Free Too Bad to Die by Francine Mathews

serious.”
    â€œAgreed,” Hudson said tautly. “But Turing’s talking bullshit. Come on, Ian—look at the candidates! Who’s around that dinner table?
FDR and Churchill.
A couple of their kids—but I don’t see Sarah or Elliott in the role of Nazi spy, do you?”
    â€œElliott’s a colonel in the Army Air Corps, and he commands a reconnaissance wing over Tunisia,” Ian pointed out. “He led his boys in Operation Torch last year and he’s rumored to have developed some interesting night recon techniques. You know he’s popped up as air attaché at nearly every conference we’ve organized, Hudders. He’s up to his ears in secrets.”
    â€œBecause he’s the President’s son,” Hudson retorted dismissively. “And a horse’s ass, in my humble opinion. Who else have we got here at Mena House, Flem? The Generalissimo of China, who’s at war with Hitler’s ally. His wife.
Scratch.
George C. Marshall and General Lord Ismay. Poor old Harry Hopkins, who’s going to die right in front of us. You and me.”
    â€œAnd Pamela,” Ian said quietly. “A kitten if ever I knew one.”
    Hudson stared at him in disbelief. “Jesus Christ. You can’t be serious. The PM’s daughter-in-law? Not even remotely possible.”
    â€œWhat if you’re wrong, Michael? What if Turing’s dead-on, and we’ve got a German spy in our midst? How much time do we have to stop him in his tracks? The Fencer isn’t interested in Sarah’s affair or Pammie’s latest conquest. He’s not even interested in Pug Ismay or Bomber Command. He’s here for bigger game. Much bigger game.”
    â€œLike?”
    â€œOverlord.” Ian drained his glass. “The Allied invasion of Europe. Two hundred thousand men and six thousand vessels thrown at Hitler’s best. The Nazis will want to know where and when to show up.”
    â€œNobody can tell them that.”
    â€œIn a few days, we’ll all know. That’s what Tehran is meant to decide.”
    Hudson frowned at him. “Are you sure, Ian?”
    â€œIt’s an amphibious landing, Michael,” he said patiently. “I handle the intelligence for amphibious landings.
Of course I’m sure.
I planned the bloody conference.”
    â€œAnd if Hitler can find out six months in advance where the blow will fall—”
    â€œTwo hundred thousand men will never get off the beach.”
    Hudson ran his fingers through his short hair, ruffling it absurdly. He looked birdlike, reminding Ian of the kid he’d once been. Craggy thin. The eyes hawkish. “Nobody’s going to believe this. Neither your chief nor mine. You haven’t even got Turing’s intercept.”
    â€œI know. Which is why we’re not going to tell them.”
    â€œWhat?”
    He’d startled Hudders. “Not until we know who it is. And how he’s operating. Not until we have
proof
.”
    â€œWhere do you propose to get it?”
    â€œIn Tehran.”
    The ghost of a smile played over Michael Hudson’s mobile mouth. “You’re tackling this alone. Without Rushbrooke’s approval. And the entire Allied victory hangs on it?”
    â€œWell—I had hoped you’d help me, Hudders.”
    â€œHoly shit,” Hudson said. “Ian Fleming goes commando.”

CHAPTER 5
    T he man in the wheelchair was close to exhaustion that night—the result of his self-appointed role as Thanksgiving host, the necessity of grinning broadly at all and sundry, the difficulty of fending off Winston, admittedly his good friend but increasingly an encumbrance. Winston’s approach to alliance was defensive—he hoped to use the Soviet machine to win the war without giving an inch in return—and he wanted Roosevelt’s word that he would do the same. But Roosevelt saw geopolitics in a cannier way. A more brutal way. It was