But—was that an echo? No, it was another roar, though not so loud, from the west. Looking quickly, he saw a cloud of smoke and dust rising from the northwest road.
“Julius Caesar to Mark Antony!” he cried into the microphone. And he got the answer back right away, “Mark Antony to Julius Caesar. Come in.”
He did not bother with code. He was not going to say anything that the Germans wouldn’t know in two minutes anyway.
“Dam blown up at five-thirty on the dot,” he said swiftly. “Northwest road ditto one minute later. Repeat.”
The man at the other end repeated the news once, and Tony was on his feet. He tossed the headphones and microphone to the floor, threw the rope out the opening and let himself over the ledge. Sliding down it like a streak of lightning, his feet hit the roof of the wing, and he ran in a crouch to the rear. He leaped to the ground and stumbled—into Tomaso’s arms.
“Uncle Tomaso,” he cried. “Why aren’t you in the hills?”
“I couldn’t go and leave you here, Tony,” the old man said. “I had to make sure that you were safe.”
“Come with me, fast,” Tony said. “We have to hurry to get across the road before the water is too deep.”
They took off through the trees, not bothering to hide themselves too carefully. They could hear the shouts from men in front of the villa, the firing of a few guns, the sound of motorcar engines roaring to life. Everyone would be too busy to notice them.
“Dick’s got even further to go than we have,” Tony said, as he trotted beside the old man, who could not move very quickly. “I wonder if he can make it.”