THE LAST THING Monty had said to Paul Chancellor, late on Monday night, had been, "If you only do one thing in this war, make sure that telephone exchange is destroyed." Paul had woken this morning with those words echoing in his mind.

It was a simple instruction.

If he could fulfill it, he would have helped win the war.

If he failed, men would die-and he might spend the rest of his life reflecting that he had helped lose the war.

He went to Baker Street early, but Percy Thwaite was already there, sitting in his office, puffing his pipe and staring at six boxes of files.

He seemed a typical military duffer, with his check jacket and toothbrush mustache.

He looked at Paul with mild hostility.

"I don't know why Monty's put you in charge of this operation," he said.

"I don't mind that you're only a major, and I'm a colonel-that's all stuff and nonsense.

But you've never run a clandestine operation, whereas I've been doing it for three years.

Does it make sense to you?" "Yes," Paul said briskly.

"When you want to make absolutely sure that a job gets done, you give it to someone you trust.

Monty trusts me." "But not me." "He doesn't know you." "I see," Percy said grumpily.

Paul needed Percy's cooperation, so he decided to mollify him.

Looking around the office, he saw a framed photograph of a young man in lieutenant's uniform and an older woman in a big hat.

The boy could have been Percy thirty years ago.

"Your son?" Paul guessed.

Percy softened immediately.

"David's out in Cairo," he said.

"We had some bad moments during the desert war, especially after Rommel reached Tobruk, but now, of course, he's well out of the line of fire, and I must say I'm glad." The woman was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a strong face, handsome rather than pretty.

"And Mrs.

Thwaite?" "Rosa Mann.

She became famous as a suffragette, in the twenties, and she's always used her maiden name." "Suffragette?" "Campaigner for votes for women." Percy liked formidable women, Paul concluded; that was why he was fond of Flick.

"You know, you're right about my shortcomings," he said candidly.

"I have been at the sharp end of clandestine operations, but this will be my first time as an organizer.

So I'll be very grateful for your help." Percy nodded.

"I begin to see why you have a reputation for getting things done," he said with a hint of a smile.

"But if you'll hear a word of advice.

.

"Please." "Be guided by Flick.

No one else has spent as much time under cover and survived.

Her knowledge and experience are matchless.

I may be in charge of her in theory, but what I do is give her the support she needs.

I would never try to tell her what to do." Paul hesitated.

He had been given command by Monty, and he was not about to hand it over on anyone's advice.

"I'll bear that in mind," he said.

Percy seemed satisfied.

He gestured to the files.

"Shall we get started?" "What are these?" "Records of people who were considered by us as possible agents, then rejected for some reason." Paul took off his jacket and rolled back his cuffs.

They spent the morning going through the files together.

Some of the candidates had not even been interviewed; others had been rejected after they had been seen; and many had failed some part of the SOE training course-baffled by codes, hopeless with guns, or frightened to the point of hysteria when asked to jump out of a plane with a parachute.

They were mostly in their early twenties, and they had only one other thing in common: they all spoke a foreign language with native fluency.

There were a lot of files, but few suitable candidates.

By the time Percy and Paul had eliminated all the men, and the women whose language was something other than French, they were left with only three names.

Paul was disheartened.

They had run into a major obstacle when they had hardly begun.

"Four is the minimum number we need, even assuming that Flick recruits the woman she has gone to see this morning." "Diana Colefield." "And none of these is either an explosives expert or a telephone engineer!" Percy was more optimistic.

"They weren't when SOE interviewed them, but they might be now.

Women have learned to do all sorts of things." "Well, let's find out." It took a while to track the three down.

A further disappointment was that one was dead.

The other two were in London.

Ruby Romain, unfortunately, was in His Majesty's Prison for Women at Holloway, three miles north of Baker Street, awaiting trial for murder.

And Maude Valentine, whose file said simply "psychologically unsuitable," was a driver with the FANYs.

"Down to two!" Paul said despondently.

"It's not the numbers but the quality that bothers me," Percy said.

"We knew from the start we'd be looking at rejects." Percy's tone became angry.

"But we can't risk Flick's life with people like these!" Percy was desperate to protect Flick, Paul realized.

