71

The dead-letter drop was a stone next to a small waterfall. One of the many streams that threaded through the undulations of the Forest, running through wet weather or dry, fed by seemingly inexhaustible springs. The locals called the place the Garden of Eden. On a hot day, a pretty place to bring your family for a picnic, sit on the heather and listen to the burbling water. On this stormy night, the swollen stream gushed over the short drop and churned in the -receiving pool, making drifts of white foam that clung to the banks.

Bunny had told me to alert him to our coming. It was a critical part of the plan. A weak link. He’d promised they’d check the drop site every couple of hours, day or night, rain or shine. I looked around but didn’t see anyone, and didn’t fancy my chances. Perhaps they had someone surveilling it from a distance.

My note was brief:

Tonight

I’d rolled the paper and put it in a cigar tube, sealed with paraffin wax.

The rain beat heavily on my hat and my waxed coat. I sounded like a drum, announcing my presence to the whole of the Forest. I took one last look around, and put the cigar tube in the shallow hollow clearly created for the purpose, replacing the sandstone rock on top.

If the note got to Bunny, the plan would work. If it didn’t, the whole thing would be over before it got going. I’d be leading a team of Nazi sympathisers into a sensitive military installation, after Churchill had broadcast to the nation that the invasion may come tonight. Everyone would be on the lookout.