“A most remarkable bunch,” he wrote. “A more confronting collection of half-caste upstarts and hysterical women you would not find outside a whorehouse in Cairo!”

Murray recommended in closing that the British ship HMS Trident, which had arrived with Kolhammer, be reassigned immediately to the Home Fleet and staffed by reliable men drawn from the present-day Royal Navy. Some of the twenty-first-century personnel could, of course, be kept on to provide whatever training and familiarization was needed. The CO, Captain Halabi, was a curiosity at best, and a disaster-in-waiting at worst. Murray’s opinion was that she and her crew would be of little use in a high-intensity theater of war such as the Atlantic. Allowing himself what seemed to be a moment of wit, he wrote that their major utility seemed to be to act as a warning concerning England’s future immigration policy. He suggested that perhaps a position might be found for them in the coastal patrols of the various West Indian colonies. After all, so many of them seemed to hail from there.

Pound twice read the two-thousand-word communiqué, shaking his head and grunting in disbelief each time. It was nearly one in the morning when he finished, too late to check on the credibility of the story through independent sources. So he summoned another brandy and decided to send a cable directly to Honolulu in the morning. Sir Leslie Murray had obviously gone insane, and would need to be replaced.

He hauled himself upright and lay in a course for his sleeping quarters.

Strangely enough, he slept like a baby for the first time in months. Not even a large raid over the East End could wake him.

Thirty-six hours later Sir Dudly stood outside the prime minister’s office, deep beneath the rubble-choked streets of London. Though well rested, he was still reeling from his meeting with the American ambassador, Mr. Kennedy. The former bootlegger had confirmed that yes, he’d received much the same information as Pound. No, he didn’t really believe it either, but what the hell was he gonna do? Roosevelt himself had sent a handwritten note, confirming many of the basic facts. And Roosevelt had always tried to keep his personal communications with Kennedy to a minimum. They didn’t get on.

Pound waited in the cramped anteroom, watching the concrete walls sweat, while he wondered how on earth to explain all this to the PM. A young woman in a dark blue Royal Air Force uniform ignored him while she hammered away at a typewriter, producing a sound not entirely unlike a machine gun. He was developing a headache, and each clack speared into his head like a sharpened knitting needle.

A slight tremor in his hands betrayed his anxiety.

Churchill, still dressed in his gown and slippers, suddenly appeared at the door and took in Pound’s presence through rheumy eyes and a slight haze of gin fumes.