The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (6 page)

Charles stood on a mound of slippery seaweed and gave a crisp salute. “Yes, Ma’am!”

The trainees had assembled in a line on the beach, in the gray shadows of snowcapped mountains. “Well, it’s not exactly Waikiki, but it will do,” Maggie deadpanned. The dark skies began to weep sleet; several trainees shivered and brushed the icy water from their faces.

The weather reminded Maggie of a boy from Harvard she once dated. From Buffalo, New York, he’d sworn that, like the Eskimos, Buffalonians had hundreds of different words to describe snow—although that was after a fair amount of rum punch at a Porcellian Club party. Maggie wondered where he was now, and if he’d registered for the draft. Then she shook her head and focused on her trainees.

She stalked up and down the line of young men and women. “I see some of you didn’t bother to wear your hat. Always wear it! You lose ninety percent of body heat from your head!”

There were assorted mumbles of “Yes, Ma’am.”

“What? I didn’t hear you?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” they shouted.

“Now, there’s a boat in a boathouse on the shore not too far north. In teams of two, you will commandeer the boat and practice silent landings. Five and Seven—you’re up first!”

The pair saluted and began to make their way over the seaweed-draped stones. “The Nazis are after you!” Maggie called into the wind. “Hurry!”

“And what should the rest of us do, Miss Hope?” asked one of the sturdier women, older and often slower, but in many ways far more advanced than the younger trainees.

“We’re going to do relay races over the stones and then up and down those hills,” Maggie answered. “Remember—when you’re coming up or down a steep hill, bend your knees and angle your feet—you’ll have more traction that way. And you’ll need it in this slippery muck. Evens, you stay here, odd numbers,
go!
”

Half the trainees began scrambling over the rocky shore. One slipped and fell; when he pulled his foot out of the mud, there was a loud sucking sound. “Keep going!” Maggie yelled, saying a silent prayer for the poor nuns in Glasgow who did all of the trainees’ laundry. “And you—Nine—don’t wipe your nose—let it drip! You can wipe it off later—if and when you’ve outrun the Nazis!”

As the agents-in-training began climbing the rocky hills that led to the boathouse, the sleet turned to rain, falling in ever-heavier drops. The trainees knew better than to complain.

But Yvonne took a moment to muse to Gwen, “I wonder if you’d get wetter walking in the rain or running? If you walk,
you’ll spend more time in the rain—but if you run, you’ll be hitting more raindrops from the side …”

Basic physics
, Maggie thought, crossing her arms. They could see the trainees racing, skidding, and sliding down the muddy hill, making their way back.

Gwen answered, “You probably hit more raindrops when you’re running.”

Maggie bit her lip.

“Well, that makes sense,” Yvonne mused.

“Total wetness equals wetness per second times number of seconds spent in rain plus wetness per meter times meters traveled,” Maggie muttered.

“What was that? Ma’am?”

“In other words, it’s better to run in the rain—so get moving!”

When the second group sprinted off, Maggie took a few moments to look out over the roiling water. Then she spotted something by the shore, where the waves were crashing in. A gray seal? A large stone? Driftwood?

She walked closer. It was a sheep, or rather the carcass of a sheep—dead some time from the look of the body.
Poor thing must have wandered away from the flock and fallen into the water
 … She examined the body more closely. She saw the clips in its ear, two notches, not one, and a dyed red dot on its rump, indicating it didn’t belong to the local farmer’s flock. Those sheep had just one ear notch and a blue stripe on the shoulders.

Maggie also noted that its body was encrusted with open, oozing black sores.

After the day’s training sessions were completed, Maggie shed her damp clothes, washed, changed into clean clothes, then walked in the dark over the deserted road to the village of Arisaig, to see the town veterinarian, Angus McNeil. It was still early evening, but overhead the winter-night sky was black and dripped rain.

