Unless . . . unless the details could be changed. She gripped Drake’s arm, looking at the admiral. “We can send them a supposed correction, sir, as you’ve done before. Misinformation—an updated message with a new target.” For Drake’s benefit, she added, “We write a message in their code and send it, supposedly from Regnitz. We just need a decoy target. Something that won’t harm anyone.”

Hall gave her a small, tight smile. “The very solution I was going to recommend.”

Drake was still staring at the map. “An abandoned building. I know of a few near there. I can write out the directions as he did. You can turn it into code.”

“And while I’m doing that,” she said, squeezing his arm, “go and get your sister.”

“Keep your eyes peeled. He said he’d signal me to proceed after I drop the codebook, so he’ll be nearby.” Drake jammed Hall’s car into Park in a shadowy stretch of road.

Red jumped out of the opposite door, and Camden piled out of the back. They’d used the forty-minute drive toward Woolwich to try to guess at what Regnitz meant to do. To anticipate what would change when the bombs didn’t fall on their target. To determine how to find him and apprehend him.

Because he wouldn’t be at the factory—not unless he meant to die tonight. And somehow, Drake couldn’t imagine that was his goal. But he’d want to be close. Close enough to retrieve the codebook, yes, but he’d also want to see Drake walk into the factory. He’d want to see the building go up in flames. He’d want to make certain he didn’t escape.

They had decided to assume he’d be armed, possibly with a long-range rifle, hence why they all stuck to the shadows. Red, who had apparently done a fair bit of scouting in France before he’d been sent home minus a foot, took the lead, motioning them forward with hand signals.

For once, Camden had apparently decided to be civil. He’d simply ignored Red, rather than insulting him, while they drove. And now he fell in without any complaints, without any posturing. A soldier, when it came down to it.

At least for a few minutes. But then he stopped while Red was still advancing and grabbed him by the arm to halt him. Drake, bringing up the rear, halted too. “What is it?” he whispered.

“Planes.” Camden set his eyes on the heavens, scanning from horizon to horizon.

Red leaned close. “Ours or theirs? Can you tell?”

It took another moment for Drake to even make out the drone of the engines over the sounds of city life. Certainly he couldn’t discern whether they belonged to Camels or Gothas.

But if the curse he bit off was any indication, Camden could. And it was the wrong answer. “Hurry!”