Dot had forgotten she was even there. “It’s…” she began, then an idea formed. Dot tamped down her racing pulse as she folded the telegram and stuffed it in her pocket. “Oh, it’s nothing.” She kept her voice light. “Frances, I must say. How you keep track of everything and everyone in this place absolutely amazes me.”
“Well, you amaze me with all you do.” Frances tilted her head, birdlike. “Do you need something from me?”
Dot dropped her smile, aiming to look businesslike. “I need to track down a specific RAF pilot. It’s, uh, in reference to a decryption I worked on last night.”
“RAF? Those brave lads. You’re not looking for one of our boys? We have a lot flying with the RAF, as you know.”
“Yes, I know. This one, however, is British.”
“All right. What do you need?”
“The message I intercepted was personal. It’s important for me to contact him directly.”
Frances’s smile wavered. Maybe Dot should have said that differently. But Frances was already digging in the filing cabinet behind her. She had worked at Camp X a long time. She knew better than to ask Dot for any more information than what she’d already been given.
“I believe I have some contact information in here somewhere. RAF… RAF… Aha!” She spun to face Dot, a file in hand. “There are multiple avenues we could pursue for this. I’m afraid it may take some time to sort through.” She gestured to her desk. “I have a lot of important things I need to take care of today.”
“May I help you? I have hours before my shift starts.”
“Pull up a chair.”
It didn’t take long after all. The files were slightly out of order to Dot’s way of thinking, so she rearranged them, and that pulled the contact information for the RAF to the top.
“You’re good at that,” Frances said while Dot hastily copied down the information. “If Hydra ever bores you, you’re always welcome here.”
Dot grinned at her. “Thanks for the invitation, but Hydra is the least boring place on earth.”
“Maybe for you.”
“Um, Frances, I have another favour to ask. Could I possibly use your telephone?”
It rang at just that moment, and Frances shrugged apologetically as she answered. She held up a finger, asking Dot to wait, then she knocked on Gerald’s door.
“Your two o’clock appointment is in the front lobby,” she told him, then she returned to her desk. “My telephone is probably going to be tied up. But I’ll do you one better. Come with me.”
Dot hadn’t even known the little room at the end of the hall existed. It was almost small enough to be a closet. In fact, she’d always assumed it was a closet.
“For personal calls,” Frances explained. She studied Dot a moment. If Frances decided Dot was doing something untoward, she could ruin everything, but Frances gave her a wink. “If you need help, I know where a lot of things are.”
Dot started by dialing the first entry on her list of contact numbers. It was a dead end. The next number she called had no idea who Pete Clark was, but they suggested another telephone number. Dot circled it on her list then called it next.
“It was recommended that I contact your office directly,” she told the woman who picked up the phone. “They said you might have a record of him.”
“Is he still in service?”
A cold, impersonal question. Yes, Pete was still alive, or at least he had been when he’d sent that telegram last night.
“I believe so.”
“Do you know his rank?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Hmm. You said you are telephoning from Canada? And you’re a Wren?”
“Yes, ma’am. Petty Officer Wren Dorothy Wilson.”
“All right.” The woman sounded harried, but she also seemed interested in helping. “There are a few of our pilots listed here. Please give me that service number again?” After she did, she could hear the woman flipping pages. “There he is. Master Corporal Peter Clark. From the Christchurch area. What do you need?”