The office was small, with a low ceiling and a yellowing print of a Cameron landscape tacked up on the wall. The veterinarian was an older man, tall—well over six feet—with a tuft of white hair sprouting from each ear. He might have started out the day with what was left of his hair neatly combed, but now the red and white strands—pink, almost—were standing up straight, like prawn antennae. His features were large, like an ancient Lewis chess piece. Where his long legs were thin, his midsection was full, and he moved like a great circus bear on its hind legs.

“What do you want, lass?” he demanded, scowling, as Maggie entered the office dripping wet, her large black umbrella no help. His words were spoken with a thick burr, his voice low and rumbling.

“I found a dead sheep on the beach near Arisaig House—” she began, folding her umbrella.

“Well, if it’s dead, lass—you don’t need a veterinarian.”

Score one for the ginger-haired brute from Barra
. “At first I thought it was one of the neighboring flock that had somehow slipped through a fence and accidentally fallen in and drowned,” Maggie continued, undeterred, “but it’s from a different flock.”

“So? Could have fallen in somewhere else, then washed ashore near Arisaig House.”

“Then I noticed it was covered with sores.”

The vet’s face creased. “What kind of sores?”

“About an inch or two across, looked like blisters. They were black.”

“And this sheep—you didn’t happen to notice any other markings on it?”

I’m a bloody spy, you addlepated giant
, she thought.
Of course I noticed everything
. “There were two triangular-shaped notches in his right ear, and a dot of red paint on his rump.”

The vet ran his hands through his hair. “That sheep belongs to Fergus Macnab, then.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But his flock doesn’t graze anywhere near the coast …”

“I just thought someone should know.”

“Yes, yes …” growled the vet, lost in thought. “You didn’t touch the beast, did ye, Doreen?”

“No, I most assuredly did not.” Maggie was cold and wet. And her feet in heavy, muddy boots were numb. “And my name’s not Doreen.”

“
Doreen
’s Gaelic for a sourpuss—and your puss is a sour one. Sour and sallow.”

From the back room came a mewing sound. “What’s that?” Maggie asked.

“Stray cat.”

“Is he all right?”

“It’s a cat, Miss.” The vet’s voice betrayed annoyance. “I’m a vet—I deal with sheep and cows and horses. Farm animals. Great beasts of the field.
Not
cats. Especially cats that won’t quiet down.”

The mewing continued. “What’s he doing here, then?”

“Pub owner brought him in, didn’t want him hanging around, beggin’ for food. He’s an older cat, not a great mouser. I’d guess he was an indoor cat for most of his life—maybe when his owner died, no one wanted him, so they dumped him in the country. Probably doesn’t have much time left anyway.”

“But why’s he here then? Are
you
taking him in?”

The doctor looked down at her from his immense height with a
mixture of annoyance and pity. “I’m going to euthanize him, Miss. Can’t fend for himself, since he’s a pampered indoor cat. It’s kinder this way.”

“What?” Maggie exclaimed. “No!” She pushed past the doctor and opened the door to his office. Two eyes glowed phosphorescent in the darkness. Maggie switched on the light. There, on the vet’s pinewood desk, sat a tabby cat. He was painfully thin, with rough reddish fur and bald patches and a torn ear. He looked up at Maggie with green eyes, pupils narrowing to slits.
Goodness gracious, you look as bad as I feel
, she thought.

“Meh,”
the tabby proclaimed. The disdainful sound was expressed in a peculiar nasal tone.

“ 
‘Meh’
?” Maggie looked up at the doctor, who’d followed her in. “I thought cats said
meow
.”

The vet shrugged. “He’s a talker, that one is. Talk your ear off. I think whoever he belonged to lived alone and talked to him. Talked to him day and night, and fed him from her plate. That’s why he’s no good as a mouser. Thinks he’s human, he does. A wee man in a cat suit.”

Maggie went up to the cat and held out her hand. She knew cats from the Prime Minister’s office, where they roamed freely, along with a few of the Churchills’ dogs.

The cat acquiesced to sniff her hand, then stepped closer. Raising himself on his haunches, he put one paw on her left shoulder and one paw on her right, holding her in place as he looked into her eyes with laser-like intensity. Maggie looked back, disconcerted by the scrutiny.

