Too Bad to Die Read Online Free PDF Page B

operation.
    And his desk job was driving him mad.
    He’d taken to writing down the wild ideas in his head, lately—improbable contests with a sinister enemy—just to vent his frustration. It was
King Solomon’s Mines
all over again. Cracking good stories, none of them real.
    What would Mokie think of him now?
    He pocketed the lighter and dusted ash from his fingertips.
The Fencer’s in town . . .
    He needed more information than Turing would give in a one-line telegram. And, unfortunately, that meant grappling with Grace. She’d assume he’d invented a reason to see her, when in fact he wanted nothing less. But it couldn’t be helped.
    He stepped off the terrace and made for one of the sanded paths that led directly from the hotel to the Prime Minister’s villa.
    â€”
    â€œN O EVENING GOWN FOR G RACIE? ”
    â€œIan!” She glanced over her shoulder, a distracted look in her gray eyes, and snatched irritably at the earphones she was wearing. They’d muffled the sound of his approach to the Signals Room, and Grace would resent the fact.
A security breach,
she’d say. In the future he should expect a cordon of alarms to herald his approach, if not a locked door.
    It could be a metaphor, Ian thought, for his entire history with Grace Cowles.
    She was an expert Signals operator, a composed and efficient twenty-six-year-old from Lambeth who was cannier than her education and more vital to the British war effort than most people knew. Grace served as General Lord Ismay’s right arm—and Ismay was chief of Churchill’s military staff. Since Ian coordinated intelligence and Grace disseminated it all over the British field, they’d been thrown together for years. Ismay could not function without her.
    Only last week, Grace had flown to Moscow; a few months before, she’d worked the Quebec conference; and before that, she’d shared a silent cab with Ian down Pennsylvania Avenue. There’d been a time in London last summer when they’d shared dinners and films, too—
The Thin Man,
he remembered. Grace probably didn’t. She’d embarked on a ruthless campaign to forget his existence. And she was the kind of woman who took no prisoners.
    He ran his eyes over her elegant figure, the way her dark hair coiled sleekly behind her ears. He’d known the hollow at the base of her neck and the scent of her skin. He’d taken her to bed on nights when the blitz shuddered and screamed in the air around them and hadn’t cared, then, if they’d died in the act. But her eyes were hard and flat tonight; the windows to her soul, a brick wall. Her fingers twisted impatiently on her earphones. In a few seconds she’d throw him out.
    â€œYou’re on duty,” he said.
    â€œObviously. And you should be with the Americans.”
    â€œThey might have let you try the President’s turkey.”
    â€œChoke on it, more like,” she retorted, “watching poor old Pug swallow the bloody insult Roosevelt’s offered him. The President’s demanding we agree on a chief to coordinate American and British bombing—a Yank, no doubt. With about as much experience of real war as Eisenhower. Pug’s
furious
. Could barely knot his tie, poor lamb. I expect he’ll have a stroke before dinner’s out.”
    Ismay was Pug to his friends, although Ian doubted Gracie called him that to his face.
    â€œYou took down the cable from Bletchley?” he asked.
    â€œYes.” Her mouth pursed. “Don’t fret, Ian. I won’t talk about your Fencer and his girlfriend. I’m not that interested in your social life.”
    â€œI didn’t think you were. But I need to reach Turing. As soon as possible.”
    She picked up a pad and pencil. “Fire away.”
    Ian shook his head. “It’s urgent. I’d like to place a trunk call to Bletchley on the Secraphone.”
    Her eyes strayed to a