The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (16 page)

Martin shook his head. “It’s not the Japs. It’s the Army. General Short’s insisting that we move all of our planes together in the center of Hickam Field, all bunched up together. They’re sitting ducks in case of an air attack.”

“Why the hell is Short doing that?”

“We have over a hundred thirty thousand Japanese on Oahu, and Short thinks those planes are far more vulnerable to sabotage on the ground than air attack from above—‘It would be far too
easy for the enemy to sneak in at night and blow up all the planes.’ He thinks that with the new radar installations in place, there’s no way any enemy aircraft could sneak in undetected.”

“It’s a good thing you finally put in that radar station.”

“No thanks to the National Park Service, which didn’t even want to give us permission—damn wildlife preservationists! Now we just have to get those men out there some telephones.”

Kimmel sat and tipped back in his chair. “What are those boys supposed to do without telephones? Walk a mile to the nearest store and use a pay phone?”

Martin gave a nervous smile. “We’re doing the best we can, with what little we have.”

Miss Tuttle rapped on the door and then entered, carrying a white paper bag full of food, grease stains beginning to form on the bottom. The bottles of Coca-Cola clinked against each other. “Thanks, honey,” Kimmel said. She nodded to the two men and left.

Kimmel dug into the bag and handed a burger wrapped in paper to Martin.

Martin accepted it, unwrapping the paper on Kimmel’s desk.

“That’s one good thing about this move to Hawaii—fantastic golf. Tennis, too.”

Kimmel swallowed a french fry and took a swig of Coke. “I still think the fleet should have stayed in San Diego—but don’t mention it to Roosevelt, he won’t listen to any of us. Doesn’t even seem to see the need for a Pacific Fleet these days—wants to send more and more of our ships to the Atlantic, to help the damn British. And then what are we supposed to do? I even brought up the British success toppling the Italian fleet at Taranto—they just used some old biplanes and sank nearly all of the Italian battleships. And the harbor at Taranto’s similar to Pearl’s.”

Martin pushed his food away. “Pearl’s too shallow.”

“That’s just what Roosevelt said. Here”—Kimmel said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a spear wrapped in waxed paper and handing it over to Martin—“at least have a pickle.” He dunked a french fry into a small paper cup of ketchup and shoveled it into his mouth. “And I’ll have Miss Tuttle call the club to set up a golf match for us this afternoon.”

Later, when Estelle Crawford’s autopsy was over, Maggie and Mark put aside their mutual distrust and went out for a much-needed drink. Mark chose the place, a tiny bar with dark wood paneling and chandeliers with fringed lamp shades. They secured a table by the crackling fireplace.

At the next table over, businessmen in double-breasted suits talked in low tones with a definite Scottish burr about where to hide their money—trust funds for their children and grandchildren—watched over by the glassy eyes of mounted red and roe deer with enormous antlers.

“You could have done worse, Miss Hope,” Mark said as he sat down across from Maggie, having secured their pink gins.

Maggie had no illusions about her professionalism. “Mr. Standish, I threw up three times.”

“At least you had the good sense to vomit over the drain.”

“I do my best.”

“I have a confession,” Mark said.

“Yes?”

“At my first autopsy I didn’t even make it to the sink.”

“Ah.” Maggie smiled crookedly. “Thank you for telling me that.” She raised her glass. “To Estelle Crawford.”

“To Estelle,” Mark echoed as their glasses clinked.

They drank in silence. Maggie was grateful for the fire’s heat
after the long, chill hours in the autopsy room. A chocolate-brown Labrador snoozed in front of the flames while his owner, an older man with a pipe, read the newspaper. A large white-faced grandfather clock ticked in the shadows.

One of the men at the bar stood, leaning heavily on crutches. “Excuse me,” he said, making his way to the loo. Maggie could see that not only was he in uniform, he was missing a leg and hadn’t yet been fitted for a prosthesis. Realizing all eyes were on him, the man grinned and good-naturedly called out, “Graceful—like a gazelle, I am. Like a ruddy mountain goat!” That caused a few chuckles and raised glasses in the soldier’s direction.

“I brought the pathology report.” Mark took some papers out of his pocket and handed them over to Maggie.

