He turned down a succession of smoky streets. “I was taking a passenger to Guy’s Hospital—a doctor it was, trying to get there to take care of casualties. And when we got to Embankment, it looked like the sky itself was on fire, so bright you could read a newspaper by it, and this queer red color, it was.

“ ‘Guy’s won’t be there,’ I told him, and blamed if the hospital wasn’t on fire when we got there. I had to take him back across London Bridge to St. Bart’s, and a good thing I got him there. I’ve never seen so many casualties.”

He stopped at a crossing to look down a street. “Newgate’s blocked off, but there’s a chance Aldergate’s open.”

It wasn’t. A wooden barricade stood across it.

“What about Cheapside?” the cabbie asked the officer standing next to it.

“No, this sector’s blocked off all the way to the Tower. Where were you trying to go?”

The cabbie didn’t answer him. “What about Farringdon?”

The officer shook his head. “They still haven’t got the fires out. The whole City’s impassable.”

The cabbie nodded and backed around. “Don’t worry,” he said to Mike. “Just because one way don’t work don’t mean another won’t, does it? I’ll get you there.”

Mike hoped he was right. Every street they tried was either roped off or blocked by fallen masonry. A huge crater had been blown out of the middle of one lane, and in the next one over, two portable fire pumps and an ambulance had been abandoned. He was obviously going to have to walk, which meant he’d better put his socks on. He pulled them out of his pockets, took off his shoes, and began putting them on.

“You wanted a look at her,” the cabbie called back to him. “Well, there she is.”

Mike looked up, and there was St. Paul’s, the dome framed by the opening of the lane they were passing, and the ball and gold cross standing out clearly against the dark gray sky.

“Not a scratch on her,” the cabbie said admiringly. “Not that Hitler didn’t try his best. Beautiful, ain’t she, sir?”

Beautiful, yes, but at least two miles away. They’d been closer at St. Bart’s. I need to get out of this cab before we get any farther away, Mike thought, but the cathedral had disappeared as the cabbie dived back into the maze of twisting streets, turning and backing and retracing so much Mike had no idea which direction it lay in.

And neither does he, Mike thought, tying his shoes and buttoning his jacket. He’s just driving. And meanwhile I’m running out of time.

“Stop,” he said aloud, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll walk from here.”

The cabbie shook his head. “It’s rainin’, guv, and you with no coat. No, I said I’d take you straight to St. Paul’s front door, and I will.”

“No, really, I—”

But the cabbie had already turned down a narrow alley. He nodded at the blackened buildings on either side. “Getting near it now, we are.”