Ollie picked up his suitcase, went on deck, and stared over the bow. Halifax looked similar to many of the ports in Maine—ink-blue water, rows of rickety piers, and brick warehouses cut into a land of pines. It could have been Portland, except for two distinguishing differences: Canadian flags and military ships. The docks and harbor were filled with destroyers, frigates, cruisers, patrol vessels, escort ships, and minesweepers.

Beads of sweat formed on Ollie’s forehead. He wiped his brow and forced himself to step onto the gangplank, suddenly realizing he was going to war.

CHAPTER 6 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 6

EPPING, ENGLAND

Abell rang. Susan and Bertie perked their heads at the unusual sound of ringing, conditioned from several nights of explosions and roaring sirens. On the second ring, they realized it was the phone in the cottage. And even more surprising: The phone lines were working.

Susan, carrying Duchess, ran inside. She quickly placed the pigeon on the seat of a wooden chair, the bird flapping its wings to maintain her balance. “Hello,” Susan said, grabbing the receiver.

“Hello, this is Jonathan Wallace of the National Pigeon Service. May I speak to Bertie Shepherd?”

“One moment.” Susan looked out the window and saw her bowlegged grandfather grimacing with pain. She held the phone to her chest and shouted.

Bertie quickened his stride, biting his lower lip in response to the gravel in his knees. He reached the cottage, out of breath.

“National Pigeon Service,” Susan said, cupping the receiver.

Bertie cleared his throat. “Hello,” he said, trying not to sound winded. He tilted the receiver. Susan leaned in, pressing her face against her grandfather’s whiskered cheek to listen.

Mr. Wallace informed them of plans for a joint meeting in London next week to include the National Pigeon Service, British Intelligence, and the Royal Air Force. Bertie, as well as several other pigeon raisers for the National Pigeon Service, were required to be in attendance. Bertie attempted to ask questions, but Mr. Wallace could only provide the date and that a Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar from the RAF would escort him to a secret location in London.

Susan watched Bertie write the information on a piece of scrap paper, wondering if there would be anything left of London by next week, and why it had taken the British authorities so long to plan the mission.

“Good day, Jonathan,” Bertie said. He hung up the receiver and looked at Susan.

“Do you know him?” she asked.

Bertie nodded. “We’ve raced pigeons together.”

Susan picked up Duchess. “You’re in no condition to travel.”

“I’m fine.”

Susan helped Bertie to his chair in the living room. She propped his feet on a stool and rolled his trousers above his knees. His thin legs looked like pencils, his knees swollen like melons. She pressed a finger to a kneecap.

“Ouch!”

Susan shook her head. “You can’t go.”