Cess was still banging on the glass. Ernest opened the door. “Oh, good,” Cess said. “You remembered to phone Bracknell. I was going to tell you to, and then I forgot, so I came after you. You were right about their barmaid. Very pretty. What did Bracknell say? Were you able to reach him?”

“No,” Ernest said. “I wasn’t able to get through.”

I’m in this thing with you to the end, and if it fails, we’ll go down together.

—WINSTON CHURCHILL TO DWIGHT
D. EISENHOWER, BEFORE D-DAY

London—Spring 1941

POLLY RAN OUT OF THE ALHAMBRA AND THROUGH THE firelit streets to Shaftesbury, and into dense fog.

No, not fog. Dust from the explosion. It smelled of sulphur and cordite and was completely impenetrable. I’ll never find the Phoenix in this, she thought, but as she felt her way forward, it began to thin and she could see the Phoenix’s marquee. Reggie must have been wrong—it was still standing.

But the street in front of it was roped off. And as she came closer, she saw that half of the theater’s front was missing, exposing the lobby and the gold-carpeted staircase. An officer in a white helmet was standing next to the blue incident light, peering at a clipboard. Polly ducked under the rope and ran over to him. “Officer—”

“This is an incident,” he said brusquely. “No civilians allowed.”

“But I’m looking for—”

He cut her off. “The theater was standing empty. I must ask you to leave. Warden!” He beckoned to an ARP warden. “Escort this young lady—”

“But there’s someone inside,” she said. “Sir God—”

“Officer Murdoch!” another warden called from up the street. “Quick!” and the incident officer hurried off.

Polly started after him, but so did the warden he’d called to have her thrown out, and she was afraid he’d do it before she could explain. And even if he’d listen, they obviously had their hands full.

She darted across the street and climbed over the heap of wood and plaster that had been the front of the theater and into the lobby. Scarcely any damage had been done to it. The bomb must have been only a hundred-pounder, in spite of its loudness. She tried to open the double doors to the theater proper, but they were locked.

The mezzanine doors weren’t. She slipped through them.

Into chaos. The balcony and boxes had collapsed onto the rows of red-plush seats below, and the seats themselves were piled atop one another as though tossed there by a wave. The walls still stood, and there was still a ceiling except for a large, jagged hole on one side. Through it, the fiery sky lit this part of the theater with a pinkish-orange light. The front part of the theater and the stage lay in shadow.

“Sir Godfrey! Are you in here?” Polly called, and started carefully across the sea of openwork metal supports, cushions spilling out stuffing, and splintered mahogany from the balcony. Some of the rows of seats were still intact and upright, with discarded playbills still on their red-plush seats. But they were unstable, threatening to topple as Polly walked across them, grabbing for seat backs as she worked her way forward, and her shoes made it worse.