He wished for the thousandth time he knew whether historians could affect events. And which of Fortitude South’s deceptions had worked. Had the Germans believed what von Sprecht told them? Had they even questioned him? And had they believed the faked photo ops and the carefully planted articles in the Call and the Shopper and the Banner? Which ones? The ones he was supposed to have turned in to the Call yesterday?

“It’s definitely clearing off,” Cess said. “I’m certain I saw a patch of blue. What if he tries to escape?”

“Who?”

“The prisoner. What if he tries to run off? Or to kill us? He might be dangerous—”

“He’s ill,” Ernest said, frowning at the map. “That’s why they’re repatriating him, and if he was dangerous, they’d scarcely have sent us.”

“A lot you know. Remember that farmer’s bull?”

“He’ll be handcuffed. Colonel von Sprecht, not the bull. Come here and show me the route we take.”

Cess traced the route on the map for him. “We go through Winchester—that’s Canterbury—and then south to Portsmouth so he can see the invasion armada and then—”

“We can’t go through Winchester,” Ernest said. “Its cathedral doesn’t look anything like Canterbury’s. We’ll need to go around.” Cess nodded and made a note on the other map. “And we’d best steer clear of Salisbury. He’s likely to recognize the spire.”

“Which can be seen for miles,” Cess said, frustrated. “I’ll need to completely redo the route.”

Good, Ernest thought, it will keep you from constantly looking out the window.

Cess was making him nervous. What was taking them so long? They could have repatriated the entire German Army by now.

Cess calculated a new route, wrote it out for Ernest, and went over to the window again to check the sky. “What if the Americans have put new signposts up? If the colonel finds out where he is—”

“He won’t. Stop worrying. And stop talking. I need to finish memorizing this route before they bring him in,” Ernest said. Which got him five full minutes of silence, and then Cess said, “How long can it take to sign a few papers? You don’t suppose they’re checking up on us, do you? What if Algernon didn’t tell the camp commander what he’s up to, and when they find out we’re not who we say we are, they decide we’re spies?”

“We are spies.”

“You know what I mean.”

“They won’t think we’re spies. And the weather’s not clearing. Stop fretting. Haven’t you ever been to the films? Spies are supposed to possess an icy calm.”

“But what if—” The door opened and the sergeant came in again, followed by the camp commander, two guards, and—between them—the prisoner in a German officer’s uniform.

Ernest had been wrong—he wasn’t handcuffed. But there was no need for him to be. He leaned heavily on the arms of his guards, and his face was gray. “Lieutenants,” the commander said, nodding at them, and then turned to the prisoner. “Colonel von Sprecht, you are being repatriated to Germany through a program instituted by the Swedish Red Cross. These two officers will drive you to London, where you’ll be handed over to the Red Cross and taken back to Germany.”