FLICK LEFT LONDON at dawn, driving a Vincent Comet motorcycle with a powerful 500cc engine.

The roads were deserted.

Gas was severely rationed, and drivers could be jailed for making "unnecessary" journeys.

She drove very fast.

It was dangerous but exciting.

The thrill was worth the risk.

She felt the same about the mission, scared but eager.

She had stayed up late last night with Percy and Paul, drinking tea and planning.

There must be six women in the team, they had decided, as it was the unvarying number of cleaners on a shift.

One had to be an explosives expert; another, a telephone engineer, to decide exactly where the charges should be placed to ensure the exchange was crippled.

She wanted one good marksman and two tough soldiers.

With herself, that would make six.

She had one day to find them.

The team would need a minimum of two days' training-they had to learn to parachute, if nothing else.

That would take up Wednesday and Thursday.

They would be dropped near Reims on Friday night, and enter the chateau on Saturday evening or Sunday.

That left one spare day as a margin for error.

She crossed the river at London Bridge.

Her motorbike roared through the bomb-ravaged wharves and tenements of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe; then she took the Old Kent Road, traditional route of pilgrims, toward Canterbury.

As she left the suburbs behind, she opened the throttle and gave the bike its head.

For a while she let the wind blow the worries out of her hair.

It was not yet six o'clock when she reached Somersholme, the country house of the barons of Colefield.

The baron himself, William, was in Italy, fighting his way toward Rome with the Eighth Army, Flick knew.

His sister, the Honorable Diana Colefield, was the only member of the family living here now.

The vast house, with its dozens of bedrooms for houseguests and their servants, was being used as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers.

Flick slowed the bike to walking speed and drove up the avenue of hundred-year-old lime trees, gazing at the great pile of pink granite ahead, with its bays, balconies, gables, and roofs, acres of windows and scores of chimneys.

She parked on the gravel forecourt next to an ambulance and a scatter of jeeps.

In the hall, nurses bustled about with cups of tea.

The soldiers might be here to convalesce, but they still had to be wakened at daybreak.

Flick asked for Mrs.

Riley, the housekeeper, and was directed to the basement.

She found her staring worriedly at the furnace in the company of two men in overalls.

"Hello, Ma," said Hick.

Her mother hugged her hard.

She was even shorter than her daughter and just as thin, but like Flick she was stronger than she looked.

The hug squeezed the breath out of Hick.

Gasping and laughing, she extricated herself "Ma, you'll crush me!" "I never know if you're alive until I see you," her mother said.

In her voice there was still a trace of the Irish accent: she had left Cork with her parents forty-five years ago.

"What's the matter with the furnace?" "It was never designed to produce so much hot water.

These nurses are mad for cleanliness, they force the poor soldiers to bathe every day.

Come to my kitchen and I'll make you some breakfast." Flick was in a hurry, but she told herself she had time for her mother.

Anyway, she had to eat.

She followed Ma up the stairs and into the servants' quarters.

Flick had grown up in this house.

She had played in the servants' hail, run wild in the woods, attended the village school a mile away, and returned here from boarding school and university for the vacations.

She had been extraordinarily privileged.

Most women in her mother's position were forced to give up their jobs when they had a child.

Ma had been allowed to stay, partly because the old baron had been somewhat unconventional, but mainly because she was such a good housekeeper that he had dreaded losing her.

Flick's father had been butler, but he had died when she was six years old.

Every February, Flick and her ma had accompanied the family to their villa in Nice, which was where Flick had learned French.

The old baron, father of William and Diana, had been fond of Flick and had encouraged her to study, even paying her school fees.

He had been very proud when she had won a scholarship to Oxford University.

When he died, soon after the start of the war, Flick had been as heartbroken as if he had been her real father.

The family now occupied only a small corner of the house.

The old butler's pantry had become the kitchen.

Hick's mother put the kettle on.

"Just a piece of toast will be fine, Ma," said Hick.

Her mother ignored her and started frying bacon.

"Well, I can see you're all right," she said.

"How is that handsome husband?" "Michel's alive," Flick said.

She sat at the kitchen table.

The smell of bacon made her mouth water.

"Alive, is he? But not well, evidently.

Wounded?" "He got a bullet in his bum.

It won't kill him." "You've seen him, then." Flick laughed.

"Ma, stop it! I'm not supposed to say." "Of course not.