The older man had been willing to hand over control of the operation but was not able to give up his role as Flick's guardian angel.

Their argument was interrupted by a phone call.

It was Simon Fortescue, the pinstriped spook from M16 who had blamed SOE for the failure at Sainte-Cecile.

"What can I do for you?" Paul said guardedly.

Fortescue was not a man to trust.

"I think I may be able to do something for you," Fortescue said.

"I know you're going ahead with Major Clairet's plan." "Who told you?" Paul asked suspiciously.

It was supposed to be a secret.

"Let's not go into that.

I naturally wish you success with your mission, even though I was against it, and I'd like to help." Paul was angry that the mission was being talked about, but there was no point in pursuing that.

"Do you know a female telephone engineer who speaks perfect French?" he asked.

"Not quite.

But there's someone you should see.

Her name is Lady Denise Bowyer.

Terribly nice girl, her father was the Marquess of Inverlocky." Paul was not interested in her pedigree.

"How did she learn French?" "Brought up by her French stepmother, Lord Inverlocky's second wife.

She's ever so keen to do her bit." Paul was suspicious of Fortescue, but he was desperate for suitable recruits.

"Where do I find her?" "She's with the RAF at Hendon." The word "Hen-don" meant nothing to Paul, but Fortescue explained.

"It's an airfield in the north London suburbs." "Thank you." "Let me know how she gets on." Fortescue hung up.

Paul explained the call to Percy, who said, "Fortescue wants a spy in our camp." "We can't afford to turn her down for that reason." "Quite." They saw Maude Valentine first.

Percy arranged for them to meet her at the Fenchurch Hotel, around the corner from SOE headquarters.

Strangers were never brought to number sixty-four, he explained.

"If we reject her, she may guess that she's been considered for secret work, but she won't know the name of the organization that interviewed her nor where its office is, so even if she blabs she can't do much harm." "Very good." "What's your mother's maiden name?" Paul was mildly startled and had to think for a moment.

"Thomas.

She was Edith Thomas." "So, you'll be Major Thomas and I'll be Colonel Cox.

No point in giving our real names." Percy was not such a duffer, Paul reflected.

He met Maude in the hotel lobby.

She piqued his interest right away.

She was a pretty girl with a flirtatious manner.

Her uniform blouse was tight across the chest, and she wore her cap at a jaunty angle.

Paul spoke to her in French.

"My colleague is waiting in a private room." She gave him an arch look and replied in the same language.

"I don't usually go to hotel rooms with strange men," she said pertly.

"But in your case, Major, I'll make an exception." He blushed.

"It's a meeting room, with a table and so on, not a bedroom." "Oh, well, that's all right, then," she said, mocking him.

He decided to change the subject.

He had noticed that she spoke with a south of France accent, so he said, "Where are you from?" "I was born in Marseilles." "And what do you do in the FANYs?" "I drive Monty." "Do you?" Paul was not supposed to give any information about himself, but he could not help saying, "I worked for Monty for a while, but I don't recall seeing you." "Oh, it's not always Monty.

I drive all the top generals." "Ah.

Well, come this way, please." He took her to the room and poured her a cup of tea.

Maude was enjoying the attention, Paul realized.

While Percy asked questions, he studied the girl.

She was petite, though not as tiny as Flick, and she was cute: she had a rosebud mouth accentuated with red lipstick, and there was a beauty spot-which might even have been fake-on one cheek.

Her dark hair was wavy.

"My family came to London when I was ten years old," she said.

"My papa is a chef." "And where does he work?" "He's the head pastry cook at Claridge's Hotel." "Very impressive." Maude's file was on the table, and Percy discreetly moved it an inch closer to Paul.

Paul's eye was caught by the slight movement, and his eye fell on a note made when Maude was first interviewed.

Father: Armand Valentin, 39, kitchen porter at Claridge's, he read.

When they had finished, they asked her to wait outside.

"She lives in a fantasy world," Percy said as soon as she was outside the door.

"She's promoted her father to chef, and changed her name to Valentine." Paul nodded agreement.

"In the lobby, she told me she was Monty's driver-which I know she's not." "No doubt that was why she was rejected before." Paul thought Percy was getting ready to reject Maude.

