Stevens nodded and smiled. “After all, no one else will be using the seats.”
“Precisely,” Montau said. “And our German friends, should they go so far as to somehow try and confirm the tickets were used, and are successful, will learn that indeed someone sat in those seats on that night.” He paused. “But I really doubt they could be that thorough. The stubs themselves will say plenty.”
Niven removed a pack of Cambridge cigarettes from his shirt pocket. As he took out a cigarette and lit it, he noticed he was being watched by Montagu and Fleming, who then exchanged knowing glances.
“What?” Niven said. “I put in the bloody money!”
Fleming made a Let’s have it gesture with his hand.
“This I must say,” Niven went on dramatically, “is a supreme sacrifice on my part.” He began to hand over the pack, then said: “Wait!”
He took back the pack and shook out most of its cigarettes. Then he carefully crumpled the packaging over those that were left.
“Who’s to say he had a nearly full pack?” Niven argued. “Probably burned through the new pack, what with being nervous about stepping off the abyss called marriage. A couple smokes is all he needs.”
Fleming took the pack and said, “Matches, too, please.”
Niven raised an eyebrow but handed them over also.
Fleming tossed both cigarettes and matches in the briefcase and Montagu added them to the inventory list.
“Let it not be said that I did not contribute to this worthy endeavor,” Fleming said.
He dug into a pocket and pulled out a short pencil—a very short pencil—and tossed it in the briefcase.
“What in hell is that?” Niven said, indignant.
“Every man must have something to write with,” Fleming said, “and so that is my contribution.”
He smiled smugly.
“And that, Fair Lady and Gentlemen,” Montagu said, grinning, “should suffice.” He paused, and added: “Should more than suffice.”
“There is one thing that’s missing,” Charity spoke up.
Everyone looked at her.
“And what might that be?” Montagu said.
“Something religious,” she said softly. “A passage from scripture. Something. The man is about to be married—and maybe killed on a highly secret mission.”
“Yes,” Montagu said agreeably. “Very good.”
“Do you have anything particular in mind?” Niven said. “Maybe the Twenty-third Psalm: ‘…Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…’”
“Maybe,” Charity said. “But not quite what I had in mind. What I’m thinking of is more along the lines of”—she paused—“I need to get a Bible and look.”
Fleming said, “I have one in my room, a King James Version. I can go get it.”
“Thank you,” Charity said, “but I’ve got one in my room, too. I can use it.”
Charity then saw First Lieutenant Bob Jamison reach into his pocket. He pulled out a three-by-five-inch book bound in blue leather that was well worn, its page edges gilded. He held it out to her.
“You’re welcome to this,” Jamison said, “if it’s anything you’re looking for.”
Charity took the book and recognized it without having to read what was embossed in gold lettering on the binding: THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER, 1928. On the cover was a simple cross formed from two thin gold lines, and, under that, in block lettering across the bottom: ROBERT JAMISON.
Charity knew that when she opened it, she would find an inscription on one of the first few pages. It would congratulate Jamison on his having successfully completed his church’s confirmation class and received the sacrament that officially made him a full member of the church. The page most likely would be signed by Jamison’s mother and father—and, quite possibly, also by his godparents and his grandparents.