The call from Turing came through at one twenty-six a.m.
Grace had fallen asleep in the embassy’s Signals Room with her head lying on her arm. Nearby, an ashtray overflowed with half-smoked cigarettes. She had sent the usual diplomatic operators home when she’d taken over at eight p.m., telling them it was a special case. War business. Now the building was silent and the room was chilly. When the persistent ring of the Secraphone roused her, she discovered that her arm had gone numb. She forced herself upright, shaking the tingling limb, and reached for the green receiver with her other hand.
“Emb-b-b-bassy Tehran?” The voice was tinny and howling, like a gramophone played through a cyclone.
“Speaking.”
“Turing here. For Grace C-C-C-Cowles.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Turing.”
“No news, I’m afraid,” he said without preamble. “The whole b-b-bloody channel’s gone silent.”
“Does that mean . . . the operation is under way—or that it has been called off?”
“Means they’re not b-b-bloody talking about it.”
Grace hesitated, at a loss. She must ask the Prof something while she had him on the line. “Did you find out where that second burst went? The one that wasn’t for Berlin?”
“I t-t-told you. Channel’s dead.”
Then so is Churchill, she thought despairingly. “You’ll call if anything changes?”
“Won’t. Fellow’s g-g-got the wind up. Tell Fleming g-g-good luck.”
“Thank you,” she said, but he had already rung off. She stared blankly at the Secraphone in her hand.
She had no news, no hope, to give to Ian. How could she tell him that even Turing had failed?
Was the Fencer’s sudden silence, Grace wondered, the result of Pam Churchill’s suicide attempt? The British Embassy had made every effort to camouflage Mrs. Randolph’s illness, but whispers had circulated. If the Fencer truly was a member of either the American or British delegations—and if Pam was working with him—he would know she had lost her nerve. He’d wonder what she’d confessed. He’d feel hunted, on his guard. And more likely to act as soon as possible.
Or, Grace thought with a sudden chill, what if Pamela herself is the Fencer? And when Michael confronted her, she tried to take the easy way out?
That might mean that Operation Long Jump was called off.
She needed to talk to Michael. He must have met with Ian by this time. Why hadn’t he called? Now it would have to wait until morning.
Morning. When the three men most worth saving could be riddled with machine-gun fire.
Grace shivered, and took herself off to bed.