"But now we can't afford to be so particular," he said.

Percy looked at him in surprise.

"She'd be a menace on an undercover operation!" Paul made a helpless gesture.

"We don't have any choice." "This is mad!" Percy was half in love with Flick, Paul decided, but, being older and married, he expressed his love in a paternal, protective way.

Paul liked him better for that, but realized at the same time that he would have to fight Percy's caution if he was going to get this job done.

"Listen," he said.

"We shouldn't eliminate Maude.

Flick can make up her own mind when she meets her." "I suppose you're right," Percy said reluctantly.

"And the ability to invent stories can be useful under interrogation." "All right.

Let's get her on board." Paul called her back in.

"I'd like you to be part of a team I'm setting up," he told her.

"How would you feel about taking on something dangerous?" "Would we be going to Paris?" Maude said eagerly.

It was an odd response.

Paul hesitated, then said, "Why do you ask?" "I'd love to go to Paris.

I've never been.

They say it's the most beautiful city in the world." "Wherever you go, you won't have time for sightseeing," Percy said, letting his irritation show.

Maude did not seem to notice.

"Shame," she said.

"I'd still like to go, though." "How do you feel about the danger?" Paul persisted.

"That's all right," Maude said airily.

"I'm not scared." Well, you should be, Paul thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

THEY DROVE NORTH from Baker Street and passed through a working-class neighborhood that had suffered heavily from the bombing.

In every street at least one house was a blackened shell or a pile of rubble.

Paul was to meet Flick outside the prison and they would interview Ruby Romain together.

Percy would go on to Hendon to see Lady Denise Bowyer.

Percy, at the wheel, confidently wound his way through the grimy streets.

Paul said, "You know London well." "I was born in this neighborhood," Percy replied.

Paul was intrigued.

He knew it was unusual for a boy from a poor family to rise as high as colonel in the British army.

"What did your father do for a living?" "Sold coal off the back of a horse-drawn cart." "He had his own business?" "No, he worked for a coal merchant." "Did you go to school around here?" Percy smiled.

He knew he was being probed, but he did not seem to mind.

"The local vicar helped me get a scholarship to a good school.

That was where I lost my London accent." "Intentionally?" "Not willingly.

I'll tell you something.

Before the war, when I was involved in politics, people would sometimes say to me, 'How can you be a socialist, with an accent like that?' I explained that I was flogged in school for dropping my aitches.

That silenced one or two smug bastards." Percy stopped the car on a tree-lined street.

Paul looked out and saw a fantasy castle, with battlements and turrets and a high tower.

"This is a jail?" Percy made a gesture of helplessness.

"Victorian architecture." Flick was waiting at the entrance.

She wore her FANY uniform: a four-pocket tunic, a divided skirt, and a little cap with a turned-up brim.

The leather belt that was tightly cinched around her small waist emphasized her diminutive figure, and her fair curls spilled out from under the cap.

For a moment she took Paul's breath away.

"She's such a pretty girl," he said.

"She's married," Percy remarked crisply.

I'm being warned off, Paul thought with amusement.

"To whom?" Percy hesitated, then said, "You need to know this, I think.

Michel is in the French Resistance.

He's the leader of the Bollinger circuit." "Ah.

Thanks." Paul got out of the car and Percy drove on.

He wondered if Flick would be angry that he and Percy had turned up so few prospects from the files.

He had met her only twice, and on both occasions she had yelled at him.

However, she seemed cheerful, and when he told her about Maude, she said, "So we have three team members, including me.

That means we're halfway there, and it's only two pip emma." Paul nodded.

That was one way of looking at it.

He was worried, but there was nothing to be gained by saying so.

The entrance to Holloway was a medieval lodge with arrow slit windows.

"Why didn't they go the whole way and build a portcullis and a drawbridge?" said Paul.

They passed through the lodge into a courtyard, where a few women in dark dresses were cultivating vegetables.

Every patch of waste ground in London was planted with vegetables.

The prison loomed up in front of them.

The entrance was guarded by stone monsters, massive winged griffins holding keys and shackles in their claws.

