Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel Page 24

  “Where is he?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know.”

  “Miss Kelly, must I remind you—”

  Claire met his eyes. “I wish to God that I did. But I don’t. I don’t know!”

  Back at No. 10, the mood was tense. It was morning, and a baleful red sun illuminated the horizon through pearly gray clouds. They didn’t have much time left. Less than four hours, to be precise.

  Edmund, David, John, and Maggie were sitting at one end of the large, dark-wood rectangular table in the Cabinet Room, on William Kent red damask chairs with ornate gilded frames. The room was light and airy, with ecru walls and wainscoting the color of clotted cream. The grandfather clock ticked loudly, while in the distance, Big Ben chimed the hour with a slow and steady gong. There was a small vase of purple heather on the ornate white-marble fireplace mantel. The attached note read, “To the Prime Minister. For luck.”

  We’ll need it, Maggie thought. Her arm still throbbed. To take her mind off it, she thought of the upcoming day’s schedule and when the P.M. would take a meeting with the rest of the cabinet. Then she turned to John, looking at his profile in the light from the windows. He caught her glance and smiled.

  Snodgrass entered the room, followed by Frain, who closed the heavy door behind him. But not before Nelson padded in, leaping gracefully onto a side chair and settling in, purring loudly.

  “Professor Hope,” Snodgrass began, gesturing at the man in the somber suit, “this is Peter Frain, head of MI-Five. Mr. Frain, why don’t you bring everyone up to speed?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Snodgrass.” He looked at the assembled group. “Let’s not waste time with the Official Secrets Acts you’ve signed, yes? Since the beginning of the war, MI-Five has been tracing the actions of various individuals we believe dangerous to England. We were aware of Malcolm Pierce as a homegrown Fascist, and one of the leaders of the so-called Saturday Club. As you well know,” he said, with a nod to Edmund and Maggie, “he turned out to be much more dangerous. Albrecht von Leyen was a sleeper agent for Abwehr. His goal was to kidnap Professor Edmund Hope, who was about to uncover one of their sleeper agents. Thanks to those here, that plan was thwarted.”

  “What happened to him?” Maggie asked. “And Roger and Leticia?”

  “Malcolm Pierce and Roger Barron have been taken into custody, where they will be debriefed,” he said. “Leticia Barron is dead.”

  “But what happened,” she pressed, remembering how Leticia had ended up saving their lives.

  “The police called a disposal team, which took her body to a crematorium in North London,” Frain said. “However, the official story is that the Barrons were called away to assist a sick aunt in Edinburgh.”

  Disposal team. Crematorium. All right, then. Maggie was silent.

  Frain said, “But that’s not all that happened.”

  John looked at Maggie with concern.

  “Yesterday, there was an attempt to assassinate the Prime Minister.” Snodgrass, David, and John looked on impassively. But Edmund started and Maggie gasped.

  Frain held up one hand. “The assassination was thwarted, thanks to the quick action on the part of Richard Snodgrass and John Sterling. The perpetrator was one Claire Kelly, also known as Paige Kelly—”

  Paige?

  “—a colleague of Malcolm Pierce and also the IRA.”

  “Maggie,” John said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Paige?

  “Miss Hope, it pains me to have to tell you this, but you need to know that in order to carry off the assassination, Miss Kelly disguised herself as you to gain entrance to the War Rooms. You also must know that to secure her cover, she and her companion, an IRA agent by the name of Michael Murphy, killed a young woman named Sarah Sanderson, who’d discovered Claire in her disguise as she was leaving.”

  The room was stunned and silent—apparently, not even Snodgrass and John had known this detail.

  Paige?

  And Sarah?

  “Sarah,” Maggie managed finally. “Sarah?”

  Edmund patted Maggie’s hand awkwardly. Still, it was a comfort.

  John looked pale as well.

  “I wish that were all,” Frain said.

  “You mean there’s more?” Maggie said bitterly. Surely there was a limit to how much one could take. Nelson jumped down from the chair, then wound himself around her ankle. She absently reached down to pet him.

