Betrayal (51 page)

Those bluest of eyes bulged in anger. ‘From being labelled another Mata Hari, you've become a heroine, Mrs. Fraser. Condemned to hang by the neck while myself and His Majesty are left with the decision of what to do with you.'

Mr. Churchill reached for his glass, the bulldog of the war lacking all patience. ‘London … Dear old London,' he said with sudden sentiment that only set those eyes to watering, ‘is being bombed to pieces, Mrs. Fraser!'

She wished he'd not blame her for the Luftwaffe's raids.

‘That husband of yours has given a lengthy interview to the
Times
and the
Daily Mail
. I have it on good authority that the
Manchester Guardian
and others have also received this “interview” but we do have censorship laws in effect, so I will say no more of it.'

He flipped through the pages. She had sunk this U-397, had learned on her own to use explosives and to shoot with the best. Instinctively she had handled herself remarkably well in very tight situations. ‘There was mention of a child, I believe?' he said with sudden rancour.

‘Yes, I … I lost it shortly after we left the island. On the boat, actually.'

That couldn't have been pleasant for her. ‘Did you love this Nazi?'

How could you—Mary knew that was what he'd implied. ‘I thought I did at the time but soon learned not to and … and in the end, caused his death.'

‘And that of more than sixty others!' jibed Churchill only to see the tears he'd caused and to say with all sincerity, ‘My dear, you must forgive me. This business has not been easy. Taken alone, it was a war on our very shores. We won it only by the dogged determination and spirit of will of one of our citizens. Can you begin to imagine what the nation wants of you in these deeply troubled times? You are a heroine, Mrs. Fraser, a British citizen who …'

‘I … I'm a Canadian, Prime Minister. Though I'm married to a Scot, I've not yet …'

‘A Canadian—from the Dominions, eh?' he accused as if that explained everything. ‘Damned fine people, the Canadians. Damned good fighters.'

Drawing on his cigar, he paused to give her a moment. ‘How is it that you have learned to speak and write French?'

Alarmed, puzzled by the question, she threw those big brown eyes of hers up at him in doubt and hesitation.

Her voice a whisper in the hush of the bunker, Mary briefly told him of the little girl she had had to leave behind in Montreal. ‘My French is Parisian, but my accent Canadian, Prime Minister.'

‘That could be ironed out, I should think. French was never a gift I'd have chosen for myself, though I speak it well enough.'

‘I learned it against all opposition in a city where the English didn't bother to speak it. I needed friends, Prime Minister. I wanted to get to know my neighbours and the woman who looked after my little girl when I went out to work. I lived with French Canadians, not with the English. It was a lot cheaper and far friendlier.'

Churchill knew he was impressed, that this wasn't just anyone sitting so properly in front of him in that beige suit of hers, but a very resourceful young woman. She was tired and thin, and terribly worried but not afraid to pay for what she'd done.

‘What has happened to that husband of yours?' he asked, adopting a rather bland and disinterested tone.

‘He's here in London, staying with friends. He … he comes to see me every day.'

And talks to the press! ‘Why isn't he in the services? Good, qualified surgeons are desperately needed.'

‘Hamish fought in the Great War.'

‘I did so myself. Come, come, there has to be something else. He's not one of those conscientious objectors, is he?'

‘Prime Minister, I think you know Hamish was disqualified for having helped a destitute young girl out of a very bad situation. That girl lived and has gone her way, while he …'

‘Became a country doctor in Northern Ireland and doctor to the Nazis at Tralane. My dear, please do not think ill of me. We can use him in North Africa. War provides the forgiveness time alone can never allow.'

Again he would give her a moment. Tribunals were seldom what they should be. Reaching for his glass, he found it empty. ‘My dear young woman, the Nazis grind virtually the whole of Europe beneath their jackboots. Day by day men and women are being tortured and shot for having defied them. Are you aware in the slightest of what those brave souls must face?'

She wished he'd not accuse her of anything more but knew he was in a very difficult position, that Tralane and Inishtrahull, while the least of his problems, had become paramount. ‘I think I know what they must feel, Prime Minister. Each day out there on the island and since, a good part of me has died. I'm not proud of what I've done. I'm ashamed of it.'

‘But you have changed, haven't you?'

‘Yes, I've changed and I know this.'

Churchill drew on the cigar. She was uncommonly fetching, still unassuming and not revealing any of that tough inner spirit and instinctive will and talent that had allowed her to survive and to singlehandedly accomplish so much. Indeed, though he had little use for them, she reminded him of a schoolteacher—no, a secretary. Yes, that was better. Had she the gift of languages, he wondered, a knack for learning them? She'd had a bit of college
Deutsch
. Could she take it up again in addition to polishing the French?

