The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (5 page)

Bratton held fast to the decrypt. “Do you mind if I take this? Get a proper version?”

“Suit yourself.” Kramer pointed to the shelves and shelves of untranslated decrypts. “We have about twenty thousand more, waiting to be translated, if your boys in brown would like to lend a hand.”

Back in his own office, in the Intelligence Section of the War Department, Bratton put down the decrypt. “So they’re dividing Pearl Harbor into a grid …”

He looked to the map of the Pacific he had mounted on the wall. It bristled with yellow pushpins, signifying Japanese ships on various sections of the blue paper.

He went to his desk drawer and selected a larger tack. This one was red.

With it, he pierced the black dot over Pearl Harbor.

Clara Hess had been up since before the sunrise and was pacing the length of her room in the Tower of London, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged jungle cat.

Occasionally, she’d stop to do a few sets of push-ups or sit-ups or jack-knives, but then resumed pacing. Despite the fact that her platinum-blond hair was growing in and showing gray and dirty-blond roots—and despite her one wandering eye—she was still as beautiful as Marlene Dietrich.

It had been more than three months since she’d arrived in London from Berlin, as evidenced by the scratch marks on the wall by her bed she’d made with her fingernails. While Clara had once been a high-level Abwehr officer, she had failed at a series of missions. To escape punishment by the SS, she’d staged the ultimate ploy—she defected to Britain in Switzerland and turned herself over to SOE. Her line was that she wanted to negotiate peace between Germany and England. Of course that wasn’t possible and she knew it, but it was her story and she stood by it, telling anyone who would listen.

She’d hoped her insider’s knowledge of the Abwehr, and the Nazi party itself, would prove irresistible to the British. She’d also hoped to work with her daughter, Margaret Hope, to disseminate the information. She wouldn’t share information without Maggie.

And so all she did each day was exercise on the hard stone floor, the tedium relieved only by the arrival of plain meals on trays, brought by silent guards.

Sometimes, overcome by frustration and boredom, she would scream, and hurl herself at the thick wooden door. Her voice, unused to vocalization of any kind in her solitary confinement, quickly grew raw, and her body bruised. Outside, the two yeomen of the guard would glance at each other and shrug. They were under strict orders not to open the door, not to interact with her, not to speak with her, not to be manipulated by her.

Clara had only one visitor, her first husband and Maggie’s father, Edmund Hope. He’d seen her when she’d first arrived. Now he was encouraging her to cooperate with MI-5, regardless of Maggie’s involvement.

“She’s not going to talk to you. Forget about her,” he said about their daughter as they walked the length of the Tower Green outside the Queen’s House under the watchful eye of yeoman guards—an unexpected privilege for Clara.

“I can’t,” she insisted. “I won’t.”

“Because she brought you down—or because she’s your daughter?” Then, “Or both?”

“She’s the one who wants to hurt me. She wants to see me
executed
!”

Edmund frowned. “She can’t hurt you. And all you have to do to remain alive is talk to someone. Anyone. Even me, for that matter. There’s no reason you need Maggie involved.”

“She won’t talk to me—and I’m stuck here, like some sort of zoo animal. I’m
Clara Hess
, for God’s sake! And she’s an ungrateful bitch of a daughter and it’s all her fault.

“And for that I’m going to make her pay.”

The coastline of Arisaig, even in November—perhaps especially in November—was stunning. Snow-covered mountain peaks poked into heavy leaden clouds, while the stony shoreline melted into the icy waters of Loch nan Ceall. The purple islands of Rhum, Eigg, and Muck peeked through the mist in the distance, as well as a few smaller, unnamed islands, home to gray seals and a few bare, forlorn trees. A golden eagle circled above; Maggie could make out the faint warning clucks of chickens from the nearby henhouse.

She ran at a brisk pace from the main house to the shore, her feet crunching on paths of frosted leaves and grass. The trails were lined with garish green moss on stones and tree trunks, and as she ran, she could hear the sound of rushing streams, and smell salt water and wood smoke. Overhead, the sky was gray, and swollen clouds threatened rain.

The trainees were on a different part of the shore, still hidden from Maggie’s view. Exhausted by her driving pace, she leaned against a lichen-covered rock, taking a moment to gulp in burning breaths. The cold, damp air tasted of seaweed.

Since she’d arrived in Arisaig, she’d often found herself on the jagged shore in her free hours, sitting on one of the larger rocks, watching the water as the tide rushed in or out. It was a still-peaceful part of the world, if you could ignore the occasional loud bang from SOE training groups learning to use explosives on various
parts of the grounds, and the pops of gunfire. The neighboring sheep had become accustomed to the noise, grazing placidly despite the explosions, but the racket still startled the birds, who would twitter in alarm from the branches of ancient oaks.

Looking out over the gray-green water, Maggie remembered one of the American literature classes she’d taken at college. They’d read Kate Chopin’s novel
The Awakening
. In the end, the heroine, Edna Pontellier, walked straight into the Gulf of Mexico.

She’d written a paper for that class on the ending, years ago—did Edna really commit suicide? Or did she swim back to shore? Most people assumed Edna actually killed herself, despite the fact Miss Chopin had left her ending vague.

Maggie remembered how, in her paper, she’d argued for Edna’s metaphoric, not literal, death—the clues the author left were the allusions to Walt Whitman’s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” The ocean, a background chorus in Whitman’s poem, was like the wise mother who reveals the word that awakened Whitman’s own songs:
“And the word was ‘death, death, death, death’… Creeping steadily up to my ears and laving me softly over.”

Death, but then rebirth. Edna had confronted death and walked out of the Gulf of Mexico a different woman, at least in Maggie’s paper. Now that she herself contemplated the Loch nan Ceall, however, she wasn’t so certain.

Looking out over the cold water, Maggie thought about death. How easy it would be to load up her pockets with stones—like Virginia Woolf—and walk into those icy waves never to come back, putting an end to the pain. No more heartache, no more guilt, no more sleepless nights … No more Black Dog. If she died, he would die along with her. And, she had to admit, there was a certain satisfaction in that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a young man, in his midtwenties, who’d arrived at Arisaig only a few days earlier. He
was leaning against a lichen-stained boulder.
What’s Three doing here? And why isn’t he running?

She rose and strode over, her eyes narrowing as she approached the young man, who was trying to light a cigarette in the wind.
Damn trainees
, Maggie thought.
They’re everywhere. I can’t even contemplate my own suicide in peace
.

“You’re supposed to be running.”

Seagulls screeched in the distance. “I’m a fast runner, so I have time for a smoke.” His eyes twinkled. “And to look for mermaids. Although we’re more likely to see seals. That’s what the sailors of yore mistook for mermaids, you know.”

His accent was posh, she noted. He was handsome. She looked at his hands: They were white and soft.
A gentleman
, she thought.
Let’s see if he makes it through to the end
.

“Yes, seals, most likely.” Maggie had no energy left to admonish him; keeping the Black Dog at bay was using it all. She watched the waves crest and break over the rocky shore. An explosion sounded in the distance.

He kicked at a thick rotting rope left behind by the family when the beach had been used as a launch, the wind ruffling his golden hair. “They’re blowing up bridges today.”

“So I’ve heard.” Then, when he gave up and dropped the cigarettes and lighter back into his pocket: “It’s not good to run and smoke.”

“Who says?”

“I do. When I came back here, I quit. Smoking was affecting my time. I’m much faster now.”

The man gazed at her through thick eyelashes. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Of course I do, Three. Decent at Morse code, always at the front of the pack in any race—but a terrible shot.”

He laughed. “No, I mean, you don’t recognize
me
.”

Who is this arrogant twit?
“Should I?”

“Most people around here do, or at least think they do. Although I always thought—who better to be a spy than an actor?”

“You’re an actor, then.” Maggie was not impressed. She knew the type—handsome, charming, self-absorbed. Strong jaw—check. Dimples—check. Full red lips—check. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ve seen anything you’ve done.”

“Really?” His face drooped in child-like disappointment.
“Home Away from Home
?
Dead Men Are Dangerous
?
The Girl Must Live
?
”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, how about theater, then—played Jack Favell, the first Mrs. De Winter’s lover, in
Rebecca
. It was the West End, summer of ’40, during the worst of the Blitz. Any number of times we had to finish the production down in the air-raid shelter in the cellar of the Queen’s Theatre.”

“Right,” Maggie said, remembering. Her twin flatmates had been the stage manager and costume assistant for
Rebecca
, and of course she and the rest of the group had gone to see the production. She remembered him, too, now: handsome with a mustache and slick Brylcreemed hair. Decent rapport with Mrs. Danvers. “Yes, I saw that.”

She realized that, puppy-like, he was waiting for more, so she added, “You were quite good.” She decided against patting his head.

The young man pushed away from the rock and bowed. “At your service, Lady Macbeth.”

Maggie gave a broken smile. “The last group called me Nessie.” He looked blank. “Nessie? You know—the Loch Ness Monster?”

Three did his best to stifle a grin behind a hand. “Ahem, I’m afraid so. But it’s better to be feared than to be loved, isn’t it?”

“If you’re Machiavelli. Or a Prince.” Her smile turned grim. “Or a spy, for that matter.”

“I think being an actor will make me a very good spy.”

“You do, do you?”

“Oh, I’ve been ready for ages. I wish they’d just drop me in France already.”

“Really.” Maggie’s sarcasm was lost on him.

“Oh yes, I might as well just skip the so-called finishing school. Piece of cake.”

I used to say that … Not anymore
.

“My actual name is Charles Campbell, by the way. The press calls me Good Time Charlie.”

“Hello, Charles.” She tilted her head. “Where are you from?”

“Glasgow, actually.” Maggie must have looked surprised, for he didn’t have a Glaswegian’s distinctive accent. “Aye, wee lassie—ye pro’ly think we all wear kilts, eat haggis with tatties and neeps, an’ get drunk on whiskey ev’ry day!” He switched back to his upper-crust enunciation. “It’s true—but only on Sundays.”

“How—?”

Charles smiled. “I watched films, imitated the actors. When I started to make some real money, I hired an accent coach, a regular Henry Higgins of a fellow. Trained all my bad habits out of me. Now I can speak with almost any accent—used them in plenty of films, some even in Hollywood.”

“The ability to switch accents—that’s useful, for a spy.”

Charles looked deep into her eyes. Maggie looked back, coolly.

“You’re
not
in love with me, are you?” he asked, sounding just a touch disappointed.

Despite the razor in her heart, Maggie choked out a laugh.
Love?
Love was the last thing on her mind these days. “In
love
with you? I just met you!”

“Most of the girls here are madly in love with me.” He said it factually. “Or at least the
image
of me they have from my films. It can be annoying.”

My goodness, he reeks of youth
. “Well,” Maggie managed, “never
fear. Not only have I never seen your films, but I have no interest in romance, whatsoever.”

“What’s your type?”

“Tall, dark, and damaged. Or tall, fair, and damaged. And Charles, you’re not nearly tall enough, nor damaged enough, even to be in the running. Plus, I’ve sworn off men. I’m celibate now. Like the goddess Diana.”

Charles draped an arm over her shoulder and grinned. Maggie could see how he could easily be a matinee idol. “Then we shall get along very well,” he said.

She shot him a warning look. “First, don’t do that.”

He removed his arm.

“Second, don’t
ever
do that again.”

He had the grace to redden.

“And third—” She pushed back her sleeve to take a look at her watch. “—start running. Or you’ll be late.”