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She looked at the doctor as he pulled up on the metal lid of the container, opening it just enough for puffs of what looked like fog to come floating out.

“Dry ice,” the doctor said, and added, “The ‘patient’ would appear to be frozen solid.”

“Wha—” Charity began.

“Quite right,” the British Army officer said to Charity. He puffed his cigarette, exhaled a small cloud of smoke, then said with a smile, “As my old friend Groucho Marx says, ‘And please don’t call me Shirley.’”

First Lieutenant Charity Hoche, all eyes on her, did not know what to say.

After a moment, Stevens broke the awkward silence.

“Lieutenant Charity Hoche, may I present Major David Niven?”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Niven said formally, offering his hand.

Charity, still not quite sure what was going on, automatically shook it as she replied evenly, “And yours, Major.”

Stevens motioned with his hand toward the Navy officer beside Niven.

“And,” Stevens continued, “this is Commander Ian Fleming.”

Charity thought that Niven and Fleming looked very much alike, with the exception being that Niven had a thin mustache. They were in their early thirties, tall and slender, with dark hair and deeply intelligent eyes. They carried themselves with a real confidence.

“Commander,” she said with some authority, slowly recovering from the awkward moment.

“A pleasure,” Commander Fleming replied, shaking Charity’s hand. “And,” he added, motioning toward another naval officer standing nearby, “may I present Lieutenant Commander E.E.S. Montagu of the Royal Navy?”

Montagu stepped forward. He was of medium height, with a slender face and, Charity noticed, very warm, considerate eyes.

“It is my honor to meet you, Lieutenant,” he said, taking her hand in his.

“Commander,” Charity repeated politely. Then, glancing at Niven and Fleming, she added, “I’m happy to address you gentlemen by your rank, but we tend to forgo the formal use of such here. Please call me Charity.”

Niven immediately pointed to Montagu, then Fleming, then himself, and said, “Ewen, Ian, David.”

There was a sudden deafening rattle of thunder, and from the gray-black clouds came a driving rain of fat, cold raindrops.

With a raised voice, Stevens quickly said, “I suggest we take this meeting inside.”

The downpour then turned even heavier.

Niven and Fleming calmly motioned with a grand sweep of their arms for Charity to lead the way to the front door. She took off at a half trot.

As Stevens, Fleming, Montagu, and Jamison began to follow, they overheard Major Niven address the ambulance driver.

“Private, kindly bring the Genever straightaway.”

“YES, SAH!” the private replied with another exaggerated sharp salute.

[FOUR]

The Pub OSS Whitbey House Station Kent, England 1850 2 April 1943

The pub was a very large, dark oak–paneled room with twenty-five-foot-high ceilings from which heavy, ornate chandeliers hung at the end of long, thick chains. The pub was packed. A dull roar of lively conversation filled the room, clouds of cigarette and pipe smoke floating up and around the chandeliers.

Against one wall was the cocktail bar, also of dark oak, and it was busy, with a standing-room-only crowd of men two deep. Opposite the bar were tall French doors that led out onto a stone terrace overlooking the rolling country hills and, barely visible in the distance, perimeter fencing and concertina wire.

The pub’s old, scuffed upright piano, one more or less still in tune, was angled off the wall at the far end of the bar. A tall, big-boned lieutenant—who had Hungarian features, and whose left foot was in a brand-new plaster of paris cast—sat at it, expertly banging out a lively version of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” His half-empty highball cocktail glass sat on the scarred varnish of the piano lid, vibrating with the tune.