The MP’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir,” he said, looking ahead at the traffic jam. “I’ll see to it that these vehicles are moved out of your way—”

Ernest shook his head. “There’s no time for that. Just move those that are blocking us in.”

“Yes, sir.” He started back toward the car.

The Wren was coming toward them, looking determined.

“Have you moved your vehicle?” the MP demanded.

“No. Officer, you don’t understand, it’s imperative that I get to Portsmouth.”

Ernest shot a look at the car. Cess had finally rolled up the window, thank God.

“I have an important dispatch to deliver,” the Wren was saying.

The MP ignored her. “Do you still want me to locate Captain Atherton, sir?”

Ernest shook his head. “There’s no time for that.”

“Atherton?” the Wren said. “Do you mean Major Atherton?”

Ernest stared at her.

“No,” the MP said. “The lieutenant wanted Captain Atherton—”

Ernest cut him off. “Major Denys Atherton?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

Jesus. “Do you know where he is?”

“Yes. At the holding camp at Fordingbridge.”

“How far is that from here?” Ernest demanded.

“Thirty miles,” she said, and the MP added, “It’s just outside Salisbury.”

Which meant going there today was out, but it didn’t matter. He had the name of the camp. If Atherton didn’t move to a transit camp in the next few days, like this division.

The Wren was rummaging in her shoulder bag. “I’ve got his number,” she said, produced it, and handed it to him.

And that was that. After over three years of plotting and searching, it had been handed to him, just like that. It can’t be this easy, he thought. Something will go wrong at the last minute.

But it didn’t. The Wren, smiling and waving, moved her Jeep, Ernest got into the car and said, “The whole division’s moving to their transit camps. Patton’s orders. He said we’ll have to go all the way back to Aylesham and take the other road to Dover”; the MP held up traffic till they were turned around; and the Winchester Road was not only empty of traffic but lined with B-17s and Flying Fortresses.

“That was brilliant,” Cess said when they stopped to check on a fictional knocking sound in the engine. “I thought we were for it back there, but you saved the day. How did you know Atherton was there?”

“I didn’t,” he said, keeping his voice low so the colonel wouldn’t hear. “It was a lucky shot. I used a name from one of my letters to the editor.”

“Well, it was a very lucky shot. And lucky we went past those bombers. Did you see the colonel’s face? He’s utterly demoralized. We’ve fooled him completely.”

“If nothing happens between here and London,” Ernest said grimly. “We’ve still got to get through Portsmouth—”

“You mean Dover,” Cess corrected.

“Through Dover, and the next roadblock we run up against, we may not be so lucky. And there’s still London. If he sees St. Paul’s in the wrong spot—”