The Queen's Accomplice Page 7

  Maggie winced and pulled the receiver away from her ear. Something’s wrong.

  But before she could get any further, Sarah opened the door and stepped inside, poised as any Vogue model.

  As she did, Gaskell opened his door, folder in hand. He froze, slack-jawed, gazing at Sarah in what could only be described as awe and perhaps even terror.

  Maggie tried not to laugh as she saw Gaskell react to Sarah’s beauty. He stared, opening and closing his mouth like a hooked fish.

  Finally he managed in his gruff voice, “And are you Miss Parry?”

  “Non, monsieur,” Sarah replied in a cloud of clove cigarette smoke and L’Heure Bleue.

  “Well, then—who are you, young lady?”

  “Sarah Sanderson,” she replied coolly, with a mischievous side wink to Maggie. “Here to be interviewed by Miss Lynd.”

  “Of course, of course,” the colonel backtracked, hastily retreating to his office. “Bonne chance, Miss Sanderson.”

  “Welcome.” Maggie grinned up at her friend. But the smile faded from her lips as soon as she caught sight of the man coming through the door. Hugh Thompson, her former MI-5 partner, looked the same: tall, with green eyes and a high forehead—perhaps a bit higher now as his hairline was beginning to recede—but handsome as ever. It had been a long time since she’d seen him last, at least. Her heart turned over, and she had no idea what to do with her hands.

  “Maggie!” Hugh exclaimed, whipping off his hat and twisting the brim in his hands. “Er, I mean, Miss Hope.”

  “Mr. Thompson.”

  “Let me guess.” Sarah angled a plucked eyebrow. “You two know each other.” She did not look pleased.

  “We—worked together once,” Maggie admitted. “A long time ago.”

  Sarah would not be distracted. “When?” she demanded.

  Maggie was startled by her tone. “The less information we all have, the better,” she said, falling back on the standard SOE answer.

  “Well.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “I bet it’s ‘a long story.’ ”

  “We, ah—” Hugh cleared his throat. “That is, Miss Sanderson and I, have an appointment to see Miss Lynd.”

  “Of course,” Maggie replied. She scooped up the telephone receiver and dialed the extension. “Miss Sanderson and Mr. Thompson to see you, ma’am.” Maggie listened, then replaced the receiver. “Miss Lynd is ready for you now. Second door on the right.”

  “Thanks,” Hugh said to Maggie. “It’s…er, good to see you again, Miss Hope.”

  Sarah began to walk down the hall. “Come on!” she called back to Hugh. “Miss Lynd is waiting!”

  “Don’t mention it.” Maggie did her best not to blush. “It’s good to see you again, too, Mr. Thompson.”

  —

  Miss Lynd rose and proffered a heavily ringed hand to both Sarah and Hugh, then settled herself back behind her desk, glowing in the thin strips of feeble sunlight allowed in by the wooden venetian blinds. She lit a cigarette, eyes fixed upon the new recruits as they removed their coats—Hugh helping Sarah with hers—and then took seats across from her. Sarah tried to rub some warmth into her hands through her gloves.

  “You’ve been training in Arisaig?” Miss Lynd asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes,” Sarah answered for both of them.

  “Well, you might as well know each other’s real names now. Sarah Sanderson, meet—officially now—Hugh Thompson.”

  “A pleasure,” Hugh said.

  Sarah colored. “Likewise.”

  “Miss Sanderson,” Miss Lynd said, “according to your file, you’ve spent a lot of time in France, Paris, on the Île St.-Louis specifically.”

  “Yes. My grandmother lived there. We would visit her every summer when I was younger.”

  “You speak French well?”

  “Je suis bilingue, Madame. Ma grand-mère m’a tout appris.”

  Miss Lynd opened a folder. “Your reports are good,” she stated, paging through. “Your physicals, your psychological examinations.” She looked to Hugh. “And how is your French, Mr. Thompson?”

  “J’ai passé deux ans à la Sorbonne, Madame. Ca, c’est à vous de me dire.”

