Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel Page 21

  “Margaret,” he began. “I know this is difficult. Before we begin, I want to show you something.”

  He got up and went to a large cardboard box on the small table. “All of this,” he said, putting the box down next to her on the sofa, “was for you. Is. If you’ll still have it.”

  He sat back down, and she turned toward the box.

  Gingerly, she lifted the lid.

  Inside were presents. Lots of presents, some wrapped in pink paper, some in silver-and-blue tissue. Some of the wrapping paper was old and yellowing, while some looked brand-new.

  Maggie picked up one of the packages. It was small and wrapped with faded butterfly paper.

  “Open it,” her father instructed. “Please.”

  She tore off the paper, and inside was a small, white stuffed lamb with a yellow-satin bow and a tiny silver bell around its neck.

  “Ah, the lamb,” he said. “That was for your third birthday.”

  She put it down and stared at it. “Well, you’re a little late,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the bitterness.

  “I know,” he said. “I want to try to explain. When your mother died, I thought I would lose my mind. I did, actually, for a while. Was hospitalized for a year or so. When I finally came out, Edith had already taken you to America. I was in no shape to care for a child.”

  “So why these?” She gestured at the pile of gifts. Does he really think that these will make up for everything I’ve gone through? Growing up without a father? Thinking he was dead all this time? The lies? The deceit?

  “Oh, Margaret,” he said. “I never stopped thinking about you. I thought of you every day. And I bought those presents for your every birthday. But Edith said that you’d been through enough. And my grip on reality was precarious enough that I let myself be convinced that you were better off not knowing me.”

  “And do you think that’s true? Or do you think that was easiest for you?”

  Edmund looked at his hands.

  “Why didn’t you stay and fight for me?”

  “I tried. I did the best I could.”

  “Why didn’t you try harder? You just left.”

  “Maggie … Is there anything you need? Anything at all?” he asked. “Money? I have money. God knows I don’t spend any of it myself.…”

  “No,” Maggie said finally. “I don’t need anything from you.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, which Maggie finally broke. “And so, how did you end up here? At Bletchley?”

  “Once I was well enough that I didn’t need to be in hospital, I didn’t know where to go or what to do. London reminded me too much of your mother. I knew I had to leave. And several of the dons at Cambridge were kind enough to let me stay with them, teach the odd class.”

  “Ah,” Maggie said. “That’s how I found you. I went to LSE, and Samuel Barstow said that not only were you alive but that he thought you might have gone back to Cambridge. It was there that I put it together with Bletchley.”

  Edmund blinked. “How do you know about Bletchley?”

  “I work for the Prime Minister, as a typist. Privy to a lot of classified information.”

  Edmund took a moment to process what Maggie had just told him. “Samuel … Good Lord, yes, Samuel Barstow … Well, there were lots of ‘madmen’ at Cambridge in those days. And a lot of us are here now, at Bletchley.”

  “Cryptanalytic work,” she said. “Yes, although I wasn’t briefed on the specifics, I know that much.”

  “Cryptography, yes.”

  “But why the act?” she pressed. “You seem perfectly fine here and now.”

  “Ah, that,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You see, I was a known quantity. Everyone knew that I’d had a break of sorts, and that I’d been a little wobbly on my pins ever since. It made it easy to pretend to be a mad genius to the rest of the cryptographers.”

  It was almost too much to comprehend. “But—but why?”

  “MI-Five came to me and suggested it. It’s suspected that there’s a leak. A secret agent, if you will. Because I’m in many ways disregarded, it’s my job to keep an eye on the rest of the boffins. See if anyone slips up.”

  Maggie took a sip of brandy. A large one. “So they agreed to let me see you—if you kept up the charade,” she said.

  “I never expected to see you, not after the war broke out. Why would a girl from America be in London? Especially with a war on. But when Richard Snodgrass called—”

  “Snodgrass?” Again, that man. He was everywhere, it seemed.

  “Mr. Snodgrass knew that you were trying to find me. He also knew about my position and its sensitive nature. So yes, I agreed to the charade. But I couldn’t let the opportunity to meet with you pass by.”

  “How did Snodgrass know I was trying to find you?”