The main gate-house was flanked by four-story buildings, each story represented by a long row of narrow, pointed windows.

"What a place!" said Paul.

"This is where the suffragettes went on hunger strike," Flick told him.

"Percy's wife was force-fed in here." "My God." They went in.

The air smelled of strong bleach, as if the authorities hoped that disinfectant would kill the bacteria of crime.

Paul and Flick were shown to the office of Miss Lindleigh, a barrel-shaped assistant governor with a hard, fat face.

"I don't know why you wish to see Romain," she said.

'With a note of resentment she added, "Apparently I'm not to be told." A scornful look came over Flick's face, and Paul could see that she was about to say something derisory, so he hastily intervened.

"I apologize for the secrecy," he said with his most charming smile.

"We're just following orders." "I suppose we all have to do that," said Miss Lindleigh, somewhat mollified.

"Anyway, I must warn you that Romain is a violent prisoner." "I understand she's a killer." "Yes.

She should be hanged, but the courts are too soft nowadays." "They sure are," said Paul, although he did not really think so.

"She was in here originally for drunkenness; then she killed another prisoner in a fight in the exercise yard, so now she's awaiting trial for murder." "A tough customer," Flick said with interest.

"Yes, Major.

She may seem reasonable at first, but don't be fooled.

She's easily riled and loses her temper faster than you can say knife." "And deadly when she does," Paul said.

"You've got the picture." "We're short of time," Flick said impatiently.

"I'd like to see her now." Paul added hastily, "If that's convenient to you, Miss Lindleigh." "Very well." The assistant governor led them out.

The hard floors and bare walls made the place echo like a cathedral, and there was a constant background accompaniment of distant shouts, slamming doors, and the clang of boots on iron catwalks.

They went via narrow corridors and steep stairs to an interview room.

Ruby Romain was already there.

She had nut-brown skin, straight dark hair, and fierce black eyes.

However, she was not the traditional gypsy beauty: her nose was hooked and her chin curved up, giving her the look of a gnome.

Miss Lindleigh left them with a warder in the next room watching through a glazed door.

Flick, Paul, and the prisoner sat around a cheap table with a dirty ashtray on it.

Paul had brought a pack of Lucky Strikes.

He put them on the table and said in French, "Help your-sell" Ruby took two, putting one in her mouth and the other behind her ear.

Paul asked a few routine questions to break the ice.

She replied clearly and politely but with a strong accent.

"My parents are traveling folk," she said.

"When I was a girl, we went around France with a funfair.

My father had a rifle range and my mother sold hot pancakes with chocolate sauce." "How did you come to England?" "When I was fourteen, I fell in love with an English sailor I met in Calais.

His name was Freddy.

We got married-I lied about my age, of course-and came to London.

He was killed two years ago, his ship was sunk by a U-boat in the Atlantic." She shivered.

"A cold grave.

Poor Freddy." Flick was not interested in the family history.

"Tell us why you're in here," she said.

"I got myself a little brazier and sold pancakes in the street.

But the police kept harassing me.

One night, I'd had some cognac-a weakness of mine, I admit-and anyway, I got into a dispute." She switched to cockney-accented English.

"The copper told me to fuck off out of it, and I gave him a mouthful of abuse.

He shoved me and I knocked him down." Paul looked at her with a touch of amusement.

She was no more than average height, and wiry, but she had big hands and muscular legs.

He could imagine her flattening a London policeman.

Flick asked, "What happened next?" "His two mates came around the corner, and I was a bit slow to leave, on account of the brandy, so they gave me a kicking and took me down the nick." Seeing Paul's frown of incomprehension, she added: "The police station, that is.

Anyway, the first copper was ashamed to do me for assault, didn't want to admit he'd been floored by a girl, so I got fourteen days for drunk and disorderly." "And then you got into another fight." She gave Flick an appraising look.

"I don't know if I can explain to someone of your sort what it's like in here.

Half the girls are mad, and they've all got weapons.

You can file the edge of a spoon to make a blade, or sharpen the end of a bit of wire for a stiletto, or twist threads together for a garotte.

And the warders never intervene in a fight between convicts.

They like to watch us tear each other apart.

