the door. Inside, she went immediately to a low shelf, behind a rank of apple boxes. There she crouched on the dusty floor. With exaggerated care, she reached up and disconnected two alligator clips from the leads to an antenna laid out on the bare rafters of the house. She used equal care when she turned off and wrapped a small, black metal box in a discarded blouse and replaced it in the wooden shell of an old foot-treadle sewing machine.
Wonderingly she looked out the dormer window at the columns of black smoke rising in the distance. “Lor’ love a duck,” she said aloud in awe. “If these raids continue to increase in number and frequency, I’ll soon have more money than I can ever know what to do with.”
Where could she go to spend her new wealth? Where could she be happy again? Could she dare take Wendall with her? No, that would be impossible. He could never handle the truth.
Time: 1745, GMT, July 5, 1940
Place: Warwickshire Movers’ (MI-5 Office), Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
After the air raid ended, Wigglesby returned to the road and drove on to Coventry. Brian arrived at the office of MI-5 as the people were thronging out of the underground shelters. He recognized Agnes Whitney and walked to meet her.
“You certainly made it quickly, sir,” she advised him.
“Would have been sooner, if the Germans hadn’t paid a visit. Now, what is the latest on Trillby?”
“Not a word, sir. At least up to the time the air raid whistle blew. Shall we go to the office?”
They walked along silently. Inside the small cubicle that served Samantha Trillby as an office, Brian went through her daily journal, to see what she was working on. A meticulous person, she had made excellent entries. Brian jotted several names and addresses in on a notepad. Principal among them was Marvin Burroughs. Then he read the last lines.
“Well, sir?” Agnes prompted.
“Not so simple as that. No smoking gun or pointing finger. I have several leads, but none of them solid enough to go right out and find her.”
“I do hope there is nothing seriously wrong,” the plain-looking civil servant in her mid-thirties declared.
“Sorry, I’m afraid that’s bound to be wishful thinking. The first one on the list is Bertram Hudnutt. D’you know anything about him?”
“Can’t say that I do. His name carne from a list provided by you, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied with relief. Samantha was not unnecessarily spreading around the names of the suspected rogue travelers. “I’m going to go have a look at him.”
Time: 1810, CET, July 5, 1940
Place: Munich, Bavaria, Germany
Colonel Werner Ruperle tightly clutched the briefcase that contained his leave papers as he deplaned from the Ju-52 transport plane to München. A Gefreite, a pudding-faced youth actually, drove him to the railroad station in a Panzerkampfwagen, one of the ubiquitous, light-armored, open-topped scout cars, which Ruperle considered incongruous. Werner thanked the young corporal and handed him a five mark note.
“Buy yourself a beer.”
Right outside the Bahnhof he was stopped by the Gestapo, who questioned him about his destination and checked his papers.
“Only routine, Herr Hauptmann,” the sallow, gaunt-faced, mustached man in black leather trench coat and slouch fedora explained. The bleak smile he offered failed to reach his eyes.
“We’re winning and you have to worry about deserters?”
“No, Herr Hauptmann, it’s the Juden.” His lips twisted with distaste. “These rich Jews seek every means to get out of the Reich.”
And too bad more of them can’t make it, Werner Ruperle thought bitterly. “They are devious vermin, nicht wahr?” He forced a chuckle.
“Oh, yes. You are going to Diessen am Ammersee?”
“Yes. To my home.”
“Heilsam Reise, Herr Hauptmann.” The Gestapo agent wished him a good journey and gave him the straight-arm, Nazi salute.
Although the platform swarmed with people, he found the train to the
Wonderingly she looked out the dormer window at the columns of black smoke rising in the distance. “Lor’ love a duck,” she said aloud in awe. “If these raids continue to increase in number and frequency, I’ll soon have more money than I can ever know what to do with.”
Where could she go to spend her new wealth? Where could she be happy again? Could she dare take Wendall with her? No, that would be impossible. He could never handle the truth.
Time: 1745, GMT, July 5, 1940
Place: Warwickshire Movers’ (MI-5 Office), Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
After the air raid ended, Wigglesby returned to the road and drove on to Coventry. Brian arrived at the office of MI-5 as the people were thronging out of the underground shelters. He recognized Agnes Whitney and walked to meet her.
“You certainly made it quickly, sir,” she advised him.
“Would have been sooner, if the Germans hadn’t paid a visit. Now, what is the latest on Trillby?”
“Not a word, sir. At least up to the time the air raid whistle blew. Shall we go to the office?”
They walked along silently. Inside the small cubicle that served Samantha Trillby as an office, Brian went through her daily journal, to see what she was working on. A meticulous person, she had made excellent entries. Brian jotted several names and addresses in on a notepad. Principal among them was Marvin Burroughs. Then he read the last lines.
“Well, sir?” Agnes prompted.
“Not so simple as that. No smoking gun or pointing finger. I have several leads, but none of them solid enough to go right out and find her.”
“I do hope there is nothing seriously wrong,” the plain-looking civil servant in her mid-thirties declared.
“Sorry, I’m afraid that’s bound to be wishful thinking. The first one on the list is Bertram Hudnutt. D’you know anything about him?”
“Can’t say that I do. His name carne from a list provided by you, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied with relief. Samantha was not unnecessarily spreading around the names of the suspected rogue travelers. “I’m going to go have a look at him.”
Time: 1810, CET, July 5, 1940
Place: Munich, Bavaria, Germany
Colonel Werner Ruperle tightly clutched the briefcase that contained his leave papers as he deplaned from the Ju-52 transport plane to München. A Gefreite, a pudding-faced youth actually, drove him to the railroad station in a Panzerkampfwagen, one of the ubiquitous, light-armored, open-topped scout cars, which Ruperle considered incongruous. Werner thanked the young corporal and handed him a five mark note.
“Buy yourself a beer.”
Right outside the Bahnhof he was stopped by the Gestapo, who questioned him about his destination and checked his papers.
“Only routine, Herr Hauptmann,” the sallow, gaunt-faced, mustached man in black leather trench coat and slouch fedora explained. The bleak smile he offered failed to reach his eyes.
“We’re winning and you have to worry about deserters?”
“No, Herr Hauptmann, it’s the Juden.” His lips twisted with distaste. “These rich Jews seek every means to get out of the Reich.”
And too bad more of them can’t make it, Werner Ruperle thought bitterly. “They are devious vermin, nicht wahr?” He forced a chuckle.
“Oh, yes. You are going to Diessen am Ammersee?”
“Yes. To my home.”
“Heilsam Reise, Herr Hauptmann.” The Gestapo agent wished him a good journey and gave him the straight-arm, Nazi salute.
Although the platform swarmed with people, he found the train to the
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