  “We’re all under surveillance,” Edmund said. “I’ve been undercover for years, and we’re getting very close to catching our spy. Peter Frain is the head of the operation, but when you became involved, I’m sure Mr. Snodgrass—”

  “But I’m just a typist. Why would he be interested in someone like me?”

  “An excellent question, my dear,” said a man stepping out of the shadows. “A most excellent question.”

  Back in his office, Snodgrass looked once again at the clipping, blinking rapidly. “Mr. Sterling, are you absolutely certain?”

  “It’s in code, sir. It’s Morse code, German and backward. Half-alphabet. It mentions three operations. Operation Naval Person must refer to the fact that Mr. Churchill used to be the First Sea Lord—”

  “Which means that although we have our assassin in custody, there are still two other scenarios in play.” Snodgrass picked up a red Bakelite receiver. “Yes, get me MI-Five. Peter Frain. It’s urgent.”

  While they waited, Snodgrass put his hand over the mouthpiece. “By the way, good work, Sterling, very good work.” Then Snodgrass was speaking to Frain. “Don’t have much time. There’s been an attempt on the P.M.’s life. We have the would-be assassin, Claire Kelly, in custody.”

  A silence on Snodgrass’s end, and then, “But there’s more. According to what we’ve uncovered, it’s only the beginning. Something about Operation Hope—”

  Snodgrass’s slight shoulders slumped. “Yes, that’s what I feared, too. And Operation Paul.”

  John shuffled impatiently. “And Miss Hope?”

  Snodgrass gave him a stern look. “Miss Hope is in Bletchley. Although our ‘madman’ played his role convincingly.” Snodgrass said into the phone, “We’ll be off directly, then, to collect her.”

  He hung up the phone and headed for the door. “Well, Mr. Sterling, what are you waiting for? First we need to find Miss Hope and Mr. Greene and just pray they haven’t done anything else stupid. Then we’ll find Professor Hope and take him into protective custody.”

  John looked at him, speechless.

  Snodgrass was already walking down the hallway at a fast clip. “Come along, Mr. Sterling.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Edmund Hope asked, face tense.

  The white-haired man stepped toward them. “Name’s Malcolm Pierce. How do you do? Professor Hope, I presume,” he said in a civilized voice, as though they were at high tea.

  Maggie found her voice. “What are you doing here?”

  He ignored her. “There are a number of people who’d be quite interested in what you’re working on, Professor Hope. We know you know there’s a spy at Bletchley. And we know you’re the decoy to catch him. So by kidnapping you, we keep our agent safe and also gain a treasure trove of information on England’s capacity to break German code.”

  “I’m not telling anyone anything,” Edmund said.

  “You will if you want your precious daughter to stay alive,” Pierce said, walking closer to Maggie. Cold sweat dripped down her back, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

  “Now, this is what is going to happen,” he said in a soothing voice, pulling a coil of rope from his jacket po
cket. “Slowly and quietly we’re going to leave. There’s a car waiting in front. Professor Hope, you will drive, whilst I keep your daughter company in the backseat. You will do exactly as I say. Do you understand?” He handed the rope to Edmund.

  Edmund swallowed. “Dearest Margaret, I’m so sorry,” he said as he tied her hands together with rope.

  “That should keep you out of trouble, Miss Hope,” Pierce said. The narrow cord was rough and cut into her flesh. “Very good,” Pierce said, as Edmund tied the last knot.

  “Now, let’s be on our way, shall we?”

  “Bedienhandlung die Zuversicht,” Maggie said suddenly, realizing.

  “What?” Both Edmund and Pierce looked shocked

  “Bedienhandlung die Zuversicht,” she said slowly, piecing it together. “Operation Hope. This is what the code in the advert meant by Operation Hope, isn’t it? Kidnap Edmund Hope, one of England’s best code breakers. Before he can identify the German spy.”

  “What code?” Edmund said. “What advert?”

  “There was an advert in the paper,” Maggie explained. “Ladies’ fashion. But there was Morse code embedded in the stitching of the dresses.”

  Pierce finally found his voice. “So you figured it out. But it’s too late now.” Then, “Does anyone else know?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, just me. No one believed me.”