Is he keeping his hands off other women? If that's not a military secret." Hick never ceased to be startled by the accuracy of her mother's intuition.

It was quite eerie.

"I hope he is." "Hmm.

Anyone in particular that you hope he's keeping his hands off?" Flick did not answer the question directly.

"Have you noticed, Ma, that men sometimes don't seem to realize when a girl is really stupid?" Ma made a disgusted noise.

"So that's the way of it.

She's pretty, I suppose."

"Young'?" "Nineteen." "Have you had it out with him?" "Yes.

He promised to stop." "He might keep his promise-if you're not away too long." "I'm hopeful." Ma looked crestfallen.

"So you're going back." "I can't say." "Have you not done enough?" "We haven't won the war yet, so no, I suppose I haven't." Ma put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Flick.

It probably represented a week's rations.

But Flick suppressed the protest that came to her lips.

Better to accept the gift gracefully.

Besides, she was suddenly ravenous.

"Thanks, Ma," she said.

"You spoil me." Her mother smiled, satisfied, and Flick tucked in hungrily.

As she ate, she reflected wryly that Ma had effortlessly got out of her everything she wanted to know, despite Hick's attempts to avoid answering questions.

"You should work for military intelligence," she said through a mouthful of fried egg.

"They could use you as an interrogator.

You've made me tell you everything." "I'm your mother, I've a right to know." It didn't much matter.

Ma would not repeat any of it.

She sipped a cup of tea as she watched Flick eat.

"You've got to win the war all on your own, of course," she said with fond sarcasm.

"You were that way from a child-independent to a fault." "I don't know why.

I was always looked after.

When you were busy there were half a dozen housemaids doting on me." "I think I encouraged you to be self-sufficient because you didn't have a father.

Whenever you wanted me to do something for you, like fix a bicycle chain, or sew on a button, I used to say, 'Try it yourself, and if you can't manage I'll help you.' Nine times out of ten I heard no more about it." Hick finished the bacon and wiped her plate with a slice of bread.

"A lot of the time, Mark used to help me." Mark was Flick's brother, a year older.

Her mother's face froze.

"Is that right," she said.

Flick suppressed a sigh.

Ma had quarreled with Mark two years ago.

He worked in the theater as a stage manager, and lived with an actor called Steve.

Ma had long known that Mark was "not the marrying kind," as she put it.

But in a burst of excessive honesty Mark had been foolish enough to tell Ma that he loved Steve, and they were like husband and wife.

She had been mortally offended and had not spoken to her son since.

Flick said, "Mark loves you, Ma." "Does he, now." "I wish you'd see him." "No doubt." Ma picked up Flick's empty plate and washed it in the sink.

Flick shook her head in exasperation.

"You're a bit stubborn, Ma." "I daresay that's where you get it from, then." Flick had to smile.

She had often been accused of stubbornness.

"Mulish" was Percy's word.

She made an effort to be conciliatory.

"Well, I suppose you can't help the way you feel.

Anyway, I'm not going to argue with you, especially after such a wonderful breakfast." All the same, it was her ambition to get the two of them to make up.

But not today.

She stood up.

Ma smiled.

"It's lovely to see you.

I worry about you." "I've got another reason for coming.

I need to talk to Diana." "Whatever for?" "Can't say." "I hope you're not thinking of taking her to France with you." "Ma, hush! Who said anything about going to France?" "I suppose it's because she's so handy with a gun." "I can't say." "She'll get you killed! She doesn't know what discipline is, why should she? She wasn't brought up that way.

Not her fault, of course.

But you'd be a fool to rely on her." "Yes, I know," Hick said impatiently.

She had made a decision and she was not going to review it with Ma.

"She's had several war jobs, and been sacked from every one." "I know." But Diana was a crack shot, and Hick did not have time to be fussy.

She had to take what she could get.

Her main worry was that Diana might refuse.

No one could be forced to do undercover work.

It was strictly for volunteers.

"Where is Diana now, do you know?" "I believe she's in the woods," Ma said.

"She went out early, after rabbits." "Of course." Diana loved all the blood sports: foxhunting, deerstalking, hare coursing, grouse shooting, even fishing.

If there was nothing else to do, she would shoot rabbits.

"Just follow the sound of gunfire." Hick kissed her mother's cheek.

"Thanks for breakfast." She went to the door.

"And don't get on the wrong side of her gun," Ma called after her.