  Miss Lynd gave a slow nod. “Not bad, not bad at all.” She contemplated them, as if trying to make up her mind. Finally, she spoke. “Miss Sanderson and Mr. Thompson. You each did assessment and training at Wanborough Manor, then paramilitary work in Scotland. You completed your parachute training at Ringway airfield, then continued on to our so-called Finishing School at Beaulieu in Hampshire.” Miss Lynd pronounced it the English way—Bew-lee.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hugh answered.

  “You both also have special skills—Miss Sanderson, you as a ballet dancer, and Mr. Thompson, you as a cellist.” Though she rarely visited the training schools herself, Miss Lynd received regular reports from instructors as each agent progressed. She looked down again at the file on Sarah Sanderson. Too beautiful, one instructor had noted. Will only draw attention. Too headstrong. Too used to getting her own way. DO NOT recommend.

  But Miss Lynd ignored the comments. She’d become quite used to the skeptical, if not downright damning, comments that came back to her about the women trainees from the men in charge. The male staff at the schools appeared awestruck by the “feminine” qualities of the women, who were “painstaking,” “lacking in guile,” and “innocent.” Either that, or they were “too fast,” “devious,” and “slatternly.” What the men really meant, in Miss Lynd’s opinion, was that women shouldn’t be serving behind enemy lines at all.

  Sarah reached into her handbag and pulled out a cloisonné cigarette case. Hugh pulled out his lighter and flicked it for her.

  Miss Lynd shook her head. “No smoking, Miss Sanderson.”

  Both looked to her, and one of Sarah’s perfectly angled eyebrows shot up as Hugh’s flame went out.

  Miss Lynd held up a hand, her rings sparking in the light. “In France, women do not smoke. Only the men receive cigarette rations now. And women smoking is forbidden by the Nazis—it’s not considered ‘ladylike’ and might not be healthy for any children of the Reich.” She leaned forward. “It’s not only the language you must perfect but all the details.”

  “Is that it? The big news? We’re going to France?” Sarah put her cigarette case away and snapped the bag closed.

  “This has all been rather hush-hush, you know,” Hugh added.

  Miss Lynd leaned back in her chair before replying. “What is it you think you’re going to be asked to do? Any clues from your training? Your interviews?”

  “Commando work, I’d say,” guessed Hugh. “At least given the curriculum—parachute jumping, stealth shore landings at night, blowing up bridges and roads, using intermediaries, boîtes aux lettres, Morse code, and the like. And somewhere in France, I’d guess by the language classes. But—”

  “Yes?”

  “But there were—ah—women training alongside men. And Miss Sanderson is a…a woman.” He cleared his throat. “Obviously.”

  Sarah smiled. “I’m glad you noticed, darling. Those jumpsuits we wore weren’t at all flattering.”

  Miss Lynd suppressed a smile. “Actually, Mr. Thompson, women are our secret weapon here at SOE. We women are underestimated by the Germans. And while most men of fighting age are being shipped off to the East, women may still travel freely.” She looked directly at Hugh. “Do you have a problem with working with female agents, Mr. Thompson?”

  “No, no, I’ve worked with female agents before, that is, a female agent in particular, but not—”

  Sarah blinked. “Do you mean Maggie?”

  “Miss Sanderson!” Miss Lynd barked, and Sarah jumped in her seat. “The less you know about your fellow agents in this business, the better.”

  “Sorry,” Sarah amended.

  “Back to the subject at hand,” Miss Lynd chastised. “We’d like you both to go to occupied France.”

  Sarah and Hugh exchanged looks. “What would our missi
on be?” the dancer asked.

  “First, are you amenable?”

  Both nodded.

  “I need verbal confirmation.”

  “Yes,” they replied in unison.

  “When would we leave?” Sarah asked.

  “All in good time, Miss Sanderson. You both have one last training session, in a house called Blackbridge, in Beaulieu, on the estate of Lord Montagu. You’ll be given French identities—names, backgrounds, everything. All your papers for your new identities will be in order. During your time in Hampshire, you will speak only French. And you must stay ‘in character’ for your entire stay.”

  “And then?” Hugh asked.

  “And then, after a final evaluation—if you prove ready—you’ll be sent to France.”

  “To do what exactly?”

  “I can only paint in the broadest strokes—your mission will be to help organize resistance and serve as liaisons to London. You’ll be told specifics if and when you pass the final tests of the Finishing School.”

