Page 14 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

R ichard Harcourt stepped from the taxi outside the War Office, glancing up at the leaden sky.

The barrage balloons bobbed in the light autumn breeze on both sides, from the Thames in the east to the park in the west. The honk of geese in St James’s Park cut through a brief hush and then the growl of vehicles rumbled along Horse Guards Road once more.

He watched as women, dressed in suits of grey, navy and brown, slipped into the Treasury and various other government buildings.

Heading towards the entrance, he ducked through the door, past the wall of sandbags, and the windows criss-crossed with anti-blast tape.

In due course he was ushered into Churchill’s private office, a cramped, chaotic room where papers spilled from every surface and the scent of cigars thickened the air. The Prime Minister stood with a drink in one hand, a telegram in the other, resplendent in a black three-piece suit.

‘Ah, Harcourt,’ Churchill said, giving him a glance sharp enough to cut steel. ‘Come in, come in.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Churchill waved him to a chair. ‘You’re part of Tizard’s team. Good man. Good mind.’

Richard smiled as he sat down and waited as Churchill picked up the telephone next to him and ordered tea and biscuits.

Then they spoke of the mission: the preparations underway, the Americans’ guarded enthusiasm, the logistics of shipping Britain’s most precious military secrets across the Atlantic.

Richard explained quietly, carefully. ‘The cavity magnetron is small enough to fit inside fighter aircraft, yet powerful enough to turn radar from a crude warning system into a war-winning weapon. Then of course, we have the early jet propulsion research. Brilliant innovations that could win wars or level cities from hundreds of miles away.’

Churchill nodded as he listened, his cigar burning steadily between his fingers. ‘The Tizard Box,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Our last, best card to play.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Churchill turned to pour a whisky, the amber liquid sloshing into a heavy tumbler. He held it out wordlessly. Clearly he had given up on waiting for the tea! Richard declined with a shake of the head.

Churchill shrugged and sipped. ‘Tizard’s a devil of a man when he gets going. Good job it’s him handling the negotiations. Roosevelt’s circling. Let us say, he is cautious but curious. He knows what this could mean.’

Richard allowed himself a breath of hope. ‘If it goes well, it could change everything.’

‘And it shall go well,’ Churchill said, in a more theatrical voice. ‘Or we shall not last the year.’

There was a beat of silence. Richard already knew how urgent this was. The mission had to be a success. There were no second chances, not with Roosevelt. There was no time. Inhaling deeply, he told himself – assured himself – that it would be a resounding hit with the Americans.

Churchill stubbed out his cigar and reached for another without missing a beat. ‘We’re handing over the crown jewels, Harcourt.’

Richard said nothing.

‘The magnetron,’ Churchill went on, voice low, ‘is our best hope to defend our island. The foundation of airborne radar. We lead the Germans by a hair’s breadth, and we are giving it away.

’ He poured a fresh measure of whisky. ‘We have no choice. Not after Dunkirk. Not after France. If the Americans can mass-produce what we have invented, we might yet have a future.’

Richard hesitated. ‘Tizard believes the collaboration could help us win the war.’

Churchill barked a short laugh. ‘Tizard is right. As long as Roosevelt agrees. And as long as none of it falls into the wrong hands.’

He studied Richard again. ‘You understand the stakes, don’t you? The magnetron, jet propulsion, atomic concepts, all of it. If it’s lost, or stolen, we might as well open the gates for Hitler ourselves.’

Richard stiffened, the warmth of the room doing nothing to thaw the ice creeping into his chest.

‘Protect your work, Harcourt,’ Churchill said. ‘Protect it with your life.’

The fire crackled behind them as the shadows of war crept a little closer.

Then, almost casually, Churchill added, ‘You’re an Oxford man, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And your daughter, Eleanor. Did you not tell me last time we spoke that she also attended Oxford?

‘Yes, indeed. She graduated with first-class honours in mathematics.’

‘Ah, one of England’s finest academics.’ He sipped another mouthful of whisky. ‘Yard girl now, isn’t she?’

‘She’s an auxiliary constable,’ Richard said carefully. ‘She wished to make a difference, especially with many of the men enlisting.’

Churchill grunted. ‘Another sharp mind in uniform. Such skill and talent. Could have used her at …’ He glanced around, his face relaxing into an amused smile.

‘Well, somewhere useful.’ He chuckled, just as a middle-aged woman in a grey suit opened the door and brought in a tray of tea.

He waited for her to set it down on the polished mahogany desk. ‘Thank you Mrs Thomas.’

The woman smiled and left quietly, and Churchill glanced sharply at Richard. ‘Walls have ears, do they not?’

Richard smirked. ‘Indeed, sir.’

Churchill puffed his cigar, gaze narrowed. ‘Still, even auxiliary police are valuable, and necessary, especially in times such as these. Commendable indeed.’

There was an edge to his voice that made Richard’s palms sweat slightly.

‘I hear she’s made herself useful,’ Churchill said after a moment, less grudging now.

Richard said nothing. It seemed the Prime Minister was better informed than him; still, he did have men in all the right places.

Churchill turned back towards the fire. ‘We’ll need every brain we can get before this is over. Remember that.’

Richard inclined his head, torn between relief and unease.

He suddenly recalled that evening in his study, catching Eleanor rifling through his papers.

He swallowed. She would have imprinted some, perhaps all, of it to memory.

A carrier of secrets, this wren of mine. God help her and God help us all.

Churchill flicked ash into the fire and turned back to him. ‘And there’s another matter, Harcourt.’

Richard straightened.

‘Templeton and Lambert,’ Churchill said, voice lower now. ‘You knew them both, I believe.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Both found dead within days of one another. Unrelated, officially.’ He snorted softly. ‘And I am the King of Siam.’

Richard felt his chest tighten.

‘We are concerned,’ Churchill said simply, ‘about the safety of certain individuals tied to priority projects.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘Including you.’

Richard said nothing. There was nothing to say that would not sound like panic.

Churchill eyed him a moment longer. ‘It seems we have a wolf in our midst,’ he said quietly. ‘And I shall see to it that he is brought to heel.’ Then he nodded towards the door. ‘Keep your head down, Harcourt. And remember, trust no one for whom you would not bleed.’

Richard stood. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Good luck with the Americans,’ Churchill said, almost absently.

And with that, the meeting was over. When he left the War Office and stepped into the misty cold of Whitehall, Richard Harcourt felt, for the first time, the true weight of what he was entrusting to his daughter — and what Britain was entrusting to them both.

Somewhere beyond the fog, the bombs would fall again. And somewhere closer, unseen, other dangers were already circling.