing them to him. “You might get hungry. I brought you a pocket torch. To help you see where you’re going.”
Dunworthy handed it back. “All that will do is get me arrested by the local ARP warden. Pocket torches weren’t allowed in the blackout.”
“But that’s all the more reason for me to go with you. I can see really well in the dark—”
“You are not going, Colin.”
“But what if you’re hit by a bus? That happened a lot in the blackout. Or get into some other sort of trouble?”
“I will not get into trouble.”
“You did last time,” Colin said, “and I had to rescue you, remember? What if that happens again?”
“It won’t.”
“Mr. Dunworthy?” Linna said from the console. “I have the coordinates if you’re ready.”
“Yes,” he said, and saw Colin dart a calculating glance at the draped folds of the net and the distance between it and where they were standing. “Thank you, Linna, but I need a few more minutes. Colin, on second thought, I believe you’re right about the torch. If I’m to get Polly out quickly, I can’t afford to sprain an ankle falling off a curb.”
“Good,” Colin said, holding the torch out to him.
“No, this one won’t work,” he said. “It’s too modern. And it needs to be fitted with a special blackout hood to eliminate the beam’s being seen from above. Go ask Props if they have one with a hood, and if they haven’t, then paste strips of black paper over the glass. Hurry.”
“Yes, sir,” Colin said, and dashed out.
“You have the coordinates ready?” Dunworthy asked Linna as soon as Colin was gone.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “We can do it as soon as Colin—”
He went over to the door and locked it. “Send me through.”
“But I thought—”
“The last thing I need is a seventeen-year-old tagging along while I’m trying to find a missing historian,” he said, walking over to the net and ducking under its already descending folds. “A seventeen-year-old who, as Badri can attest, has a history of stowing away on journeys to the past.” He centered himself on the grid. “Ready,” he said to her.
“I think you should at least wait until we’ve set up the return drop,” Badri said. “If there’s increased slippage, and you go through later than—”
“You can set it up after you send me through. Now, Linna.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. She began typing, and he saw the beginnings of the shimmer.
“Don’t send anyone else through on assignment till I return. And if Polly comes back through to check in, keep her here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Colin’s not to be allowed anywhere near the net while I’m gone.”
The shimmer was beginning to grow and flare, obscuring Linna’s features. “He’s not to come through after me—or Polly—under any circumstances,” he said, but it was too late. The net was already opening.
Very well met and well come!
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
Bletchley—November 1940
TURING. OH, GOD. HE’D COLLIDED WITH ALAN TURING AND nearly got him killed. “That was Turing?” Mike asked, and grabbed for the wall, his legs suddenly unsteady.
“Oh, you are hurt!” Elspeth said. “Here, come inside and sit down. And you’re limping!”
“No, that’s not—” he began, but the girls were already helping him up the steps and inside.
“People like that should be forbidden from riding bicycles,” Mavis said indignantly. “Let me see your foot.”
“Did you say Turing?” Mike said. “Alan Turing?”
“Yes,” Elspeth said. “Do you know him?”
“No. I knew a guy named Turing in college. A math—”
“That’s him. They say he’s a genius at maths.”
“Well, I don’t care if he’s a genius or not,” Mavis said. “I intend to give him a piece of my mind!”
“No! Don’t say anything to him. I’m all right.”
“But he may have broken your foot—”
“No, he didn’t. It was shot off.”
Their eyes widened, and Elspeth, obviously impressed, said, “Were you at Dunkirk?”
“Yes. The point is, he didn’t hurt me. I was just shaken up for a minute. There’s no need to say anything to Mr. Turing. I was the one who wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“You were the one?” Mavis said indignantly. “Turing never pays the slightest attention to where he’s going. He simply plows through pedestrians.”
Elspeth nodded. “Someone needs to tell him he must be more careful! He could have injured you!”
