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Doug, twenty-five, was slight and pleasant-looking—Canidy ribbed him by calling him a West Pointer Boy Scout, each of which he’d been at different times—but Douglass’s intense intelligent eyes revealed something far more.

For one, he was a natural fighter pilot. Painted on his P-38F’s nose were ten small Japanese flags (each “meatball” signifying a Japanese kill), six swastikas (for the killing of six German aircraft), and the representation of a submarine (he’d bounced a five-hundred-pound bomb into one at the German pens at Saint-Lazare).

And also there on the nose of the Lockheed Lightning, in newly painted flowing script, was Charity.

Doug Douglass officially was not in the Office of Strategic Services. But with the mission to Egypt, that door appeared to have been just now opened to him. Charity expected it to happen any second—between Dick Canidy bending his own rules by letting Douglass hang out at Whitbey House and Doug’s father being Wild Bill Donovan’s number two in Washington, and now this TDY, he certainly qualified for membership, honorific or otherwise.

And I don’t know if I like that or not.

Because I don’t know how it is going to affect us.

At the House on Q Street, even in the presence of Donovan and Doug’s father, Charity had made no effort whatsoever to conceal the fact that she had her eyes locked on Doug Douglass. She had thrown all of her energy into getting assigned to be closer to him.

Charity Hoche was determined to marry Doug Douglass and then take him home and make babies.

Not necessarily in that order.

She had hoped that that in fact had happened back in early February—“I think we made a baby,” she’d told him lovingly—and had gone on to explain that a woman’s desire to carry a man’s child was the single most heartfelt indication of love that there possibly could be.

While a baby had not then been begun—There’ll be other opportunities for that—she had succeeded in sowing another seed.

Doug clearly returned her love—exhaustingly, at times.

She was glad. But she wasn’t surprised.

Charity Hoche was accustomed to getting what Charity Hoche wanted.

And no damn war is going to change that, she thought again.

Charity’s thoughts were interrupted by the blaring of a truck horn from the front of the house. A lorry horn, she decided, as it had that peculiar British bleat to it.

She stood and looked at the large window by the tub. Moisture from the tub had formed on it, and she could not make out anything outside the window but vague shapes—what looked to be some small parade of vehicles.

She unlatched the window, then pushed it open a crack. Cool air drifted in, and she got goose bumps.

There, in the drive before the front door, she saw a British Humber light ambulance, with a red cross within a square on its sides, and two olive drab Ford staff cars. It was the ambulance that was blowing its horn. And there was an Army officer getting out of the staff car parked ahead of it.

That’s Ed Stevens!

And what’s with the ambulance?

Someone came out of the front door of the house and waved to Stevens.

Shit! Jamison!

I’ve got to get down there.

She stepped out of the tub, making a large puddle on the tile flooring. She grabbed a towel, quickly rubbed it about her hair and head, then dried her body, her arms, and finally her long legs. She dropped the towel on top of the puddle, then padded back into her bedroom, where she threw on her uniform.

Once dressed, she felt something odd. When she glanced down at her shoulder-length blond locks, she saw that they were dripping on the uniform.

“Shit, shit, shit!” she said softly.

She stormed back into the bathroom and wrapped a fresh towel around her head.

It’s either the towel or a wet uniform.

She returned to the bedroom, slipped her shoes on, then went quickly out of the room and down the wide corridor, the fast taps of her heels echoing down the hallway.