“I sent them inside,” Jamison said, motioning with his right thumb toward the service-entrance doors, “to close the case.”
“We have a pair of petrol jerry cans in here,” Ustinov said, patting the palm of his hand twice on the shell of the ambulance. “At least one could stand being topped off.”
“Okay, we can handle that in a bit,” Jamison said. He nodded at the doors. “Let’s get out of this rain, go see how close we are to getting your show on the road.”
Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, First Lieutenant Robert Jamison, First Lieutenant Charity Hoche, Major David Niven, Commander Ian Fleming, and Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu had spent most of the morning pulling together the last of the pieces of the puzzle that had become known as Major William Martin, Royal Marines.
The six-foot-six metal container containing the major’s frozen body had been brought out of the cellar and up to the well-lit workshop near the rear service entrance. Still closed, the container rested on the stone floor, next to a wooden worktable.
On the table was a somewhat-scuffed, nearly new British-government-issue courier’s briefcase. It had a metal handle, a special metal hoop for the secure attachment of a handcuff, and two heavy metal combination locks. The locks were open, the lid raised. Next to the briefcase was a six-foot length of stainless steel cable with small loops at either end. And, next to that, the pair of handcuffs.
Ewen Montagu, his back leaning against the wooden worktable, held various papers in his left hand. In his right there was a single sheet, which he was admiring.
Ed Stevens stood next to the opened briefcase, watching Montagu.
“This is very well done,” Montagu said, moving the paper back and forth as he held it to the light. “Nice patina and well-worn creases. Excellent forgery.”
“The guys who do our documents are the best,” Jamison said.
Stevens put in, “Just don’t ask where we get the talent.”
“Where?” Montagu said.
“I told you not to ask,” Stevens said, smiling.
“Prison,” Niven said. “I heard they’re felons serving time for the outrage against the government of having printed their own spending money and you pulled them out for your own, devious purposes.”
“Our own, devious purposes,” Stevens said evenly, still smiling.
“Personally, I find it a brilliant use of talent that otherwise would be wasted,” Niven said and looked at Fleming. “Much like Ian’s contributions with Major Martin here.”
There were chuckles.
“I am ignoring you, Niven,” Fleming said drily.
Montagu took another sheet and began examining it. This one was a jeweler’s invoice—marked UNPAID—to Major Martin, for a single-diamond engagement ring.
“Well done,” he said, then looked at another sheet, adding: “I think we were wise to go this route with Martin’s ID.”
Niven reached out, asking to see it.
Montagu passed it to him and said, “Ian and I made the executive decision that at this point it’d have been a genuine pain in the posterior to come up with a permanent Combined Operations HQ identification card. For starters, it would have been difficult making it look appropriately aged.”
He produced his own ID, which was well worn, its plastic edges beginning to separate and its face cloudy with scratches.
“And so we chose to use a temporary replacement ID,” he added.
“Besides,” Fleming added, “being the forgetful type, it would be within reason that our dear major could have lost the permanent ID.”
“Looks quite official,” Niven said, then suddenly added: “Dear God! They put the bloody date on this as March thirty-first!”
Montagu smiled. “Precisely.”
“It means he didn’t renew,” Niven pressed.
“Give the major a break,” Fleming said, grinning. “He’s in love!”
“But the ID is expired!” Niven said, looking at them as if they had gone mad.