He thought so, he thought her a treasure but had she already been through too much? Only time would tell. ‘Will you agree to go into Occupied France for me?'

The cigar was poised, the question had been given quietly. Occupied France …

‘As an agent of the Special Operations Executive, Mrs. Fraser. Sworn to secrecy as of this moment for such “agents” do not exist beyond the minds of but a chosen few.'

Her heart still ached from Inishtrahull; she still had nightmares …

‘We will train you, Mrs. Fraser. We will give you every benefit of our diverse knowledge.'

When she looked away from him, he realized that every last particle of her ordeal had suddenly returned. Instinctively she knew exactly what she would have to face in France, a most opportune and healthy sign.

‘I … I'd like to talk to Hamish. The two of us … we've been apart, Prime Minister. I need to be with him; he … he needs to be with me.'

‘And the rope?' he asked, despising himself for the reminder.

‘Yes, I'll go to France for you but first I want a fortnight with my husband.'

‘A show of anger is always refreshing, Mrs. Fraser. Don't get yourself pregnant. See that he volunteers for service in North Africa. Everything will be taken care of. Let us get on with this war. Let us crush the Nazis so that they may never again rise up.'

The house in all its Georgian eminence lay in the gathering dusk. Seen from the top of Caitlyn Murphy's Hill, it drew the night exuding warmth and refuge.

Mary couldn't believe that she was actually seeing it again. Mrs. Haney would be in her kitchen. Bridget and William were back but the clock, the watch could never be rewound, and she knew this.

Hamish slid an arm about her waist. ‘The IRA would never let us stay here in peace, lass.
Och
, we both know it and so will Ria.'

Yet they'd have a few days to themselves. ‘Darling, couldn't we keep it? Couldn't you persuade Mrs. Haney to look after it for us? Then maybe when this war is over …'

‘Is it that you've come to love the house so much you would dare to come back?'

‘You know I have. These people need you, Hamish, and we both need them.'

Mary felt his hand come to rest on the back of her neck, felt him caressing her. Things had been good for them in bed, far more than she'd ever thought possible.

‘There is just a slender hope,' he said. ‘Let me speak to Ria about it.'

They took their time. The scent of wet hay and peat was in the air, of turf smoke too, and the distant sounds of cowbells and lolling sheep. ‘I love you, Hamish. I want so much for us to have a life together and to have children of our own.'

The simple things that could never be. Mary knew this. They had four days and that was all. Getting permission to return to Ireland to settle the house had been nigh on impossible until the prime minister had intervened.

‘You've friends in high places,' he said, a reminder.

‘Not friends, just people who want to help because …'

‘
Och
, I know you can't tell me where you'll be going, but I will wait and keep the house for you.'

He could be so archaic when he wanted, would see her tears and shed his own. ‘This war is going to take years, Hamish, but I've this feeling inside me that in the end things will turn out for the best.'

Had it been but the kindest of lies? ‘They're going to send you into France, and I know this, know exactly what you'll have to face and do. Mr. Churchill had no business …'

She touched his lips to silence him, said ‘Hush, my darling, I will come back, you'll see, and so will you.'

Together they walked to the car and Hamish drove down the hill to the house, they sitting here for a moment more in the gathering darkness.

He'd a fistful of one- and five-pound notes, the counterfeiting so good it would have been extremely difficult to tell the difference if one didn't know that the banks had all been alerted.

‘Ria will take these to someone who will see that they get into the right hands. Men died for these, Mary, but maybe if others know that the Nazis are swindlers, they'll want to keep quiet about it and will let us come home someday.'

The light of a storm lantern lit up the car. The waiting had been too patient. ‘These goings on,' clucked Ria under her breath but beamed as the doctor got out and went round to hold the door open for his wife.

‘Ah and sure them blackout regulations can be set aside the moment, Doctor. 'Tis terrible glad I am t' see the two of you home and safe. Now it is, it surely is. William, be sharp with them bags. Bridget … Bridget, girl, didn't I tell you to curtsey?'

There'd be no dust. No thoughts of anyone bothering them.

Mary found herself hugging the woman. It was as if she
had
come home, as if she would never have to leave.

¹
One hundred fathoms equals 640 feet.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by J. Robert Janes

Cover design by Neil Alexander Heacox

978-1-4976-4155-6

Published in 2014 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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