  Sarah looked to Hugh with a broad smile. “So, we’re to work together, then?”

  “Yes, it will be part of your cover story. You’ll be filled in on all the details when you reach Beaulieu. Do you agree?”

  “I do,” the two said.

  “You will leave today. You’ll take the train from Waterloo to Brockenhurst this afternoon, and you’ll be met at the station by an SOE agent.”

  “And, if all goes well, when would we leave for France?”

  “That’s unclear at the moment. If you’re approved, there are other variables—what’s going on there, what’s needed, the phases of the moon…They will let you know if and when you’re ready. Do you have any questions?”

  “What should I tell my mother?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes, mine’s wondering, too. I’ve been vague so far, but I can’t put her off forever,” Hugh added.

  “You must continue to be evasive, I’m afraid,” Miss Lynd answered, “but you might now begin to give vague hints about ‘going away.’ You’ve done tours with the Vic-Wells Ballet, Miss Sanderson—it’s similar. One more thing before you go—why do you want to do this? It’s undeniably dangerous.”

  “The Nazis killed my grandmother,” Sarah responded bluntly. “I hate the Germans. I hate them for killing her, for taking Paris, for invading France, for bombing us. The list is endless, really. I hate them, I hate them with all of my soul. And I want to get a bit of my own back.”

  Miss Lynd’s face remained impassive. “And you, Mr. Thompson?”

  “Everyone’s doing something. I want to do my duty as well.”

  “A rather bland response, Mr. Thompson.”

  “Well, then, because of God.”

  Miss Lynd’s impassive mask wavered. “Excuse me?”

  “At university, I studied religion. Almost became an Anglican priest, if you can believe it. I believe in God, and I believe in Satan, and I also believe we are called on to fight evil wherever we may find it. Working for the SOE seems like a good way to do my part.”

  “And, if necessary, are you prepared to kill in the line of duty, Mr. Thompson? Would that action square with your beliefs?”

  Hugh nodded. “Yes, I’m prepared to kill, although of course I’d prefer not to. If given the option.”

  “You might not have an option.” Miss Lynd took one last look at the couple, then rummaged through a desk drawer. “Here you go.” She pulled out an envelope and handed it to Hugh. “These are tickets back to Brockenhurst. You’re approved for the next stage of your training. Good luck to you both.”

  They all stood, and Miss Lynd showed the two interviewees out. In the front room, Hugh waved goodbye while Sarah avoided Maggie’s eyes.

  Maggie gave a small wave, but as soon as the door closed behind them, her face fell. Was Sarah angry with her? Had she accidentally done something wrong?

  If Miss Lynd noticed how pale Maggie had become, she gave no sign. “I’m going to make a cup of tea to try to warm up—would you like one?” she asked the younger woman.

  “No. Thank you.” But Maggie followed Miss Lynd into the kitchenette. “Miss Sanderson and Mr. Thompson are doing the exact same job, but she’s making two-thirds of what he is. If they’re caught overseas, he’ll be held as a POW, while she’ll be executed as a spy. And they both have single, aging mothers. If they die in the line of duty, Mr. Thompson’s mother will receive his pension, while Miss Sanderson’s will receive—nothing.”

  “Yes,” Miss Lynd said, tapping a foot as she waited for the kettle to boil.

  “And you’re all right with this?” Maggie persisted, pulling her sweater around her.

  Miss Lynd turned to face her. “One war at a time, Miss Hope.” The kettle whistled and she turned off the gas.

  Maggie wouldn’t give up. “Speaking of war,” she continued, “I’ve gone over all of Agent Calvert’s communiqués again. There’s every reason to believe she’s been compromised—things just aren’t adding up. If she’s in enemy hands and our team goes in for the extraction—well, not only is she already in danger, but they’re likely to be taken out as well.”

  “What does Colonel Gaskell have to say about all this?”

  “The colonel doesn’t seem at all concerned.”

  There was a long pause. “Then you shouldn’t be, either.” On the reception desk down the hall, the telephone rang with a shrill bleat. “I believe that’s your cue,” Miss Lynd pointed out.

  Maggie ran to pick up the telephone receiver. “Good morning. You’ve reached Inter-Services Research Bureau—may I help you?”

  “Director General Peter Frain for Miss Margaret Hope,” shrilled a woman’s voice.