And I could have injured him, Mike thought. Or killed him. If Turing had lost control of his bicycle and crashed into a lamppost instead of the curb, or into a brick wall …
Mavis said, “I’ve a good mind to tell Cap—”
“No. There’s no need to tell anybody. I’m fine. No harm done. Thank you for picking me up and dusting me off.” He picked up his bag, which Mavis had carried in.
“Oh, don’t go,” Elspeth said. “We want to hear about Dunkirk.” She perched on the arm of the couch. “Was it exciting? It must have been dangerous.”
“Not half as dangerous as this place,” he said.
Elspeth laughed, but not Mavis. She was looking curiously at him. “Why were you at Dunkirk? Aren’t you an American?”
Oh, Jesus, worse and worse. He hadn’t even been thinking what he was saying, he’d been so upset about nearly killing Turing, and now he’d just blown his cover. “Yes,” he admitted.
“I knew it,” Mavis said smugly, and Elspeth added, “Oh, good, we adore Americans. But what were you doing at Dunkirk?”
You can’t say you’re a reporter. “A friend of mine had a boat. We thought we’d go over and see if we could lend a hand.”
“Oh, how thrilling!” Elspeth said. “You’ve no idea how exciting it is to meet someone who’s actually doing something important in the war.”
“You must stay to tea and tell us all about it,” Mavis said. “I’ll go put the kettle on.”
“No, don’t.” He stood up. “I’m sure you’re busy, and I’m interrupting—”
“No, you’re not,” Elspeth said. “We’re off duty tonight.”
“But it’s getting late, and I have to find a place to stay. I don’t suppose you know of any rooms that are available?”
“In Bletchley?” Elspeth said, as if he’d asked for an apartment on the moon.
“I’m afraid everything’s filled up for miles around,” Mavis said. “We’re three to a room here.”
“Did I hear someone say we’re getting a new roommate?” a female voice called down from upstairs. “Tell her there’s no room.” A young woman came running down the stairs. She was very buxom and very blonde. “We’re crammed in like pilchards as it is—oh, hullo,” she said, coming over to meet Mike. “Are you going to be billeted here? How lovely!”
“He’s not billeted here, Joan,” Mavis said. “Even if we weren’t full up, Mrs. Braithewaite only lets to girls,” she explained to Mike. “She says it saves complications.”
I can imagine, Mike thought, looking at Joan.
“Have you been to the billeting office yet?” Elspeth asked.
Billeting office? “No,” he said. “I just arrived.”
“Well, when you go,” Elspeth said, “tell them it’s essential you live close in, or they’ll put you up in Glasgow.”
“And you must insist on seeing your billet first,” Mavis added. “Some of them are dreadful. WC at the bottom of the garden, and bedbugs!”
He was still thinking about what
they’d said about a billeting office. He should have thought of that. Of course the administration at Bletchley Park would be in charge of assigning lodgings. He’d been thinking he could rent a room and hint to his landlady that he worked out at the Park, but if everyone who worked there got lodgings through the billeting office—
“He might try the Empire Hotel,” Joan said to Mavis.
“It’s full up,” Mavis said, and to Mike, “Everything’s full up. Even closets. Our friend Wendy’s sleeping in the pantry at her billet, in among the bottled peaches.”
“The billeting office isn’t open on a Sunday,” Joan said. “We could sneak him upstairs for tonight.”
“No,” the other two said in unison.
“What about the Bell?” Elspeth asked.
Mavis shook her head.
“Well, maybe they’ll let me sleep in the lobby,” Mike said, and went to the door.
“You’re certain you can’t stay a bit longer?” Joan asked.
“Afraid not. Thanks for all your help. Do any of you happen to know—” But before he could ask whether they knew a Gerald Phipps, they began giving him directions to the Bell. “And if it hasn’t any rooms, the Milton’s two streets down—”
“Watch out for Turing on your way there,” Joan cut in.
“And for Dilly,” Elspeth said. “He’s even worse about not watching where he’s going, and he has a car! Whenever he comes to a crossing, he speeds up.”