  Pierce smiled, dimples flashing. “Good.”

  Not if John puts it all together, too, Maggie thought. And quickly.

  In his office at MI-5, Peter Frain slammed down the telephone receiver. He was seething.

  “Goddamn it!” he thundered. He shouted to his secretary, a stout woman with large, capable hands. “Get me Mark Standish and Hugh Thompson. Now!”

  “Yes, Mr. Frain. Right away, Mr. Frain,” she called back, dialing their extension.

  “And get me a copy of last Friday’s newspaper! At once!”

  The secretary finished her call and then bustled about, trying to find a copy of the paper. Minutes later, Standish and Thompson appeared, eyes wary.

  Frain paced back and forth on the Persian carpet in front of his desk. He turned to face the younger men.

  “There’s been an attempt on the Prime Minister’s life,” he said. “IRA agent Claire Kelly is in custody, being held at the War Rooms. Richard Snodgrass interceded in time. He and one of his associates are going to Bletchley. But it now looks as though there’s going to be another attack somewhere. So for the love of God and England and all that is holy—what else have you two idiots neglected to share? Anything to do with a Paul?”

  Hugh pushed back his sandy hair. “Someone named Paul, sir? I’ll check, but not that I can think—”

  “Don’t think! Go! Put it all in a file,” Frain yelled after him, getting his coat and hat. “I’m on my way to Downing Street.” Under his breath, he muttered, “The head rolling shall commence when I return.”

  “Where is she?”

  Snodgrass and John were at the University Arms hotel, having driven the last few miles on a flat tire. They’d convinced the man at the desk to give them a key, then bolted upstairs.

  John shook David awake, none too gently. “Where’s Maggie?”

  “John?” David said sleepily. “What are you …?” Then, as he grabbed for his eyeglasses and staggered to his feet, “Oh, good Lord!” He managed to arrange the wire frames on his face. “Beneficent Buddha! Tell me this is some kind of nightmare—and that Richard Snodgrass is not in my room!”

  “This is supposed to be Maggie’s room,” John said. “Where is she?”

  David looked around, blinking. “She was here—we were talking, and then I must have fallen asleep—”

  Snodgrass looked heavenward. “God help us all.” He turned to David. “Get your coat and hat. We have to get Miss Hope.” Then, “Perhaps we should have tied a bell on her.”

  David shrugged on his jacket. “She’s all right, though? Isn’t she? I mean, where would she go? And at this hour? It’s—what—just past midnight?” He looked at John and Snodgrass, suddenly realizing. “And why are you two here?”

  “When we get back, remind me to fire both of you,” Snodgrass said. “But in the meantime—move!”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  IT WAS IMPENETRABLY dark. Only the dribble of yellow light from the shuttered headlights and the sliver of moon permitted Pierce to see into the gloom. They passed through bleak, deserted villages and over grassy hills. Edmund drove uncomfortably fast, the car shuddering and shaking around some of the tighter corners.

  “Nearly there, nearly there,” Pierce said, consulting an old road map. “Now turn right. Yes, right here. Into the drive.”

  An ornate sign proclaimed Westmore Place, but the rusty black gates and grass-tufted drive belied the elegance of the name. Edmund and Maggie exchanged a look in the rearview mirror as the car headed up a steep rise and pulled in front of a rambling timber-framed brick house. Some of the stonework was crumbling, and the shrubbery was overgrown. Ivy obscured the windows. An owl shrieked through the silence.

  They went up a cobblestone walkway, Pierce with his gun to Maggie’s back. They reached the front door, once painted a glossy black, now dull and peeling. Pierce reached out to the bellpull, which made a low, mournful chime.

  After a pause, the door was opened by a large-boned woman. Her coarse salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She was dressed in a brown twill skirt, cashmere cardigan, and sensible lace-up oxfords. A triple strand of gray pearls encircled her neck. The dim light from within spilled out in a corona around her.

  Behind her was a red-cheeked, snowy-haired man with an enormous white handlebar mustache, wearing plaid trousers and a brown hunting jacket.