  “This is she.”

  There was a series of clicks as Peter Frain, head of MI-5, got on the line. There was a pause, then, “Hello, Maggie.”

  “Hello, Peter.” Even years later, it felt odd to be on a first-name basis with the director general of MI-5. The man who’d gotten Maggie involved with SOE in the first place.

  “You must come to my office. Immediately.”

  She wound the telephone cord around her hand. “I—I’m at work, sir.”

  Frain was undeterred. “Yes, I know where you are—obviously. Tell them it’s MI-Five. They’ll understand.”

  Maggie looked up at Miss Lynd, who was retreating to her office with her steaming mug of tea.

  “Yes, sir.” Maggie hung up the receiver. She knocked on Colonel Gaskell’s door.

  “What is it, Meggie?”

  “I need to leave, sir.”

  “Leave?” He arched one eyebrow. “Leave? May I ask where you need to be that’s so important? A hairdressing appointment, perhaps? A dress fitting? An engagement party?”

  Maggie really, really, really wanted to roll her eyes—but refrained. “Director General Peter Frain wants to see me as soon as possible, sir.” She was gratified to see the Colonel startle and his pale eyes widen.

  “But—but we need you here! Who will make our tea?”

  “Mr. Frain said to tell you it’s MI-Five business and you’d understand, sir.”

  Once again, Gaskell’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. Finally, he managed, “Women! Flibbertigibbets! All of you!”

  “Yes, sir.” Maggie gave him her best noncommittal look. “It’s important, sir.”

  “Of course it is,” he spluttered. “Well, then, go! Go!”

  “Sir, about Agent Calvert—” Maggie took a deep breath. “In her latest communiqué, she mentioned something about a birthday gift for her mother. But her mother’s been dead for over ten years. And when I spoke with her father—”

  “Blast Agent Calvert!” He flushed red. “Blast her mother! And blast her father! Off with you to MI-Five, then!” he managed, waving his hands. “And bring me back a Sally Lunn roll when you return!”

  “Yes, sir.” Before Maggie put on her coat, hat, and gloves, she made sure to lock the latest transmissions back in the filing cabinet. Hang in there, Erica….<
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  And Brynn, where are you?

  —

  All Brynn Parry knew was she had the worst headache of her life. Her temples throbbed. She cracked open her eyes.

  Then she started. The room she was in was not the room she’d gone to sleep in.

  Something was wrong. She looked around. The room itself was small and narrow, with no windows and a low ceiling. Shadows from a candle on a battered campaign bureau danced over rough stone walls. It smelled of must, damp, and old brick.

  She knew she had to get out.

  As she struggled to sit up in her hard, narrow bed, her head spun and she feared she might vomit. When she kicked off the coarse, faded coverlet and swung her legs over the side, her muscles ached, as if she’d been through battle. She stood with effort, shaky on her feet, then took a few tentative steps on the cold, bare floor toward the door.

  It was locked. She jiggled the knob and twisted and pulled at it. Then she beat upon the thick pine and called for help until her throat was raw.

  You’re a trained agent, she reminded herself. Act like one. In the dresser drawers were all of the things she’d had crammed in her suitcase—all the things she hadn’t bothered to unpack the night before.

  Her suitcase was gone. Someone had taken her suitcase.

  There was a chipped jug of water and a bowl on a dressing table, along with her hairbrush and tube of lipstick. The bed’s frame was made of white ceramic, like a hospital bed, and the mattress was thin. A reproduction of Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare hung on one wall, the incubus staring back at her with a malevolent expression. There was a deep chill in the air—like in her parents’ cellar. Wherever she was, she was underground, she was certain of it.

  The candle’s flame flickered. Her book on the bedside table, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, mocked her.

  She didn’t know where she was.

  She didn’t know what time it was.

  Or even what day.

  For a moment, the wave of terror and shock was so overwhelming she feared she might faint, but she sat on the bed’s edge and bent to put her head between her legs, as she’d been taught, taking deep breaths.

  When the dizziness and nausea began to subside, she lifted her head. She’d been trained to withstand capture, imprisonment, even torture. And although her training was supposed to be of use in Nazi-infested Europe, in London—assuming she was still in London—it was the same principle.