  “I’m afraid so.” He looked at the group. “The attempted assassination of Mr. Churchill and the attempted kidnapping of Professor Hope were part of their plot. We’ve thwarted both those plans. However, there’s still one more we need to defuse.”

  “Operation Paul,” Maggie said.

  “Yes,” Frain replied.

  Maggie processed his new information as a way to distract herself from the other revelations—Paige was alive and Sarah was not. Paige was a traitor named Claire. Sarah was dead. Paige—or Claire—was alive. It was somehow easier to think about Paul.

  Whoever he was.

  Frain entered Claire Kelly’s interrogation room once again. It looked the same, only Claire was more distraught and disheveled. Her lipstick had worn off, leaving a red stain, and she had dark, bruiselike shadows underneath her eyes.

  “Can I please get something to eat?” Claire said in a weak voice.

  Frain didn’t answer; instead, he pushed a photograph in front of her.

  “Do you recognize this man?”

  Claire looked at the photograph of a man with a receding hairline, beaky nose, and intense black eyes. “No.”

  “He’s connected to Michael Murphy.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “His name is Joseph McCormack. He’s a physics teacher at the London Oratory School.”

  Claire looked up at Frain. “You know more about him than I do, then.”

  “He’s also our only way to reach Eammon Devlin. And we can’t do that without your help.”

  “Why should I help you? I’ve already gotten all I’m going to get for cooperating.”

  Frain’s demeanor gentled. “That’s not necessarily true,” he said, sitting down at the desk and leaning in closer to Claire. “I know you love Michael. You’ve already shown me that today. But unless you help us get to Devlin, you’ll never see him again.”

  Another knock at the door. “Come in,” Frain called.

  A tall man in a black MI-5 uniform entered. “Our teams are in place, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Frain said. “Have them stand by.”

  The man nodded and left. Frain rose, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked down at the girl.

  “I’m offering you your life, Claire. You and Mr. Murphy will be extradited to Ireland, where even non–IRA sympathizers will be much more lenient with you than we. This is what you told me you wanted. I’m offering you a life with Murphy, instead of hanging for treason. Right now the only question is—which do you want?”

  Claire was silent.

  Frain turned to leave.

  Without looking at him, Claire said, “What do you need me to do?”

  Frain turned around to face her. “Go to Joseph McCormack and tell him that you need to speak to Devlin.”

  Claire snorted. “He won’t let me through his front door, let alone get near Devlin.”

  “He will when you tell him that you’ve got a hostage who can help him.”

  Claire’s eyes widened. “A hostage? Who?”

  Frain permitted himself a small smile. “We’ll let you know when it’s time.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  MAGGIE HAD A plan.

  “You want to do what?” John was pacing back and forth in the Cabinet Room while Maggie sat on one of the carved mahogany chairs, Nelson purring contentedly on her lap.

  “The cover story goes like this,” she said. “MI-Five will transport”—it was hard to say the name, but she managed—“Claire to the detention center. The vehicle has an accident. During the ensuing chaos, she secures one of the weap
ons and takes me hostage. She’ll take me to McCormack. Then he’ll lead us to Devlin.”

  David was trying to get the facts straight. “And when you get to Devlin—what? You ask nicely for the override key?”

  “Yes,” Edmund interjected. “Please enlighten us on this point.”

  “All of Devlin’s bombs in the past have had override keys,” Frain said. “That’s the way he designs them—this way, he keeps ultimate control over the bomb and it can’t be used against him. Miss Kelly will use Miss Hope as the pretext for getting inside and then will”—he cleared his throat—“ingratiate herself in order to find the key, which is always on his person. Now, about the mission—we’re going to handle this passively.”

  John started. “What the hell does that mean?” Then, to Maggie, “Sorry.”

  As though swearing would offend me at this point, she thought.

  “It means that we’ll have undercover MI-Five in every car, in every store, in every window, in the area. We’re not sending Miss Hope there alone.”

