Page 54 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)
T he summons lay waiting on Jack’s desk when they arrived at work the next morning, a discreet envelope marked with the Prime Minister’s seal. Jack opened it, eyebrows climbing as he read.
‘Well,’ he said, handing it to Ellie, ‘we’ve been invited to tea.’
Ellie scanned the formal invitation, noting the date. The ninth of October. Today. Her mind flickered back to Granville’s note. Dove lands IX. X midday . She dismissed the thought. Pure coincidence.
They hadn’t spoken much after the mission.
There hadn’t been time, what with debriefings, security checks and statements to file.
Ellie had barely slept and the code still gnawed at her.
The note lay folded in her handbag, edges worn from constant handling.
She’d studied it by candlelight until her eyes burned, but the words twisted and looped like swallows wheeling through the dusk, beautiful and maddening, always just beyond her grasp.
’Ready?’ Jack asked, reaching for his coat.
Within minutes they were riding in silence through the streets of Westminster. The weight of everything that had happened began to settle. Tea with the Prime Minister. It felt surreal, like waking in the middle of a dream with your heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh or run.
By the time the car pulled up in Whitehall, Ellie’s thoughts had scattered again.
What she felt was part awe, part urgency.
Standing outside the government buildings, she felt her chest swell with pride while her heart drummed with excitement.
She glanced around, taking in St James’s Park on one side of Horse Guards Road, the sound of ducks quacking from the vicinity of the lake.
She followed Jack up the steps to the Treasury.
Tea with Churchill. She could hardly wait to tell Mama and Pa. They’d never believe it.
Her breath caught as she spotted the stone lion heads carved above the Treasury entrance, and a whisper stirred in her mind.
Below the lion’s mouth . Her pulse quickened as the rest of the message fell into place like constellations aligning in the night sky.
The Treasury building. It was here. But who was the dove?
‘Dove,’ she said, this time loud enough for Jack to hear.
‘What?’ He shot her a puzzled look. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Do you see?’ She nodded towards the stone carvings. ‘ The lion’s mouth . It’s the place. It’s today.’
He still looked confused, and a flicker of irritation zipped through her veins.
‘Look,’ she jabbed a finger at the stone carvings on the wall. ‘What’s below the lion’s mouth, Jack?’
He followed her gaze, eyes narrowing as they swept the base of the wall, then flicked back to her. ‘You think this is where …?’
‘I don’t know. But this has to be what the message meant.
The lions, the location, the timing.’ She glanced at her watch.
Twenty past eleven . Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie caught a flicker of movement in the Treasury’s entrance.
A woman in a pressed suit, speaking in low, urgent tones to one of the Marines.
‘She never came back,’ the woman said. ‘I sent her upstairs to fetch some memos. It shouldn’t have taken her more than five minutes and Mr Churchill needs them urgently. ’
The Marine’s frown deepened. ‘Which one?’
‘Catherine, one of the typists. Short brown hair. Well spoken.’
Ellie froze and her gut twisted. That silver brooch.
A dove, always present on Catherine’s coat, neat as anything.
A dove in flight. A coincidence, surely ?
Catherine was sweet, nervy, bookish. But still …
her instincts tensed. The war makes you question everyone.
Oh, Lord, she sounded ridiculous, even to herself.
A silly connection. But what if it wasn’t?
She turned to Jack, her voice lower now. ‘We need to check something.’
Jack’s face sharpened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she said. ‘But if I’m right, we don’t have long.’
Ellie moved quickly, her breath tight in her chest. Jack was already at the entrance, flashing his ID to the Royal Marine on duty.
‘There’s a potential security risk,’ Jack said, voice low but firm. ‘We need to alert someone inside. Now!’
The Royal Marine straightened. ‘What kind of risk, sir?’
‘MI5 intelligence suggests an infiltration. We believe an unauthorised package may have been planted.’
The Marine hesitated, protocol warring with instinct, then nodded and ducked inside the small telephone post.
