He was in a short corridor lined with framed black-and-white photographs: a burnt-out church, rows and rows of barrage balloons over London, a street of bombed houses, the dome of St. Paul’s floating above a sea of smoke and flames. At the end of the corridor was another doorway, across which hung a heavy black curtain. From somewhere beyond it, he could hear a drone of planes and the crump of bombs. He went through the curtain.

Into total blackness. “Look out in the blackout,” a recorded voice said. He peered into the darkness, searching for Camberley. He couldn’t see her, but as his eyes adjusted, he could make out two round white lights with black bars across them which must be an automobile’s headlamps, and on the floor, a white-lined pathway leading to another curtained door, dimly illuminated by the headlamps. And just going through it, Camberley. He started toward her.

“Connor?” a woman’s voice called from behind him. He turned around and then remembered his name wasn’t Connor here and stopped, hoping the darkness had hidden his involuntary reaction. That was how the Nazis caught British spies, he thought, by suddenly calling them by their real name.

He continued following Camberley.

“Connor?” the woman’s voice said again, and he felt a hand on his arm. “I thought that was you. What a lucky coincidence! What are you doing here?”

Nothing could be seen but the tops of the towers of the palace, and even those only from a good way off.

—SLEEPING BEAUTY

Wales—May 1944

THE PRISON CAMP WASN’T NEAR PORTSMOUTH. IT WAS IN Gloucestershire, and Ernest and Cess ended up driving all night to get there. They got lost twice, once because of their inability to see anything in the blackout and the second time because of the lack of signposts. “Which is a good thing, really,” Cess said, struggling with the map. “If there were signposts, we wouldn’t be able to pull this off.”

If we can’t find the colonel, we won’t be able to pull it off either, Ernest thought irritably. He hadn’t felt this tired since that endless day in Saltram-on-Sea. If the Lady Jane were available, he’d gladly curl up in her hold, but they were nowhere near water. Or anything else. “Have you any idea at all where we are?” he asked Cess.

“No. I can’t find—oh, bloody hell, I’ve got the wrong map.” Cess unfolded the other one, peered at it, and then looked out at the road. “Go back to that last crossroads,” he said, and as Ernest backed the car around, he added, “I’ve just had an idea. I think we should get lost.”

“We are lost.”

“No, I mean after we pick up Colonel von Sprecht. We should pretend we don’t know where we are.”

“We may not have to pretend,” Ernest said as they reached the crossroads. “Which of these roads do I take?”

Cess ignored him. “You could say, ‘Where are we?’ and I could say, ‘Here, at Canterbury,’ and you could say, ‘Give me the map,’ and we could hold the map so he can see it and then argue over where we are. People always say things they shouldn’t when they’re arguing, and it would be far more believable than my saying, ‘Here we are at Canterbury,’ for no reason. What do you think?”