  “No, she’s going with the woman who stole her identity, killed Sarah, and tried to assassinate the Prime Minister,” John said.

  Snodgrass sniffed. “Yes, and what about Miss Kelly? You think she’ll be able to play her role convincingly?”

  Frain shrugged. “Well, she’s managed to live here in London for most of the past three years while part of an IRA terrorist cell and remain undetected. She fooled her employers, her colleagues, and her friends. Yes, I think we can all rest easy that she’s an expert at deception.”

  Maggie looked over at John. “Right now this is our best and only chance to find Devlin, get the key, and save Saint Paul’s.”

  “How do we know she’ll play along?” John asked.

  Frain folded his hands. “No matter how well we fabricate this story, Miss Hope will be in extreme and immediate danger. Which is why we’ll move in at the first sign of trouble.” He looked at Maggie. “Are you absolutely sure this is something you’re willing to do?”

  Edmund touched her hand. “You don’t have to, Margaret,” he said in a low voice. “Everyone will understand if you don’t.”

  “It’s dangerous, to be sure,” David added.

  John simply looked at her, waiting.

  My decision. It’s my decision, Maggie thought. But all she could see was the lovely, graceful dome of St. Paul’s, which had already survived so much.

  Nelson gazed up at her with his inscrutable green eyes.

  “I’m doing it,” she said.

  Everyone turned toward Frain. “Right, then. You’ll be briefed on the mission with Miss Kelly, and then both of you will head out directly. Thank you, Miss Hope.”

  Edmund looked at her and gave a resigned sigh. “Well, in any case, you should have your arm taken care of before you leave.”

  “I’ll do it,” John offered. Then, at David’s look, “I do know first aid.”

  “Right,” David said, taking off his glasses to give them a quick polish. “Go on, then.”

  “We have the first-aid kit in the office. Do you want me to bring it here?” he asked.

  “I can make it,” Maggie said, trying to keep her tone light. “I think.”

  When she tried to stand, it felt as though every muscle in her body seized up, every single nerve ending protested, No more. Please, no more. Nelson gave a sharp meow as he was dislodged to the floor, then concentrated on cleaning his fur.

  John held out his arm without comment, and Maggie took it.

  In the private secretaries’ office, John offered Maggie his desk chair. He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, busying himself with the bandages and ointments.

  “If you could, er—”

  “Take off the sweater?” Maggie unbuttoned the cardigan and tried to pull it off. The dried blood had fused the cotton fibers to the wound. “Damn,” she said as the sweater came off. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  John smiled in spite of everything that was happening. “Good to know you don’t mince words.”

  Maggie closed her eyes against the fresh waves of pain. “I think I’m going to have a lot more to say when this is all over.”

  “Now, if you could just, um, unbutton?” John asked.

  Gingerly, Maggie did as he asked, wincing again as the fabric pulled from the wound, which was revealed to be an ugly gash, black from clotted blood, now oozing.

  “Not as bad as I thought.”

  Despite the pain, Maggie had to give a weak smile. “Ah, that trademark British understatement.”

  “Stiff upper lip, don’t you know. We don’t believe in drama.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  As John gently cleaned the burn with antiseptic, Maggie started shivering. “You’re in shock.” He put his arms around her. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Maggie grasped his forearm; the part of her mind not distracted by pain noticed that John smelled of soap. “Really?” she said. “Because I’m starting to wonder.”

  He went back to bandaging, laying clean gauze over the wound and then taping it up. “I believe in you,” he said, meeting her eyes. “And you have all of us—me—right behind you.”

  “Thank you, John,” Maggie said.

  Maggie rolled down her sleeve and put her sweater back on. She would have loved to change her clothes—how long had she been in them?—but she and Frain had agreed that it would look more realistic for her to wear the same outfit.

  “Don’t mention it,” he replied lightly. “By the way, you were right.”

  “Right?” Maggie didn’t know what to say. She was suddenly quite conscious of his proximity.