“Dilly?” Mike said hoarsely.
“Captain Knox,” Mavis said. “We work for him. He has some sort of mathematical theory that by going faster he’ll hit fewer people, because of being in the crossing a shorter time.”
My God. First Alan Turing and now Dilly’s girls. He was smack in the middle of Ultra, and he’d only been in Bletchley half an hour. “I refuse to accept lifts from him anymore,” Elspeth was saying. “He forgets he’s driving and takes both hands off the—are you all right? You’re pale as a ghost.”
“Turing did injure you,” Mavis said. “Come sit down while we phone for the doctor. Elspeth, go put the kettle—”
“No!” he said. “No. I’m fine. Really.” And he left before they could protest. Or Dilly Knox showed up.
“But we don’t even know your name!” Mavis called after him.
Thank God for that at least, he thought, pretending he hadn’t heard her. And thank God he hadn’t asked about Phipps. He hurried off toward the Bell. What next? Would there be an Enigma machine in his room?
If you can find a room, he thought. But surely they’d have saved a hotel room or two for people passing through, billeting or no billeting.
Wrong. The desk clerk hooted when he asked.
“You don’t know of anywhere?” Mike asked.
“In Bletchley?” the clerk said, and turned to the young man who’d just come up to the counter. “Yes, Mr. Welchman?”
Gordon Welchman? Who’d headed up the team which had broken the German Army and Air Force Enigma codes? Christ, he thought, retreating hastily. At this rate he’d have met all the key players by morning. He headed for the Milton, wondering if he should go back to the station right now and catch the first train going anywhere.
No, with his luck, Alan Ross would be on it with Menzies sound asleep in the luggage rack. But it didn’t look as if he could stay here either. Neither the Milton nor the Empire had a room, and going back to the Bell was out of the question. “You might try one of the boardinghouses on Albion Street,” the clerk at the Empire said, “but I doubt you’ll find anything.”
He was right. Every house had a No Rooms Available or No Vacancy placard in its front window. May be the reason the Germans never found out about Ultra was because their spies couldn’t find anywhere to stay, Mike thought, crossing the street—after first looking carefully in all directions—and starting down the other side, peering through the dark at the signs: No Rooms, Full Up, Room to Let.
Room to Let. It took a moment for that to sink in, and then he was up the steps and pounding on the door. A plump, rosy-cheeked old lady opened the door a sliver, smiling. “Yes?”
“I saw that you have a room. Is it still available?”
She stopped smiling and folded her arms belligerently across her stomach. “Did the billeting office send you?”
If he said yes, he might have to produce some sort of official form, and if he said no, she was likely to tell him all her rooms had already been co-opted. “I saw your notice,” he said, pointing at it. The smile came back, and she motioned him to come in.
“I’m Mrs. Jolsom,” she said. “I didn’t think you looked like one of them.”
Polly and Eileen won’t be happy about that after all their efforts, he thought, wondering what was wrong with his appearance.
“I don’t let rooms to that lot at the Park. Unreliable. Coming and going at all hours, scattering papers everywhere, and when you try to tidy up after them, shouting at you not to touch anything, like it was something valuable instead of a lot of papers covered with numbers. Ten and four.”
For a moment he thought she was talking about the numbers on the papers, then realized she meant the price of the room. “Paid by the week. In advance,” she said, leading him upstairs. “Room only, no board—the rationing, you know. I ask two weeks’ notice if you’re leaving,” she said, leading him up a second flight, “so the room won’t stand empty.”
She apparently hasn’t heard about Wendy having to sleep in the pantry, Mike thought, following her down a hall. The room was the size of a closet, but it was a room and in Bletchley. “I’ll take it,” he said.
