“Nonsense,” said Ingrid, her sudden anger immediately commanding the attention of the room. “We predicted they would go to Bletchley; they went to Bletchley. Until they have the decrypt, we watch and we wait. And you stop trying to undermine my authority.”

“I’m not . . .” protested Dietrich.

“Stop. Or I’ll put a fucking bullet in your head. Three can do this job as well as four.” Dietrich took a step back and Eva moved in front of him, between Ingrid and the immediate cause of her anger.

There was silence for several seconds and then Gottfried spoke. “What about our insurance policy?”

“We won’t make that claim unless we need to,” said Ingrid, still glaring at Dietrich. “The premium is too high.”

“You realize that even if we get this right,” said Eva cautiously, “there are a lot of other steps between obtaining the decrypt and completing Projekt Alchemie. Steps that will cost money. Money we don’t have.”

“That’s not entirely true,” said Gottfried.

“It is true,” said Eva. “We need to arrange for transportation and storage, there will be fees for . . .”

“No,” said Gottfried, “I meant it’s not entirely true that we don’t have money.”

The National Museum of Computing sits at the top of a hill in the Bletchley Park complex. Ruthie had used her pass code to enter the main gate and parked her Mini Cooper behind the building, where it was less likely to draw the attention of the night watchman. She knew his routine well enough that she could avoid him fairly easily.

Midnight had come and gone, and Ruthie’s pulse had finally slowed as the possibility that Patton would not show, that Ruthie would simply sit alone all night, began to set in. The museum, so full of clicks and whirs and hums during the day, was quiet as the night outside—quieter. So when a knock came at the rear door, it sounded to Ruthie like a thunderbolt. She eased the door open, and there, haloed in the security light above, stood Patton Harcourt, her hair a different color, her clothes a bit shabby, but still as beautiful as she had been fifteen years ago. For a moment Ruthie could not speak. She wanted to pull Patton to her, to crush her lips to hers, to lead her to the dark corners of the museum where they could linger. And then a man stepped into the light.

“Let’s get inside,” he said, and before Ruthie could react, or even say hello, he and Patton pushed past her and into the dimness of the back corridor.

“It’s lovely to see you, Ruthie,” said Patton. “Though in this light it’s hard to see much of anything. Anyway, you look well.”

You look well? Could there be any more dismissive sentence in the English language to hear from a former lover?

“You look, you look . . .” Ruthie struggled to find the right word and settled on, “wonderful.”