The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (10 page)

“Well, we don’t really know why it works.”

Frain gave a dry laugh. “Well, that’s not very reassuring.” Then, “And if she’s faking?”

“The procedure is … most uncomfortable. No one in her right mind would voluntarily go through with it.”

“My dear doctor,” Frain said, “let me assure you—you’ve never met anyone like Clara Hess before. And her state of mind has always been up for question.” In his large office at MI-5, Frain lit a cigarette and leaned back in his leather chair. “She’s playing you, Dr. Carroll. Like the proverbial violin.”

“Mr. Frain, I suggest you come here, to see Frau Hess’s condition with your own eyes.”

“I’ve seen her act many times, back in the day. Her portrayal of Konstanze in Mozart’s
Die Entführung aus dem Serail
was sublime. But I don’t need to see her do it again.” Then, “And as far as I’m concerned, her execution proceeds on schedule. December seventh at twelve noon.”

Before the doctor at the Tower of London could take Clara for her electroshock therapy, however, something happened.

“Wo bin ich?”
said a little girl’s voice. Where am I?

“Frau Hess,” Dr. Carroll said, also in German, “you are safe, you’re—”

“I’m going to play by the lake today!” Clara said in the same little girl’s voice, sitting up in bed with evident glee.

“The lake?” the doctor said, taken aback. “Frau Hess—”

“Who is Frau Hess?” the little girl asked, giggling. “Not I, certainly.”

The doctor tilted his head. “Who are you?”

She smiled. “Don’t you know?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Agna, of course,” Clara said, with a hint of impatience. “Agna Frei.”

Dr. Carroll was on his guard, but willing to play along. “And you are going to play by the lake today,
gnädiges Fräulein
? Where do you play?”

“The lake!” she said. When he didn’t react, she said, “Lake Wannsee?”

“Who will go with you?”

Clara’s mouth turned down. “No one. I don’t have any friends. My mother won’t let me have any friends.”

“She won’t? Why?”

“I’m not allowed to say,” she whispered, hunching over and wrapping her arms around herself. “Don’t tell
Mutti
I said anything.”

“No, no, I won’t,” answered the doctor. He thought a moment. “What month is it?”

“June!” she exclaimed and jumped up a bit. Then she rubbed her head. “Ouch!”

“What happened?”

“I bumped my head.” She giggled.

“On what?”

“A bookshelf.” Then, “Sometimes I pray. I pray to God.”

“What do you pray for?”

“That
Papa
and
Mutti
will stop fighting. That I’ll be allowed to have a friend. That
Mutti
will be nicer to me.” Clara whispered confidentially, “She doesn’t like me very much, you know.”

“Why doesn’t your mother like you?”

Clara yawned, then lay back down, curling inward like a child. She began sucking on her thumb, and within moments was fast asleep.

Before Maggie could leave Arisaig House for Edinburgh the next morning, she realized she was now responsible for someone else—a very vocal, very spoiled, very opinionated ginger tabby. And she couldn’t just leave him alone.

With K in what was becoming his usual perch on her shoulder, she approached Arisaig House’s head gardener. He was a wizened gnome of a man, with gnarled hands, who took care of large plots of the kitchen gardens, a small apple orchard, rows of berry bushes, and several greenhouses. Maggie had nicknamed him—if only to herself—Ben Weatherstaff, after the crusty gardener in
The Secret Garden
.

Although that would make me Mary, Mary Quite Contrary
, she mused, as her boots crunched on the road’s gravel. But his real name was Angus Fraser, and the golden Labrador who followed Angus faithfully was Riska, named after one of the western isles. Maggie could only hope that he—and his dog—liked cats.

“Mr. Fraser?” Maggie called, coming upon him as he was digging in the black earth. The smell was rich and loamy. Overhead, the sky remained leaden.

“What’s that, lassie?” he said, giving a perfunctory tip of his tweed cap.

“I’m, well—” Maggie spoke up to make herself heard over the rush of cold damp wind. “I’m going to be in Edinburgh for the
weekend, and I was wondering—if you wouldn’t mind, that is—keeping an eye on my cat? Just while I’m away?”

Fraser kept digging. “Don’t like cats.”

“Please?”

He shrugged. “A dinna ken—it’s up to Riska, not to me. What d’ye think, girl?” he said, addressing the dog.

As if he understood the conversation, K jumped down from Maggie’s shoulder and passed by Riska with head and tail held high, until he reached a dog bed of sorts. It was made from an old plaid cushion and covered in golden fur. Fraser had put it out for Riska against one of the stone walls, for outdoor naps during clement days.

K hopped onto the cushion and turned around three times before settling in and wrapping his tail around himself. His eyes slitted as if to say,
This will do. This will do nicely—that is, until The Woman returns
.

Riska looked up at Fraser with anxious eyes and whined.

“Well, I’m not going to fight your battles for ye, lassie,” he said to the dog, a slow smile creeping over his face.

K had the indecency to look smug from his perch on the cushion.

Although the golden Lab probably outweighed K by at least sixty pounds, she slunk away to the gnarled apple trees, trying to find a squirrel to chase to cheer herself up.

“Well, glad that’s settled, then,” Maggie said. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Fraser. Really, thank you.”

“Nae problem, Miss.”

Maggie was about to leave when she caught sight of one of the large shrubs that dotted the grounds of Arisaig. Their leaves were glossy and green and they sported large yellow buds, even in cold weather. She’d always been bothered by them, not understanding why in early winter, something would be getting ready to bloom.
Wouldn’t they just wither and die in the cold? Was there any way to save them?

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Fraser—are these rhododendron all right?” She’d seen banks of rhododendron at Wellesley College and they were dormant all winter, bursting into gorgeous hot pink blooms usually just as the senior class graduated in May.

Fraser threw his head back and laughed, a loud hearty bray. “Yes, lassie.” He took out a square of flannel and wiped at his eyes. “Ya see, we’re on the shore and affected by the Gulf Stream current, comin’ from the Caribbean. So what you’re seein’ is flowers getting ready to bloom.”

“Flowers that bloom in winter …” Such things didn’t happen in Boston or London, and she certainly never pictured them happening in western Scotland.

“Well, they’re alive the whole time—only takes a bit o’ warmth to make ’em come out. Sometimes they bloom in time for Advent—look nice on the altar there, with the pink an’ purple candles. Spring is comin’, lass, even in the bleak midwinter. That’s why the pagans put evergreens in their homes in the darkest day of the year—and why we now have Christmas trees. Light in the darkness. The promise of new life.”

Maggie felt an almost inexplicable sense of relief knowing it was the natural order of things, not an anomaly. “Thank you, Mr. Fraser,” she said, turning to go. “Thank you so very much for telling me that.”

Washington was different from London. The faces of the people were plump and well fed. Their eyes weren’t shadowed by sleepless nights of Luftwaffe bombing. Lights burned all night, unhampered by blackout regulations. And the stores were full of food and
clothing—everything one could possibly need. To anyone from Britain, it would have seemed a veritable paradise. But for Washingtonians, it was just another day, overcast, with sullen gray clouds hanging above and a sharp wind blowing.

Secretary of State Cordell Hull was meeting once again with Ambassador Kichisaburō Nomura, this time near the Lincoln Memorial—away from both the State Department and the Japanese Embassy.

The two men were visual opposites. Hull was tall, slim, and white-haired—the very picture of an American aristocrat, even though he’d been born in a log cabin in Tennessee. Now in his sixties, Nomura had come up through the Japanese Navy and Japanese politics, and had been chosen for the position of Japanese Ambassador to the United States for the number of his American connections, including having known President Roosevelt when FDR had been Assistant Secretary of the Navy in the Wilson Administration, while he had been the naval attaché. Nomura was short, plump, and jolly looking, with etched smile lines. But he wasn’t smiling today, and hadn’t been for some time.

The year 1941 had been long and difficult for the two men, and it wasn’t over yet. Nomura had arrived in Washington, DC, in March, charged with improving the increasingly strained diplomatic relationship between the United States and Japan. In the eight months he’d spent in the U.S., he looked as if he had aged at least a decade. He’d repeatedly offered his resignation to his higher-ups in Japan to no avail—they would not let him leave Washington.

To say negotiations between the two countries were not going well would be an understatement.

Ambassador Nomura was trying his best. Hull was not an unreasonable man, nor was President Roosevelt. Nomura and Hull had spent countless hours in meetings, attempting to resolve sticky
diplomatic points such as the Japanese conflict with China, the Japanese occupation of French Indo-China, and the U.S. oil embargo against Japan. Hull could do little, as the President was convinced that any compromises with Japan would be seen by most Americans as “appeasement.”

And Nomura’s own requests to his superiors in Tokyo to offer the Americans meaningful concessions were summarily rejected. Diplomacy had stalled and tensions were rising. Still the two men met, as they always did, with open minds—both desperate to avert war.

“Well, Mr. Ambassador,” Hull said, sitting down on their usual bench with a sigh, “here we are again.” The wind had died down, but the air remained chill. They were surrounded by small and delicate newly planted maple trees, their branches leafless, their trunks the color of bruises.

“Yes, Mr. Secretary, here we are again.” The two men’s voices betrayed the exhaustion at the diplomatic dance they had been engaged in for so long—one step forward, two steps back.

“I like your President Lincoln,” Nomura continued, looking up at the oversized marble statue. “
All men created equal
. What would he have made of this Japanese man, in his own nation’s capital?”

“I believe he would have been honored,” Hull replied, reaching into his coat pocket. He had a brown bag full of doughnuts. “My secretary brought them in this morning,” he said. “Hope the pigeons don’t mind cinnamon.” He took a doughnut from the bag, then broke it in half, handing part to Nomura. Hull threw a few crumbs onto the path, hoping to attract birds.

“As always, Japan wishes America nothing but harmony.”

“But—as your own Emperor said—‘If all men are brethren, then why are the winds and waves so restless?’ ”

Nomura gave a nervous smile as he, too, sprinkled crumbs onto the path in front of him. “Mr. Secretary, as we have said—if
America could find her way toward lifting some of the embargoes on oil and other resources Japan needs …”

Hull shook his head. “President Roosevelt will not budge.” He threw out a few more crumbs.

Nomura tried again. “As you know, our goal is to create the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere—”

Hull lifted one eyebrow. “Your goal is to colonize China.”

Nomura smiled apologetically, his wide face creasing. “Many Western powers—including the United States and Britain, of course—have colonies in Asia. We consider the situation inequitable. The British have colonized the planet and America doesn’t say anything—”

“Well, we had a
little
something to say about it, back in 1776—”

“But not if it’s far away and has nothing to do with you. The European countries have taken territory in Asia—France, Portugal … We are only doing what they have done for many centuries. And we took Singapore and Malaysia from the British, not fellow Asians. America took the Philippines, who took it from the Spanish. Why should only we be punished? Why not the British, French, Dutch, Italians, Spanish, Portuguese … and the Americans, as well, who set the example?” He took a piece of the doughnut and popped it in his mouth. “It’s not a black-and-white issue.”

Hull’s violent exhale misted in the cold air. He sidestepped the issue, like a do-si-do in a square dance. “Look, Mr. Ambassador, we don’t want war with Japan. And we don’t believe your Emperor truly wants war with us.”

A few pigeons landed by the men’s feet, flapping their dun-colored wings before tucking them under. They began to peck for crumbs. Looking down, Hull smiled.

Nomura smiled, too. “If, Secretary Hull, you would make a concession—even a small one—one I can give to General
Tōjō … Even if we can’t get what we want, we Japanese need to—how do you say?—save face.”

“I know this is very hard for you, Mr. Ambassador. I know you’ve offered your resignation many times.”

“Tokyo won’t let me quit.” Nomura watched as the plump pigeons pecked away, squabbling over the biggest pieces. “And today a second ambassador to the U.S. will arrive—Saburō Kurusu. A
‘special envoy.’
 ” Nomura’s tone conveyed his distaste.

“Kurusu—he’s the one who signed the Axis Treaty with Italy and Germany.” Hull raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Not a great choice for a country that allegedly wants to avoid war.”

The two men continued to drop crumbs, watching even more birds arrive. “Do you think Kurusu can offer us anything new?” Hull asked.

“I would like to say yes.”

“Always trying to look on the bright side, eh?”

“Sometimes it seems as if it is all that I can do.”

The men sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. As the pigeons pecked at the crumbs, tiny black-masked sparrows landed, stealing crumbs out from under the larger, slower birds. Hull chuckled at the pigeons’ indignation.

Nomura stood, brushing crumbs from his coat. “I will see you this afternoon, Mr. Secretary—for the arrival of ‘Special Envoy’ Kurusu?”