Briefing from Spain. Twenty-two agents currently in the field. From Madrid . . .

Hall often asked her to work out the messages sent to him. Just a month ago she had decoded a briefing from Thoroton in Gibraltar, but this was the first she’d done from Spain. Perhaps she would have ciphered it with less interest had she not a new friend who was half Spanish. But with Dot in mind, she tackled each line rather eagerly. She knew Spain was officially neutral, but she also knew both England and Germany had been working behind the scenes ever since the war began to win favor with the Spaniards—both the officials and those in positions that could prove useful.

From Corunna . . .

Her pen kept working as the numbers flipped along inside her mind. With the codebook before her, it was a simple task. Easy enough that her mind wandered as she wrote, and she remembered one of Hall’s early bids for Spain’s favor. He’d sent an agent into Spain on a private yacht to wine and dine whatever harbor officials he could find. The Germans had done the same at nearly the same time . . . but they had only brought beer. Hall’s agent had requisitioned the best champagne to be found, and the officials had been friends ever since.

Not that Hall’s superiors approved of the use of navy funds for champagne and private yachts, but they in Room 40 had thought it hilarious and had cheered on their intrepid leader.

From Bilbao . . .

Margot’s pen stilled. Not because the name was familiar, thanks to the stories Dot had been telling her of her family that resided there, but because of the sudden silence of the numbers in her mind.

And then there was a quick succession of them that had nothing to do with the code before her. The Lord, all but shouting at her. Pay attention!

Her breath knotted up in her throat. There had been plenty of times over the years when those numbers instructed her to pray for someone. But never while at work, when she was decoding something.

Interesting.

Agent Eighteen has been searching diligently for any stores of wolfram within the city. If we can find them here, we can track anyone else showing interest in it. Thus far nothing, but he has a lead he intends to pursue on Tuesday. Will update on outcome.

Tuesday—today. Margot’s pen stilled. Was this what God wanted her to pray about? Twelve, one hundred forty-four, one thousand seven hundred twenty-eight, twenty thousand seven hundred thirty-six . . .

She would take that as a yes. Eternal Father, whatever this Agent Eighteen is doing now, I ask that you protect him. Make a way for him, clear the path, ensure his safety. Eleven, twenty-two, thirty-three, forty-four . . .

Not until the numbers tapered off did she breathe out again. Pick up her pen again. And focus again on the telegram.

From Cartagena . . .