Chapter 15

September 1916, Champagne Province, France


Warren flew his Airco DH.2 biplane at its maximum altitude of fourteen thousand feet, waiting for an unlucky German reconnaissance plane to stumble across his path. The DH.2 had a bad reputation because so many new pilots crashed it, but Warren liked De Havilland’s design. The controls were sensitive, hence the accidents and the plane’s nickname of the flying incinerator, but that sensitivity gave experienced pilots an edge. When handled correctly, the plane was responsive and quick.

Flying on a clear day in a good plane made it easy to forget everything else. The speed, the control, the freedom—Warren loved it more than anything. He flew over a cloud and watched his shadow on its fluffy surface, seeming to keep pace with him in a contest of aerial speed. War might be awful, but to fly was to reach up and touch the heavens. Maybe that was why the Royal Flying Corps had chosen as its motto per ardua ad astra—through adversity to the stars.

So far Warren had three victories that week, with leave scheduled to begin the next day in Paris with Claire. He wondered if he could get one more victory before furlough. One more story with which to regale Mr. Donovan.

It was about time for him to turn back when he spotted a small speck a few thousand feet below him. It flew over the British trenches, probably photographing them. Warren brought his plane around and opted for an out-of-the-sun attack from above and behind. When he neared the target, he dove, feeling the rush of air howl past him as his altitude decreased. The Hun observer spotted him and swung his machine gun around but started firing before Warren was in range.

It was easier to aim the plane than to aim the Lewis gun, so Warren waited until he could see the frown on the observer’s lips and adjusted his DH.2. He squeezed the trigger, and a line of bullets bit into the Aviatik C.1’s right wing. The trajectory was perfect, moving toward the fuselage, sure to down the plane, but Warren’s gun stopped firing. He released the trigger and squeezed again, but the gun was jammed. Warren cursed and steered away from the German reconnaissance plane, not wanting to get shot while he fiddled with his weapon.

As any sane pilot would do, the German flier turned east and headed for his own lines. Warren followed, trying to fix the Lewis gun and tail the plane from just out of machine gun range, but he was low on fuel. He grabbed the hammer he always flew with and tried to knock the stuck bullet loose. It didn’t work. He pried a few bullets from the Lewis gun’s drum magazine and tried it again. No luck.

Running out of fuel on the German side of the trenches would put an end to his flying career. He tried to clear the gun once more, but it stayed jammed. The status of his petrol tank finally convinced him to give up the chase. Warren saluted the lucky Aviatik and turned back to his aerodrome. Not long after, he landed and parked his plane off to the side of the landing strip.

“Welcome back, sir,” one of the mechanics greeted him.

“Thanks, Jonesy.” Warren took his goggles off and remembered that the young mechanic was married and expecting news of his first child any day. “Hear anything about that baby?”

“Nothing yet, sir.”

Warren detached the Lewis gun and climbed down from his plane. He was tempted to throw the weapon in the rubbish bin, but a replacement might be equally fickle. He put his fingers on either side of his temples, hoping the counterpressure would ease the pain in his skull. The downside of flying at high altitudes was the headache that came with it. It would probably last the rest of the day. Sighing, he left his DH.2 in Jonesy’s capable hands and took the Lewis gun to the hanger. He took it apart, wiped everything spotless, cleaned out the bore, and oiled each piece before reassembling it. Next he hauled it over to the firing range for a test.

“Canada!”

Warren turned to meet Captain Prior.

“Well, how was it?”

“I missed. A nice slow Aviatik, and my gun jammed.”

“Rotten luck. Happens to everyone from time to time.”

Warren nodded. Bad luck, but at least it hadn’t killed him. “Better the Lewis gun than the engine, I suppose.”

“When you’ve had a chance to make your report, that Scottish lieutenant is waiting to see you. Take care. Those intelligence chaps can cause all sorts of mischief. Might send you off to Berlin on some fool’s errand.”

Warren laughed, glad Prior didn’t know about his trip to Essen last winter. The squadron’s commanding officer, Major Cook, had approved Warren’s work with British intelligence, but no one else knew the details of his journey. Even the mechanic who had seen him off hadn’t known Warren’s destination. “I met McDougall during my initial year at Oxford. He’s clever, but I know when he’s manipulating me.”

An hour later, Warren strolled along the aerodrome with McDougall. “I haven’t seen you this distracted since just after Mons.”

McDougall shook his head. His older brother had died at Mons in the British Expeditionary Force’s first battle of the war. “As if competing with a taller, smarter brother wasn’t bad enough. Now I have to compete with a martyr, and telling my father about any of my accomplishments would be treason.”

Warren shoved his hands in his pockets. He had brothers, but none of them close to his age, so he couldn’t relate to his friend, could only imagine what it would be like to grow up in the shadow of someone his parents thought was perfect.

“Bah. Enough about Henry. Where are you spending your leave?”

“Paris.”

“Staying with the Donovans again?”

“Yes.”

“Not visiting your grandmother?”

“She suggested Paris.” Warren’s and Claire’s grandmothers were normally subtle with their matchmaking intentions, but his grandmother’s last letter had been slightly more overt.

“Good. The Donovan home is such a convenient location . . .”

“Ah, you wish me to finagle an invitation for you.” Warren wondered if Mr. Donovan would mind an extra guest. “Don’t you have a room in Paris?”

“I am seeking a room for someone else.”

“Who?”

“The enchanting young lass who is helping me track down German saboteurs.”

“You want her to stay with the Donovans?”

“The location is perfect. And she is a refugee from a rather unfortunate domestic situation, and her vicious half brother is unlikely to look for her in the home of an American munitions manufacturer.”

Warren didn’t answer right away. One of McDougall’s agents living with the Donovans? With a violent estranged family member searching for her? “Sounds dangerous. I would hate for Claire to get mixed up in tracking saboteurs.”

McDougall dismissed Warren’s concern with a flap of his hand. “There would be no risk to Miss Donovan. My agent had a room in Boulogne-Billancourt, but most of her work is in Paris proper, and it’s better for people in that line of work to move from time to time.”

“So it is dangerous?”

“For my agent, not for Miss Donovan or her father. Come now, Flynn. The Donovan home is large enough to host an extended houseguest. She could help when the housekeeper’s arthritis flares.”

“How do you know about the housekeeper’s arthritis?” Claire had told Warren about the housekeeper’s condition, but Warren had never mentioned it to McDougall.

“I’m in intelligence, remember? I did a bit of investigating.”

“It’s that important, is it?”

“Yes. Nearly single-handedly, this young woman managed to prevent the destruction of the Renault factory.”

“She did?” Warren was impressed. So, it seemed, was his friend. “About this enchanting young woman . . . I assume your interest is purely professional?”

McDougall’s lips pulled up slightly at the ends. “Mostly.”

Warren laughed, glad to see his friend making progress in that department. “I’ll think about it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to meet this spy you have a mostly professional interest in.”