That's why so many of the inmates have scars." Paul was shocked.

He had never had contact with people in jail.

The picture painted by Ruby was horrifying.

Perhaps she was exaggerating, but she seemed quietly sincere.

She did not appear to care whether she was believed or not but recited the facts in the dry, unhurried manner of someone who is not greatly interested but has nothing better to do.

Flick said, "What happened with the woman you killed?" "She stole something of mine." "What?" "A cake of soap." My God, thought Paul.

She killed her for a piece of soap.

Flick said, "What did you do?" "I took it back." "And then?" "She went for me.

She had a chair leg that she'd made into a club with a bit of plumber's lead fixed to the business end.

She hit me over the head with it.

I thought she was going to kill me.

But I had a knife.

I'd found a long, pointed sliver of glass, like a shard from a broken window pane, and I wrapped the broad end in a length of worn-out bicycle tire for a handle.

I stuck it in her throat.

So she didn't get to hit me a second time." Flick suppressed a shudder and said, "It sounds like self-defense." "No.

You've got to prove you couldn't possibly have run away.

And I'd premeditated the murder by making a knife out of a piece of glass." Paul stood up.

"Wait here with the guard for a moment, please," he said to Ruby.

"We'll just step outside." Ruby smiled at him, and for the first time she looked not quite pretty but pleasant.

"You're so polite," she said appreciatively.

In the corridor, Paul said, "What a dreadful story!" "Remember, everyone in here says they're innocent," Flick said guardedly.

"All the same, I think she might be more sinned against than sinning." "1 doubt it.

I think she's a killer." "So we reject her." "On the contrary," said Flick.

"She's exactly what I want." They went back into the room.

Flick said to Ruby, "If you could get out of here, would you be willing to do dangerous war work?" She responded with another question.

"Would we be going to France?" Flick raised her eyebrows.

"What leads you to ask that?" "You spoke French to me at the start.

I assume you were checking if I speak the language." "Well, I can't tell you much about the job." "I bet it involves sabotage behind enemy lines." Paul was startled: Ruby was very quick on the uptake.

Seeing his surprise, Ruby went on, "Look, at first I thought you might want me to do a bit of translation for you, but there's nothing dangerous about that.

So we must be going to France.

And what would the British Army do there except blow up bridges and railway lines?" Paul said nothing, but he was impressed by her powers of deduction.

Ruby frowned.

"What I can't figure out is why it's an all-woman team." Flick's eyes widened.

"What makes you think that?" "If you could use men, why would you be talking to me? You must be desperate.

It can't be that easy to get a murderess out of jail, even for vital war work.

So what's special about me? I'm tough, but there must be hundreds of tough men who speak perfect French and would be gung-ho for a bit of cloak-and-dagger stuff The only reason for picking me rather than one of them is that I'm female.

Perhaps women are less likely to be questioned by the Gestapo.

.

.

is that it?" "I can't say," Flick said.

"Well, if you want me, I'll do it.

Can I have another one of those cigarettes?" "Sure," said Paul.

Flick said, "You do understand that the job is dangerous." "Yeah," said Ruby, lighting a Lucky Strike.

"But not as dangerous as being in this fucking prison."

T H E Y R E T U R N E D TO the assistant governor's office after leaving Ruby.

"I need your help, Miss Lindleigh," Paul said, once again flattering her.

"Tell me what you would need in order to be able to release Ruby Romain." "Release her! But she's a murderer! Why would she be released?" "I'm afraid I can't tell you.

But I can assure you that if you knew where she was going, you wouldn't think she'd had a lucky escape-quite the contrary." "I see," she said, not entirely mollified.

"I must have her out of here tonight," Paul went on.

"But I don't want to put you in any kind of awkward position.

That's why I need to know exactly what authorization you require." What he really wanted was to make sure she would have no excuse to be obstructive.

"I can't release her under any circumstances," said Miss Lindleigh.

"She has been remanded here by a magistrate's court, so only the court can free her." Paul was patient.

"And what do you think that would require?" "She would have to be taken, in police custody, before a magistrate.

The public prosecutor, or his representative, would have to tell the magistrate that all charges against Romain had been dropped.