“Meh,”
he said finally, then dropped back down to all fours and rubbed against her, beginning to purr. Something was communicated between them; she had passed his test. Although no words had been spoken, Maggie knew, as clear as she knew her name or the day of the week, that she and this animal belonged together.
Or at least he had chosen her, for whatever reason, and she was powerless to say no.

“Bold as brass, that one,” Dr. McNeil said. “Looks like he’s decided on you. Whether you fancy him or no. What are you going to do, then?”

“I’ll take him,” Maggie said, scooping him up in her arms without hesitation. “My little Schrödinger.”

“Don’t know his name, lass.” The cat settled in, purring. Then he opened his mouth and hissed at Dr. McNeil.

“I just meant—” Maggie wasn’t up to explaining the paradox of Schrödinger’s cat. “Never mind.”

“Suit yourself, Miss,” the vet said as Maggie turned to leave, cat in her arms. “But don’t think he’ll be catching any mice for you.”

“Come on,” she whispered to the cat, unbuttoning her coat and slipping him inside, where he clung to her. “We’re going home.”

As the door closed behind her, Dr. McNeil reached for the telephone. “Put me through to the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. It’s urgent—someone found another dead one.”

In his office in the Intelligence Section of the War Department, Colonel Bratton sat at his desk, going over Purple decrypts. His forehead was sweating; the top button of his shirt was open and his tie askew. He mopped his grim face with his handkerchief and reread the papers in front of him.

His secretary showed in Lieutenant Commander Kramer.

“Are you all right?” Kramer said, taking in the shorter man’s disarray.

Bratton didn’t look up. “I’ve been reading these intercepts over and over again. Things are looking bad. Ambassadors Nomura and Kurusu recently asked their government to extend the deadline suspending negotiations between Japan and the United States.”

Kramer sat down opposite Bratton, his long legs at angles, a pull in his sock exposed. “Yes, I know. We
all
know.”

“But according to this latest decrypt, Tokyo wants to conclude negotiations, and I quote, ‘no later than November twenty-ninth.’ After which ‘things are automatically going to happen.’ ”

He looked up at Kramer, who met his gaze. “Yes, we’ve all read it,” the Lieutenant said.

Bratton was undeterred. “But look at this intelligence report from the British—five Japanese troop transports with naval escort were sighted off China’s coast, near Formosa, heading south.”

“That must be a mistake.” Kramer crossed his legs. “You know we’ve been monitoring the Japanese fleet. And most of their ships are in home waters.”

Bratton shook his head. “We have intelligence that the Japanese are on the move,” he said, standing and walking to the map. “One of their expeditionary forces is embarking in Shanghai on as many as forty or fifty ships.” He pointed at the map. “And a number of ships have left Japan and are sailing toward the Pescadores. And now a cruiser division, a destroyer squadron, and a number of aircraft carriers have been spotted in the harbor of Samah on Hainan Island. Everything we have indicates that Admiral Yamamoto’s forces are set to sail in a matter of days. If not hours.”

The pieces came together and clicked in Bratton’s brain. “I bet you they’re going to attack us.” His voice rising in both pitch and intensity, he finally spoke his worst fears aloud: “I bet that Japan is going to attack the United States of America—most likely on a Sunday, when the fleet is in. This Sunday is November thirtieth.”

Bratton’s eyes met Kramer’s in an unwavering gaze. “The goddamn Japs are going to attack us on Sunday, the thirtieth of November!”

Prime Minister Winston Churchill had seen the film
That Hamilton Woman
so many times that he would often unconsciously mouth the words along with the actors on-screen. On this night, it was playing at the library at Chequers, set up as a makeshift movie theater. All of the oil paintings had been rolled up and put away for safekeeping, leaving the ornate gold frames empty, like blank eyes. The film viewing was after a long and rich dinner, with bottles of wine and spirits, and a few of the guests and staff had settled in, preparing for a nap. But Churchill, a wine stain on the lapel
of his velvet siren suit (which the staff referred to, behind his back, as his “rompers”), was on the edge of his seat.