  “Mrs. Leticia Barron? And Mr. Roger Barron?” Pierce asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Leticia said, her eyes taking in the ropes on Maggie’s wrists and Pierce’s gun. “Please do come in.”

  Roger made a few grunting sounds.

  They had a few moments to get their bearings. Two enormous black dogs with coarse and dusty fur were lying in front of a stone fireplace. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling that had seen better days, while moth-eaten stags with glassy black eyes, trophies of the chase, kept watch from above. Worn Persian rugs with large holes covered the stone floor. The windows were shrouded by blackout fabric, making the walls seem gloomy and close. The room smelled of wood smoke, mothballs, and wet dog.

  One dog opened one dark, watchful eye, then closed it and went back to sleep. The other didn’t stir. “Linus and Mortimer,” Leticia cordially said to the three.

  “I’m Malcolm Pierce, as you know. Henry Hodgeson from the London Saturday Club was kind enough to set this meeting up.”

  “How absolutely wonderful to have you here,” Leticia trilled, extending a soft, white hand. Her eyes were bright. “Of course, when Henry told me the circumstances I was delighted to offer our humble home. Let’s go into the kitchen, shall we? Oh, it’s been so long since we’ve had guests!”

  Maggie realized Leticia saw no irony in this.

  The kitchen was large, with high ceilings and a black-and-white tile floor. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The smell of fried offal and overflowing rubbish bins soured the air.

  “Please sit down,” Leticia said, gesturing to the scarred wooden table. Even though her armpits were damp with fear, Maggie nearly let out a hysterical giggle when Leticia followed up with a genial, “Tea?”

  Pierce gestured to the floor. “Sit down there, please.” It was awkward with her hands tied, but she and Edmund complied. Pierce sat down at one of the black Windsor chairs but kept the gun trained on them.

  “No tea, Mrs.—”

  “Leticia.”

  “Thank you. Leticia. We still have a lot of work to do tonight.”

  She took a seat next to Pierce at the table, while Roger hung back near the door. Her eyes danced with excitement. “I can’t tell you how thrilling this all is. We’re just glad to b
e able, in our small way, to help.”

  “An enormous help,” Pierce said. “The Führer will be most grateful.”

  “You know him?” she said, hand to heart. “What’s he like?”

  “A god among men,” Pierce said. “He saved Germany. Gave her order and strength and discipline.”

  “How amazing,” Leticia said, leaning in. “People here just don’t understand it. That drunken fool Churchill certainly doesn’t.

  “And they—” Leticia gestured to Edmund and Maggie.

  “One of Britain’s premier code breakers and one of the drunken bastard’s secretaries. Invaluable sources of information, the both of them. Which is why we need to get them to Berlin.” He took a moment to smile at his captives, dimple flashing. “Tonight.”

  “And that’s where we come in,” Leticia said, fingering the silvery pearls around her neck. “I knew it was dangerous to keep that old Airco in the barn. But I knew it might come in handy someday.”

  Maggie tensed. A plane?

  Leticia stopped suddenly, her brow furrowed.

  “What?” Pierce prodded.

  “It’s just that—”

  “Yes?”

  Roger leaned up against the door frame. “Plane’s a two-seater. There’s only room for two.”

  “Damn it,” Snodgrass said.

  Maumbrey Cottage was still and silent; only the two half-full brandy snifters gave the illusion that the place was still inhabited.

  “Damn it. We’re too late.”

  “No!” John was vehement. “We must go after them.”

  Snodgrass rubbed his chin, looking around for signs of a struggle.

  “Can someone please explain to me what exactly’s going on?” David asked.

  John gave him a grave look. “Paige never died,” he said. “She’s an IRA sleeper agent who faked her death. She tried to use Maggie to get classified information on Churchill. When that didn’t work, she infiltrated Number Ten and tried to assassinate the Old Man. Posed as Maggie to get in. Nearly worked, too.”

  “Hardly,” Snodgrass snorted, still looking for clues. “We were watching closely. Of course we did a background check when Miss Hope was hired. We were already keeping a watch on Miss Kelly. The fact that she and Miss Hope were friends was a red flag. I didn’t want her hired at all, if you recall.”