Ellie stood to one side, keeping her breathing even. She watched Jack. He wasn’t panicked, but she saw the flicker in his jaw, the subtle shift in his stance. He was ready and so was she.
The Marine returned moments later. ‘Aide’s been informed. He’s with the Prime Minister now. Says to stand by. A security sweep is underway. They’re preparing to evacuate staff.’
Jack nodded sharply. ‘Has Room 60 been cleared yet?’
‘Not yet. They’re notifying bomb disposal now, sir. You’ll be briefed at the door.’
They were ushered inside and downstairs, two more Royal Marines flanking them, the atmosphere crackling with tension.
As they reached the lower level, they heard footsteps running, orders being barked. The corridors hadn’t emptied yet, but people were moving out with quiet efficiency. Someone with sense was handling the evacuation without sparking a panic.
The Cabinet War Rooms felt more like a sealed box of nerves and ticking clocks than the heart of Britain’s wartime leadership. A warren of corridors buzzed with staff and the constant thrum of urgency.
The stale air was drenched in tobacco and sweat and Ellie wrinkled her nose.
They passed Room 60. It was being locked down. Jack paused, scanning the space beyond the threshold. Ellie moved beside him, her eyes sweeping the room; empty desks, scattered papers, an overturned chair.
‘She’s not here,’ Jack murmured. He turned to a nearby Marine. ‘Has anyone found Catherine’s things?’
The man shook his head. ‘Checked the locker corridor. Her coat and handbag are gone. The locker’s been left open.’
Ellie’s stomach dropped. ‘She’s cleared out.’ The words tasted bitter. Part of her had been desperately hoping that she was wrong, that there would be some innocent explanation for the dove pin, the matchbook, the timing. But the evidence was staring her in the face, cold and undeniable.
Jack didn’t answer. They didn’t need confirmation now. There was no sign of the girl who’d fussed over tea and cringed at Lizzie’s cooking.
A door opened further along the corridor and a man in a dark-grey suit stepped out of the room. ‘The Prime Minister’s on the move,’ he called out. The Royal Marines snapped to attention, backs against the wall to clear the way.
Ellie turned in time to see Churchill emerge, flanked by his aide and two Marines. He had removed his glasses and was polishing them with a handkerchief, expression unreadable, moving with deliberate calm as if he had nowhere in particular to be.
Jack stepped beside her. ‘You need to go with them.’
‘I should stay.’
‘You cracked the code. Let me handle this.’
Their eyes locked for a second, leaving too much unsaid. Then footsteps echoed across the tiles.
Churchill’s gaze swept the corridor and fixed on her. ‘Who the devil is this?’ he asked, blunt as a battering ram.
Jack stepped forward smoothly. ‘Miss Eleanor Harcourt, Prime Minister. She’s the one who sounded the alert.’
Churchill squinted at her for half a beat, then gave a short nod. ‘Miss Harcourt,’ he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. ‘Would you accompany me, please?’
Ellie hesitated but Jack gave her the faintest nod. Go.
Churchill turned to his aide. ‘We’ll relocate to the Foreign Office. No point in risking it. Better to let the bomb boys have the run of the place.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They climbed the flight of stairs to the Treasury, then stepped into the open air.
Armed guards filled the courtyard. Churchill turned to his aide as they approached a waiting car.
The man reached for the door, but Churchill waved him off with a sharp flick of the hand.
‘Heavens, man, have I no legs?’ he muttered.
Then, turning to Ellie, he added, ‘This way, Miss Harcourt. The War Office shall be our bastion.’
Ellie followed him as they walked across King Charles Street to another ornate building.
Churchill glanced at her. ‘It appears your instincts are sharper than most, Miss Harcourt.’
Ellie met his gaze. ‘I wish they hadn’t been, sir.’
He nodded once. ‘Indeed. That’s the curse of being right at the wrong time.’ He puffed on his cigar as they approached the War Office. ‘Now,’ he said, with a glint in his eye, ‘I do believe I know your father …’