Then the magistrate would be obliged to say she was free to go." Paul frowned, looking ahead for snags.

"She would have to sign her army joining-up papers before seeing the magistrate, so that she would be under military discipline as soon as the court released her.

.

.

otherwise she might just walk away." Miss Lindleigh was still incredulous.

"Why would they drop the charges?" "This prosecutor is a government official?" "Yes." "Then it won't be a problem." Paul stood up.

"I will be back here later this evening, with a magistrate, someone from the prosecutor's department, and an army driver to take Ruby to.

.

.

her next port of call.

Can you foresee any snags?" Miss Lindleigh shook her head.

"I follow orders, Major, just as you do." "Good." They took their leave.

When they got outside, Paul stopped and looked back.

"I've never been to a prison before," he said.

"I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't something out of a fairy tale." He was making an inconsequential remark about the building, but Flick looked sour.

"Several women have been hanged here," she said.

"Not much of a fairy tale." He wondered why she was grumpy.

"I guess you identify with the prisoners," he said.

Suddenly he realized why.

"It's because you might end up in a jail in France." She looked taken aback.

"I think you're right," she said.

"I didn't know why I hated that place so much, but that's it." She might be hanged, too, he realized, but he kept that thought to himself.

They walked away, heading for the nearest Thbe station.

Flick was thoughtful.

"You're very perceptive," she said.

"You understood how to keep Miss Lindleigh on our side.

I would have made an enemy of her." "No point in that." "Exactly.

And you turned Ruby from a tigress into a pussycat." "I wouldn't want a woman like that to dislike me." Flick laughed.

"Then you told me something that I hadn't figured out about myself." Paul was pleased that he had impressed her, but he was already looking ahead to the next problem.

"By midnight, we should have half a team at the training center in Hampshire." "We call it the Finishing School," flick said.

"Yes: Diana Colefield, Maude Valentine, and Ruby Romain." Paul nodded grimly.

"An undisciplined aristocrat, a pretty flirt who can't tell fantasy from reality, and a murdering gypsy with a short temper." When he thought of the possibility that Flick could be hanged by the Gestapo, he felt as worried as Percy about the caliber of the recruits.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Flick said cheerfully.

Her sour mood had vanished.

"But we still don't have an explosives expert or a telephone engineer." Flick glanced at her wrist.

"It's still only four pip emma.

And maybe the RAF has taught Denise Bowyer how to blow up a telephone exchange." Paul grinned.

flick's optimism was irresistible.

They reached the station and caught a train.

They could not talk about the mission because there were other passengers within earshot.

Paul said, "I learned a little about Percy this morning.

We drove through the neighborhood where he was brought up." "He's adopted the manners and even the accent of the British upper class, but don't be fooled.

Under that old tweed jacket beats the heart of a real street brawler." "He told me he was flogged at school for speaking with a low-class accent." "He was a scholarship boy.

They generally have a hard time in swanky British schools.

I know, I was a scholarship girl." "Did you have to change your accent?" "No.

I grew up in an earl's household.

I always spoke like this." Paul guessed that was why Flick and Percy got on so well: they were both lower-class people who had climbed the social ladder.

Unlike Americans, the British thought there was nothing wrong with class prejudice.

Yet they were shocked at Southerners who told them Negroes were inferior.

"I think Percy's very fond of you," Paul said.

"I love him like a father." The sentiment seemed genuine, Paul thought, but she was also firmly setting him straight about her relationship with Percy.

Flick had arranged to meet Percy back at Orchard Court.

When they arrived, there was a car outside the building.

Paul recognized the driver, one of Monty's entourage.

"Sir, there's someone in the car waiting for you," the man said.

The back door opened and out stepped Paul's younger sister, Caroline.

He grinned with delight.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he said.

She stepped into his arms and he hugged her.

"What are you doing in London?" "I can't say, but I have a couple of hours off, and I persuaded Monty's office to lend me a car to come and see you.

Want to buy me a drink?" "I don't have a minute to spare," he said.

"Not even for you.

But you can drive me to Whitehall.

I have to find a man called a public prosecutor." "Then I'll take you there, and we'll catch up in the car." "Of course," he said.

"Let's go!"

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