“I’ve had them go off without a word,” she said indignantly. “Or not come when they said they would. And after I’d saved the room for them. ‘There must have been a miscommunication,’ the billeting officer said. ‘Miscommunication!’ I said. ‘What about this letter? And what about my four weeks’ rent?’ ”
Mike finally stopped her by handing her the week’s rent and asking if she had a telephone. “No, but there’s one at the pub two streets over,” she said. “Claimed he hadn’t sent the letter, he did. ‘Well, then, that’s the last one you billet here,’ I told him. ‘What about your patriotic duty?’ he says. ‘What about their patriotic duty?’ I says, ‘lazing about here messing with multiplication tables like a lot of schoolboys when they ought to be in the Army?’ ” She looked at Mike suspiciously. “Why aren’t you in the Army?”
He wasn’t about to blow it now, when this was the only room for miles, and in the one house where he wouldn’t have to worry about running into a famous cryptanalyst on the way to the bathroom. “I was injured at Dunkirk.” He pointed at his foot. “Dive-bomber.”
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Jolsom said, pressing a hand to her bosom. “Only just think, a hero here under my own roof.” She bustled off to make him tea and a soft-boiled egg. He’d have felt ashamed of himself for passing himself off as a war hero if he hadn’t still been spooked by his encounters with Turing, Dilly’s girls, and Welchman.
You didn’t do any damage, he told himself. Turing wasn’t hurt, and all he’d done to Dilly’s girls was talk to them. And blow your cover, he thought. But they hadn’t thought there was anything odd about an American being in Bletchley. And if Dilly’s girls and Turing were this easy to find, then Gerald Phipps should be a snap. And you have a room, and since Mrs. Jolsom’s making you supper, you don’t have to go out, so you can’t get into any more trouble tonight. But he’d have to go out tomorrow to look for Phipps, which meant being in places where he was likely to run into BPers.
Or maybe not. Instead, he could pretend to be looking for a room to rent. Nobody could be suspicious of that, given the housing situation, and after they’d turned him down, he could say casually, “Oh, by the way, you don’t have a boarder named Gerald Phipps, do you? Sandy-haired guy with spectacles?” And he wouldn’t have to go anywhere near Bletchley Park.
His plan worked like a charm—except that he didn’t find Phipps. And if he’d really been
looking for a room, he wouldn’t have found that either. He’d apparently got the last one in Bletchley. After four days of knocking on doors and asking at every hotel and inn, he was certain Phipps wasn’t living anywhere in the town.
Which meant he was billeted in one of the surrounding villages, but according to Dilly’s girls, BPers were scattered all over the area. It would take him forever to find Phipps that way. Looking out at Bletchley Park would be much more efficient.
If he could find it. He doubted if Mrs. Jolsom would tell him, given her enmity against the Park, and he didn’t dare ask a passerby. With his luck it would turn out to be Angus Wilson. Or Winston Churchill.
But the Park turned out not to be that hard to find. All he had to do was follow the stream of naval officers and professors and pretty girls out of town, along a paved road clogged with bicycles ridden by people who didn’t pay any more attention to where they were going than Turing had.
Polly’d been right. He didn’t need to get into Bletchley Park to see who worked there. He could watch them all from the cinder-covered driveway that led up to the guarded gate. Beyond it lay long gray-green buildings and a gabled red-brick Victorian mansion. He limped a few feet up the drive and then stopped and knelt, pretending to tie his shoe, though nobody was taking any notice of him. The pretty girls were chattering to one another, and the professors were in another world. The guard paid no attention either. He checked off names on a roster and glanced cursorily at the identity cards people held out to him. Mike had the feeling he could hold out his press pass and get in.
He finished tying his shoe and stood up. Several men were standing around smoking and apparently waiting for someone. I need to buy some cigarettes, he thought. No, a pipe. He could spend a long time filling it, trying to light it, patting his pockets for matches. For now, he glanced impatiently at his watch and scanned the people coming out. He didn’t see Phipps, though there were several sandy-haired, spectacled, tweed-clad men, and he caught a glimpse of two more inside the grounds.