Unfortunately, after my boxful arrived at a camp, a postal-room POW dropped the package. A disk cracked open, exposing the contraband. Gramophone records were thereby added to the Germans’ watch list, and “Operation Smash-Hit”—a name we thought clever—met the doom of its name.

Other times, my ideas have been ruled out due to materials running low, or they posed too great a risk, as occurred a month ago. Inspired by quick changes for the stage, I’d used my sewing skills to make a British uniform reversible into a German’s. But any fabric we could obtain, it was decided, wouldn’t pass muster up close and could cause friendly fire from a distance.

Just as disappointing, though more maddening, was being beaten to the punch—and by a fellow magician, at that. Though British illusionist Jasper Maskelyne is in North Africa leading the Camouflage Experimental Section, supposedly hiding whole ships and convoys—with mirrors and painted canvases, I presume—his designs find their way into production at MI9. Among our competing proposals have been double-layered playing cards that split when soaked in liquid, revealing a giant map when laid out as a whole deck. Edging me out, Jasper perfected them first.

Still, I plod on.

What else would I do?

After transferring buses, I reenter the town of Beaconsfield, where my department is headquartered. The driver swerves through another dizzying roundabout, and my unplanned parcel rattles a reminder that soon enough, I’ll prove to everyone that my coming here wasn’t a misguided error, on both my part and Hutton’s.

Fortifying my resolve, I recall his words from this morning. At the inn I’ve made my current home, his telephoned message was delivered to my room:

Meet at office late afternoon for new development regarding scheme.

Hutton’s suspicion of wire taps has become so heightened I’m surprised by any reference to our work, even if vague. All the same, from his mention of a “new development,” I suddenly feel certain that good news awaits, that one of my shelved ideas is about to see daylight, that demonstrating my value, I’ve at last created something that truly makes a difference.

Chapter 28

As per usual this time of day, intelligence activity is abustle at the Wilton Park estate. Requisitioned by MI9, the sprawling property hosts a two-century-old Palladian mansion known as the “White House” and a collection of Nissen huts, all used for work even more hush-hush than mine. There’s speculation of a camouflaged bunker as well, rumored to hold enemy POWs, even high-ranking Nazis, for interrogation.

On the property’s edge, amid the contrasting serenity of towering trees and rolling parkland, I enter Camp 20. The prefabricated building is where I report regularly to Hutton. Being twenty-odd miles clear of what he calls the “blinkered pen pushers” of Parliament, we’re permitted the latitude needed to creatively aid not only escapers and evaders but Resistance groups throughout Europe.