  “If you hadn’t figured it out, Paige—Claire—might have gotten to the P.M., and your father might be on his way to Berlin. So—”

  Maggie gave a grim smile. “Two down, one to go.”

  Claire looked at Maggie when she entered the holding cell but didn’t speak.

  Which was a good thing. The sight of Claire—wearing her clothes, although now wrinkled and stained, her hair dyed garish red—was almost too much for Maggie to bear. But they were going to have to work together, Maggie realized, so she needed to put aside her feelings. For the moment.

  “Paige,” Maggie ventured finally. “Although I hear it’s Claire now.”

  “Maggie, I’m so, so sorry,” she began, “I never meant to—”

  “Claire, Paige—whoever you are. I don’t want to hear it.” She took a deep breath. “We’re going to go through with this mission. We’re going to find Devlin. And we’re going to get the override key so that we can save Saint Paul’s from blowing up. And that. Is. All.”

  Claire’s eyes filled with tears. “Maggie, please—”

  “I’m afraid that we don’t have time for this, Miss Kelly,” Frain said from the doorway. “In fact, we have less than two hours now.” He walked toward Claire with an iron key, then used it to unlock her handcuffs.

  As Claire rubbed her wrists, Maggie turned to Frain. “What’s next?”

  “We’ve already created the fake accident site, in case McCormack or Devlin wants to check your story.”

  “Fine,” Maggie said.

  “Fine,” Claire echoed softly.

  “The thanks and praise of a grateful nation will be yours, Miss Hope,” Frain said.

  “A dry martini will do nicely.”

  Frain’s lip twitched, and he nearly smiled. “I think that can be arranged,” he said. “Good hunting. To both of you.”

  From the backseat of Frain’s car at the accident scene, they heard ambulances wailing and saw crashed cars with broken windshields and people covered in what looked to be blood being wheeled away on gurneys by emergency service workers.

  Maggie looked around at the scenario of destruction in disbelief. “And this is all staged?” she said to Frain.

  “Absolutely,” he replied. “Now, let’s review,” he said to Claire and her. “You two were involved in the accident. Claire was being transported to a women’s pris
on, awaiting trial, and Miss Hope was accompanying her to provide a deposition. And now I must do something I already regret.”

  Without warning, he backhanded Maggie.

  The slap reverberated in the small space of the car. She swayed under the force of the blow, the sting seeping into her face. Frain’s handprint was hot on her cheek.

  “What the—” Claire started.

  “—hell was that for?” Maggie finished, raising her hand to her face, which was already starting to swell. “My dead father is alive—and sane. I haven’t slept. I’ve been kidnapped. I’ve been held at gunpoint. I was burned by a hot poker. I just learned that my dead best friend is actually a live traitor. So I ask you, Mr. Frain—just what the bloody hell was that for?”

  “Again, Miss Hope,” Frain said, “I apologize profusely. But you need to look like you’ve been injured in a car accident.”

  “And you couldn’t have hit her?” Maggie said, rubbing her face.

  “Now, remember,” Frain said, “our agents have covered the surrounding area.” He took out a pistol and loaded it, then handed it to Claire. “Take this gun,” he instructed. “This has to look as convincing as possible.”

  Slowly, with disbelief in her eyes, Claire accepted the pistol. She looked at Maggie. Then she looked at Frain.

  “You know you won’t use it,” Frain said calmly. “Because you know you’re surrounded by agents. And because of Mr. Murphy.” He looked at Maggie. “Are you ready?”

  Maggie raised one eyebrow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Maggie and Claire didn’t speak as they made their way to McCormack’s apartment. The building was remarkably nondescript, with red-brown bricks and lined by dusty shrubs.

  At the door, Claire grabbed Maggie’s good arm. Her other was in her coat pocket, clutching the butt of the pistol for reassurance. “What if McCormack doesn’t believe us?” she said.

  Maggie removed Claire’s hand from her arm. “First of all, don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Second, it’s our job to make him believe us. And you’re the expert at that, aren’t you?”