Hick left by the staff door, crossed the kitchen garden, and entered the woods at the rear of the house.

The trees were bright with new leaves, and the nettles grew waist-high.

Flick tramped through the undergrowth in her heavy motorcycle boots and leather trousers.

The best way to attract Diana, she thought, would be by issuing a challenge.

When she had gone a quarter of a mile into the woods, she heard the report of a shotgun.

She stopped, listened, and shouted, "Diana!" There was no reply.

She walked toward the sound, calling out every minute or so.

Eventually she heard, "Over here, you noisy idiot, whoever you are!" "Coming, just put down the gun." She came upon Diana in a clearing, sitting on the ground with her back against an oak tree, smoking a cigarette.

A shotgun lay across her knees, broken open for reloading, and there were half a dozen dead rabbits beside her.

"Oh, it's you!" she said.

"You scared all the game away." "They'll come back tomorrow." Hick studied her childhood companion.

Diana was pretty in a boyish way, with dark hair cut short and freckles across her nose.

She wore a shooting jacket and corduroy trousers.

"How are you, Diana?" "Bored.

Frustrated.

Depressed.

Otherwise fine." Flick sat on the grass beside her.

This might be easier than she had thought.

"What's the matter?" "I'm rotting away in the English countryside while my brother's conquering Italy." "How is William?" "He's all right, he's part of the war effort, but no one will give me a proper job." "I might be able to help you there." "You're in the FANYs." Diana drew on her cigarette and blew out smoke.

"Darling, I can't be a chauffeuse." Flick nodded.

Diana was too grand to do the menial war work that most women were offered.

"Well, I'm here to propose something more interesting." "What?" "You might not like it.

It's very difficult, and dangerous~" Diana looked skeptical.

"What does it involve, driving in the blackout?" "I can't tell you much about it, because it's secret." "Hick, darling, don't tell me you're involved in cloak and-dagger stuff." "I didn't get promoted to major by driving generals to meetings." Diana looked hard at her.

"Do you mean this?" "Absolutely." "Good Lord." Against her will, Diana was impressed.

Flick had to get her positive agreement to volunteer.

"So-are you willing to do something very dangerous? I mean it, you really are quite likely to get killed." Diana looked excited rather than discouraged.

"Of course I'm willing.

William's risking his life, why shouldn't I?" "You mean it?" "I'm very serious~" Hick concealed her relief She had recruited her first team member.

Diana was so keen that Flick decided to press her advantage.

"There's a condition, and you may find it worse than the danger." "What?" "You're two years older than I, and all our lives you've been my social superior.

You're the baron's daughter, and I'm the housekeeper's brat.

Nothing wrong with that, and I'm not complaining.

Ma would say that's how it should be." "Yes, dear, so what's your point?" "I'm in charge of the operation.

You'll have to defer to me." Diana shrugged.

"That's fine." "It will be a problem," Flick insisted.

"You'll find it strange.

But I'll be hard on you until you get used to it.

This is a warning." "Yes, sir!" "We don't bother too much about the formalities in my department, so you won't need to call me sir, or ma'am.

But we do enforce military discipline, especially once an operation has begun.

If you forget that, my anger will be the least of your worries.

Disobeying orders can get you killed in my line of work." "Darling, how dramatic! But of course I understand." Flick was not at all sure Diana did understand, but she had done her best.

She took a scratch pad from her blouse and wrote down an address in Hampshire.

"Pack a case for three days.

This is where you need to go.

You get the train from Waterloo to Brockenhurst." Diana looked at the address.

"Why, this is Lord Montague's estate." "Most of it is occupied by my department now." "What is your department?" "The Inter Services Research Bureau," Flick said, using the usual cover name.

"I trust it's more exciting than it sounds." "You can bet on that." "When do I start?" "You need to get there today." Flick got to her feet.

"Your training starts at dawn tomorrow." "I'll come back to the house with you and start packing." Diana stood up.

"Tell me something?" "If I can." Diana fiddled with her shotgun, seeming embarrassed.

When she looked at Hick, her face showed an expression of frankness for the first time.

"Why me?" she said.

"You must know I've been turned down by everyone." Hick nodded.

"I'll be blunt." She looked at the bloodstained rabbit corpses on the ground, then lifted her gaze to Diana's pretty face.

"You're a killer," she said.

"And that's what I need."

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