Prologue
1943
Livy Nash sat on a hill above a runway somewhere outside of Manchester and wished she was going to Paris. The summer night air chilled, even though the sky was clear and the moon bright enough to light her plane’s way across the Channel. She had to wait for that flight, though. Still two nights before her scheduled departure. She’d spent the last months training for this moment and for what lay beyond, when she would finally find herself on the ground in occupied France. She felt ready. Anxious. Give her a plane, she’d fly the damn thing herself.
But this wasn’t her night. It was Margot’s.
They’d arranged to meet on this hillside just after the final briefing. Margot was late, as usual. She had a unique relationship with time: they were more casual acquaintances than actual friends. For a moment, Livy wondered if she would come at all. Margot had gone pale at dinner and wouldn’t touch the evening rations. Livy’d made jokes about the taste and compared it to her Aunt Rosie’s bangers and mash.
“Feed that to the Jerries, and the war is over tomorrow. Can’t fight if you’re running to the loo every five minutes,” she’d said. The joke seemed to improve Margot’s pallor. She liked them like that—the raunchier, the better.
What if she didn’t come? Livy wondered. It wouldn’t be out of character for her friend to miss their final send-off entirely. Always averse to sentiment, Margot hadn’t shown up at the goodbye party for Yvette the past weekend. Claimed she had a cold. However, Livy knew her better than that. Knew Margot had made an excuse so she wouldn’t have to be there when all the others sobbed and the like. Livy wasn’t that type either, but the thought of not seeing Margot one last time chilled her far more than the windy night in the northwest of England.
When she’d first met Margot they’d sat on opposite sides of the table during a training briefing. Both women kept themselves at a distance from the others. But when the instructor began speaking in his thick Glaswegian accent, Livy and Margot both had to suppress laughter. When their eyes met, they couldn’t hold it in. The instructor had not been pleased, but Margot and Livy had become fast friends.
God, Margot you can’t leave me and not at least say goodbye.
Livy pushed her thick brown hair out of her face and felt the emotion about to erupt. Just as she rubbed her eyes to keep the tears back, Livy felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Look, just because you were the worst at parachute training doesn’t mean you should cry about it.”
Livy started. “Bloody hell, Margot. You’re late. Again.”
Margot sat down beside her. The summer wind fanned through her dirty-blonde hair. “Sorry. You know, last-minute briefing before they send me off to save France.” Both Livy and Margot had French mothers, but whereas Livy’s accent was strictly Lancashire, Margot sounded like an English girl who’d grown up in Lyon.
“Dunno what England will do without you.”
Margot smiled and put an arm around Livy’s shoulders. “I don’t know what you’ll do without me.”
Livy felt the tears again and willed them away. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need words.
“The car comes for me in an hour,” Margot said. “I’m going somewhere on the coast tonight. They didn’t even tell me where.”
“Not exactly a holiday, is it?”
“Speak for yourself. I plan to enjoy myself over there.” Margot grinned and looked up into the night sky. Livy saw wetness on her cheek, which Margot quickly wiped away. One thing Livy admired most about her friend was her ability to shut off her feelings and get down to work. She saw the transformation happen now.
Margot stood, brushed off her trousers, and helped Livy up. They held on to each other’s hands.
“I do have to put my things in a bag. They don’t give a girl much time to prepare around here.”
“Rude little bastards, aren’t they?” Livy kept her voice level, but her insides felt like they might come gushing out at any moment.
Margot let go first. She gave Livy a wink and a smile, then abruptly turned away. Livy couldn’t move. Her boots felt frozen to the ground. She watched Margot turn, and felt more alone than she had since the death of her mum. Just as she was about to call out, Margot stopped and looked back at her.
“A bientôt, Livy.”
Typical Margot. Never goodbye—always “see you soon.”
Then she was gone. Livy only saw her back as Margot Dupont trudged down the incline toward the lighted buildings below.
“See you soon, luv,” Livy said, almost to herself.
Chapter One
June 1947
London
Geoffrey Collins found nothing at all extraordinary about his workplace except perhaps for its exclusivity. The small cluster of white buildings surrounded by the high wire fence was off limits to most residents of Eastcote, the unassuming village in the west of London. Even the majority of those who showed proper identification to the guard at the front gate couldn’t enter the plain, white, boxlike building at the very rear of the compound. Collins, though, was allowed admittance to what on the outside looked to be a perfectly normal storage facility. Each morning he walked down the long hallway lit by harsh overhead bulbs, with a row of eight doors, four on either side, all closed. Eventually he came to the last door, marked 118. Collins often thought that a visitor might mistake it—with its faded numbers and chipped paint around the frame—for the haunt of the resident custodian.
But like many rooms in this building, looks deceived. The plain white structure was the heart of the London Signals Intelligence Centre. Wireless messages from across the globe were received here, pondered over, and picked apart for the decision-makers in Britain’s intelligence services. The building where Collins worked was better known to most at RAF Eastcote as “Station X.”
On this morning in late June, at the end of a particularly long shift, Collins sat at his station in 118 and stifled a yawn. Though there were no windows in room 118, he guessed that the first rays of dawn would be peering over the river.
From his chair, Collins could pick up signals from almost a thousand miles away. He could hear broadcasts from Poland and All-Union Radio from Moscow. Some nights he listened to a Spanish-language version of his favorite drama, The Shadow: “Quién sabe qué maldad acecha los corazónes de los hombres.”
This night had been quiet until he heard a strangely familiar sound.
First came the preliminary signal from RAF Gatow near Berlin:
Unknown wireless call sign received 0350. Message to follow.
Then a light tapping, sounding as if it came from inside a tunnel. The tapping repeated. Louder. More present. Immediately Collins recognized it.
N-I-G-H-T-S-H-A-D-E
He’d spent part of the war in much larger rooms at Bletchley Park, with receivers that picked up wireless signals from British agents stationed behind enemy lines. He hadn’t heard this particular type of call sign since 1945.
Suddenly it ended. Time for the message now. Collins’s pencil hovered over the logbook, waiting. The call sign came again.
N-I-G-H-T-S-H-A-D-E
This operator had a distinctive “fist.” A hard touch on the consonant, a pause, and then much lighter for the vowels. Wireless operators during the war perfected individual signatures, so, if captured, the Germans could not replicate their distinctive signals.