“My schedule is flexible,” Brad said. “We’ll have to be careful of the beat cop—” He stopped talking and stared, and Chris looked to see what had cut off his speech. Madame Gastain’s mansion was totally dark, buttoned down for the night, no light shining in her drawing room window, or in any other part of the house that they could see, yet they’d not met the general on his return home.

“Maybe he got lucky, and they’ve retired to her bedroom,” Brad suggested.

“Maybe,” Chris mused, “or maybe not. Limpet?”

“Yes?”

“Pray that we’re boxing at shadows.”

That night neither could sleep and spent part of it packing for flight, making sure of their explosive devices and of instant access to their cyanide pills. Chris did not regret the risk Brad had taken. He would have done the same. It was part of the job. If the list of German spies proved legitimate, the worth of the intel was staggering, but finding it on the general’s desk had been too easy. They both agreed to that. The Abwehr chief might be careless once, but not twice, especially when he planned to be out of the house while guests were about. No German head of intelligence would be that trusting of anyone to go off and leave a classified document of such importance slipped hastily between the pages of a book on his desk. But the deed was done. They had only to wait to see what became of it.

*  *  *

When Major General March returned to his house that evening, he made immediately for the stairs and Hans’s room. He had not gone to Madame Gastain’s for a nightcap but walked in the opposite direction. He would not have imposed his company on the widow unannounced, and he would see her Saturday evening when they attended the premiere. The cold fog, turning to frost, had drawn around him like an icy blanket, and he would have rather been anywhere than walking the dark, deserted streets of an unfamiliar neighborhood this time of night, but he’d had to give his mousetrap time to be sprung. Frankly, he thought it would net him nothing but the assurance that there were no mice running free in his house.

“Did you set aside the wineglasses and mark them by name?” he asked his aide.

“I did, Mein General. They are in a sack on your desk.”

“Thank you, Hans.”

General March descended to his study. Donning gloves, he carefully inserted the classified document listing the insertions of Abwehr agents into England, Scotland, and Ireland into the sack containing the wineglasses. In the morning he would carry the lot to Abwehr headquarters and have the fingerprints on the glassware compared to those on the document.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE