Connie Willis - All Clear

“Lieutenant Prism makes an excellent point,” Tensing said. “The invasion was a combined effort, and there are countless others who deserve credit for its success.

But they’ll receive medals, and there will be speeches praising what they did. And newspaper accounts.” He nodded briefly at Ernest. “You won’t. Your part in all this must unfortunately remain secret. My thanks and the knowledge of a job well done are all the reward you are likely to get. And”—he paused dramatically—“a bottle of Scotch with which to toast your accomplishment!” He held it up, and there was more clapping and cheering.

“That’s not dummy Scotch, is it?” Cess asked suspiciously.

“It’s an inflatable rubber bottle,” Prism said.

“No, it’s glass,” Tensing said, tapping it with his finger. “I’m quite certain it’s authentic. The label says, ‘Aged at Shepperton Film Studios.’ ”

Everyone laughed. “Can we open it now?” Gwen shouted.

“Not just yet,” Tensing said.

“Watch out,” Cess whispered to Ernest.

“I said the Germans were deceived into thinking there would be a second invasion,” Tensing went on. “That isn’t quite correct. The German High Command continues to believe that, and it’s essential that we perpetuate that deception for as long as possible.”

“I was wrong,” Cess whispered. “Apparently the jig isn’t up.”

“To that end, you’ll continue with your current deception and disinformation campaigns. In addition, you’ll increase the number of radio messages to the Pas de Calais’s Resistance Underground cells, and you’ll disseminate disinformation regarding the location of the Third Army, which is currently in the process of embarking for France under the tightest possible security. Your job will be to keep its presence in France—and General Patton’s—secret until General Patton takes official command of it.”

“Oh, Lord,” Moncrieff muttered.

“With him swaggering about in that star-studded uniform of his and making incendiary statements?” Cess whispered. “He must be joking.”

“But,” Tensing said, glaring at Cess, “in the event that his presence is detected, we will obviously need an explanation for what the commander of the army poised for attack on Calais is doing in France. We’ve developed a cover story in which General Patton made a controversial statement and has been demoted to the command of a single army under Omar Bradley.”

“Who’s been put in command of the First Army?” Gwen asked.

“General Lesley McNair,” Tensing said. “We’re putting out the story that he is being leashed until the German High Command sends the Fifteenth Army to Normandy, and then he’ll strike. That way we needn’t commit to a particular invasion date.”

So it’s a good thing I didn’t put one in Euphemia Hill’s letter to the editor, Ernest thought.

“I’ve given Lady Bracknell the script,” Tensing said. “Your job will be to work up an array of supporting materials—wireless traffic, dispatches, doubles if necessary, photographs, newspaper articles.”

Good, Ernest thought in relief. That means I can go on sending messages. And articles referring to Patton were something historians were even more likely to look for than the planted Fortitude stories.

“It’s rather a rush job, I’m afraid,” Tensing said. “It all needs to be in place before Patton leaves.”

“Which is when?” Moncrieff asked.

“July the sixth.” Tensing ignored the groans. “Moncrieff, I also want your report on the convoy activities before I leave. And again, my hearty congratulations on a

“July the sixth.” Tensing ignored the groans. “Moncrieff, I also want your report on the convoy activities before I leave. And again, my hearty congratulations on a successful job. And let’s hope the next one is as successful as the last. That will be all.” He stood up. “Cess, Worthing, I want to see you in Bracknell’s office in five minutes.”

He walked out.

“Sounds like you two are for it,” Prism whispered, and Cess nodded, looking worried.

“You don’t suppose we’re being sent on one of those secret missions no one comes back from, do you?” Cess asked Ernest anxiously. “What do you think?”

I think I waited too long to speak to Tensing, Ernest thought.

They went into the office. Tensing was sitting behind Bracknell’s desk. “You wanted to see us, sir?” Cess said.

“Yes,” Tensing said. “Shut the door.”

Oh, God, it is something big. We’re being sent to Germany. Or Burma.

Cess shut the door. Tensing walked stiffly over to Lady Bracknell’s chair and sat down. “Don’t look like you’re about to be court-martialed,” he said, and smiled. “I called the two of you in here so I could congratulate you.”

“For what?” Cess asked suspiciously.

“For the success of the Normandy invasion. We’ve received word—I’m not at liberty to say through what channels—”

Ultra, Ernest thought.

“—that the decisive element in the High Command’s refusal to release General Rommel’s tanks for use in Normandy was the eyewitness account of the massive numbers of troops and matériel in the Dover area from a repatriated high-ranking German officer.”

“And not all those letters to the editor Worthing wrote?” Cess said, sounding disappointed. “Or all those dummy tanks we inflated? Worthing here risked life and limb for those tanks.”

“I’ve no doubt the tanks and the letters to the editor both played their part,” Tensing said wryly, “though even if they didn’t, they still had to be done. That’s unfortunately the nature of intelligence work. One does a number of things in the hope that at least one of them will work.”

Like going off to Biggin Hill and Bletchley Park and Manchester, Ernest thought, and putting messages to the retrieval team in the personal columns.

“One rarely ever knows which schemes succeeded and which failed.”

It was true. He would never know which, if any, of his messages had got through, never know whether Polly had been pulled out in time.

“It’s unfair, but there it is,” Tensing said. “We were lucky in this case to have found out, though I’m certain we don’t know the full story, and I doubt we ever shall.

That will be for the historians to sort out long after we’re dead.”

“I wonder what they’ll make of the Reverend T. W. Ringolsby and the condoms,” Cess said. “Do you suppose that will merit a chapter of its own?”

I hope so, Ernest thought.

“With footnotes,” Cess said. “And—”

“As I was saying,” Tensing interrupted, “what we do know is that you two were responsible for keeping Rommel and the Fifteenth Army tied down in the Pas de Calais during a critical time. You’ve saved countless lives. The original casualty estimate for D-Day was thirty thousand. We had ten thousand, and every day those tanks have stayed in Calais, even more lives have been saved.”

He and Cess had saved more than twenty thousand lives. And he’d been worried when Hardy’d told him about his saving five hundred and nineteen.

“Congratulations,” Tensing said, standing up and coming around the desk to shake hands with them. “I can’t overstate the importance of what you’ve done. We had only sixteen divisions. If Hitler had brought those tanks up, we’d have been going up against twenty-one. It’s my personal opinion that you may very well have won the war.”

Not lost it. Won it. He’d been afraid every single day since he’d unfouled that propeller, since he’d saved Hardy’s life, that he had somehow irrevocably altered the course of history, the course of the war, and that Hitler would win. And now—