Colonel von Sprecht gave no indication of understanding what the commander was saying. What if Tensing had been wrong, and he didn’t speak English? But when the commander asked, “Do you understand, Colonel?” he said, with only a trace of a German accent, “I understand very well.” He drew himself up as he spoke, but the guards nearly had to carry him out to the car. He didn’t look strong enough to survive the journey by car, let alone the sea voyage, and apparently Cess was thinking the same thing.

“What if he dies along the way?” he whispered as the guards put the colonel into the backseat.

Cess and Ernest climbed in. Ernest started the car and then adjusted the rear-vision mirror so he could see the colonel. He had leaned back against the rear seat, and his eyes were shut.

And if he stays like that the whole way, this scheme will have been for nothing, Ernest thought, driving south to Swindon, glancing occasionally in the mirror at the colonel. His eyes were still closed. Ernest drove into the town, feeling suddenly nervous. If there was even one signboard saying this was Swindon …

But Cess’s fears about the Americans having put up signs were unfounded, and the Home Guard or whoever had been in charge of taking down the signposts at the beginning of the war had done a thorough job. There was no name on the railway station and not even an arrow pointing to “Town Centre.”

“This is Brede, right?” Cess asked, looking at the map. When Ernest nodded, he said, “At the next turning, you go north to Horns Cross and take the Oxney Road to Beckley.”

“Shh. What if the colonel hears you?” Ernest said in a stage whisper.

“Don’t worry, he’s asleep,” Cess said, glancing back at him. “I don’t suppose we can stop in Nounsley, can we?”

“Why?”

“I know a girl there. A Wren. Name of Betty. She’s General Patton’s driver.”

“I thought Patton’s headquarters were in Essex. In Chelmsford.”

“They are, but she’s billeted in Nounsley, and she has a very understanding landlady. What do you say?”

“No,” Ernest said. “We can’t stop in Nounsley. Or Dover. You know our orders are to take the prisoner straight to London and hand him over to the War Ministry—”

“Shh,” Cess said, jabbing a thumb toward the backseat. “He’s awake.”

Ernest glanced over his shoulder and then called back to him, “Colonel von Sprecht, are you comfortable back there?”

“Yes. Thank you,” the colonel said.

“If you need anything, sir, just ask. Our orders are to take good care of you.”

“Would you like some tea?” Cess held up their thermos.

“No, thank you.”

“A cigarette?”

“No,” he said curtly, but at least he was awake and looking at what they’d brought him this way to see: fields full of tents and army vehicles and equipment. Ernest had been worried about their being able to stay on the prescribed route without the aid of signposts, but it wouldn’t matter which road they took. Every one they passed, even if it was a narrow country lane, was lined with Quonset huts or Jeeps parked bumper to bumper or mobile anti-aircraft guns. One of the pastures was crisscrossed with tank tracks just like the ones they’d so carefully made in that pasture. Only the tanks half hidden under the trees at the far end weren’t inflated rubber—they were the real thing. And so were the huge pyramids of oil drums and stacks of ammunition boxes farther on.