“Then who would have flown the stolen plane?” And this wasn’t Margot’s world. She’d made no indication that she wanted to tromp around the forest searching for the codebook herself—and he was glad of that. It was one thing to volunteer his old friend to take him into the battlefield. Quite another to volunteer the woman he loved for such a mission. She might be able to take down a mugger, for which he was eternally grateful. But the mugger had only a knife. Enemies they found out here would have guns, and Margot hadn’t been trained to dodge them.

Camden took the codebook from his hands and flipped through it. “It’s not like the ones I’ve used, anyway. I say we scour the rest of this debris field and then turn back. That could well be our book. And if it isn’t, the right one’s either here in this area or it’s not here at all.”

“Good plan.” Another hour of searching, an hour back to the plane, the flight home. They’d be back in London by nightfall.

30

Das Gespenst covered his cough with a handkerchief and stared out at the falling twilight. London’s streets were going rose and gold, soon to be overtaken by purple and grey. And then, finally, the brown-black night of the city.

One more night in this godforsaken place. And then he’d either be dead or on his way back to Germany.

“That cough doesn’t sound so good.”

He didn’t spare Elton’s sister a glance. Her wrists were firmly bound, as firmly as her ankles. His breathing might be troubled just now, but his knot-tying skills weren’t. And up here, in the attic of a building abandoned after one of the zeppelin raids left it flaming, there was no one to hear her if she screamed for help.

She’d already discovered that, hours ago. This, at least, had gone according to plan.

Das Gespenst tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked out, across the river, toward where it would all end tonight. “Do not concern yourself for me, Dorothea.” He called her by name simply because it made her wince.

His argument wasn’t with her. He didn’t mean to make her last day one of terror—but she must be reminded of who was in control.

He turned from the window and checked his pocket watch. Another hour and he’d give her a drink laced with laudanum. She would probably try to refuse it, of course. But if so, a rag soaked in chloroform would render her more pliant. Then he’d slip out. One last play in Go. One last stop at the telegraph office. And if the High Command assured him the air raid was set, that would leave only a few last steps in the game. A boat. A cab. Woolwich.

This time tomorrow, it would be over.