She scanned the documents. They confirmed what they had witnessed. “Heart failure due to chronic emphysema, along with nonrelated psoriasis, which surely clears both Sarah and Mildred Petrie of murder charges. So where does that leave us?”

“It still doesn’t explain why the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries ordered the body to be cremated immediately, without an autopsy,” Mark mused, chewing on the end of a pen. “How did they know? What could be their agenda?”

“You’ve been at MI-Five for—how long now?”

“Almost eight years.”

“So you’re well aware of how much red tape most British offices produce. Might be one of those situations where departments overlap?”

“Maybe …” He shook his head. “Sorry I was rough on you earlier.”

Maggie was determined to take it like a man; she knew too well that hazing was part of the job. Only the toughest survived. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. I let it get personal. But you must understand that Hugh’s one of my best friends, and—”

“I understand. And I’m sorry it ended the way it did, too. But I was … confused, and it didn’t seem fair to Hugh to string him along while I tried to figure things out. I thought, given everything that happened, a clean break was best. Fairer to him.”

Mark gave a grim smile. “And now you’re reunited with your RAF pilot?”

“No,” Maggie said, her face stone. “It didn’t work out.”

They sipped in silence.

“Rotten luck,” Mark said finally. “Does Hugh know?”

“No. After my last mission … Well, let’s just say I’m not exactly in a position to be stepping out with anyone, let alone someone as wonderful as Hugh. Quite frankly, he’s better off without me.”

Maggie changed the subject. “You’re married, yes?” She knew the answer, having seen photographs of Mark’s wife and child on his desk when she worked with Hugh at MI-5.

He smiled. “Sixth anniversary next month and second baby on the way.”

“Congratulations!”
A baby. How brave, in the midst of all this chaos and destruction
. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she ventured, sensing a change in his mood. “What
did
happen with Hugh on his last job? Why was he fired?”

“You truly don’t know, do you?”

Maggie shook her head.

“I can’t give you specific details, of course—”

“Of course.”

Mark lowered his voice. “Instead of sending visual confirmation that a certain mission succeeded, as he’d been ordered, he sent a photograph. A different sort of photograph.” He took a swallow
of gin. “Of his—” Mark had the grace to redden. “—er, naked buttocks.”

“No!”
Oh, Hugh …

“And I’m sure you can imagine who these photographs were addressed to?”

No. No. Surely Hugh couldn’t have
. “My … mother?”

Mark tapped his nose. “Exactly.”

Oh, Hugh, Hugh …
 Maggie’s eyes narrowed as she thought. “And so her boss found out their spy had been turned …”

“… and that’s most likely the reason she gave herself up to the British and offered to work as a double—or maybe a triple?—agent.”

Her head was spinning, putting it all together. “And poor Hugh was fired for it.”

“He was.” Again they drank in silence. A log broke in two, and the dog twitched in his sleep.

“Mr. Standish, I have just one question.”

Mark had finished his gin and gestured expansively. “Anything, Miss Hope.”

“When Hugh pulled down his pants, who was taking the pictures?”

He looked like a guilty little boy.

“I thought so. More tea, Vicar?”

Mark grinned. “If you insist. My glass is a bit lonely.”

Maggie caught the bartender’s eye. “Another round, please, when you have a moment? And this one’s on me.”

“I
told
you I didn’t do it,” Sarah croaked from the bed, as Maggie opened the door. Then she coughed, a long, hacking jag.

“I know,” Maggie said, taking off her coat, hat, and gloves and
kicking off her pumps, noting the new holes in her stockings. “I never thought so for a moment.” She walked to the bed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look terrible.”

“I
feel
terrible. It’s this horrible northern cold and damp.”

Maggie touched her hand to Sarah’s forehead; her friend was burning up. “You have a fever,” she said.
Good God
. “Would you like me to call a doctor?”

“No, no—just my overnight in the chokey taking its toll. I’ll be right as rain in the morning. I just need to get some rest. But first—tell me about Estelle.”

Maggie thought back to the autopsy. There were details she could spare her friend. She padded in stocking feet over to an overstuffed armchair, where she slumped, legs akimbo—decorum be damned. “The autopsy revealed nothing worse than emphysema and a case of psoriasis. Her body just gave out. But she’s at rest now—and her family is coming here to pick up the body for the funeral and burial.”

“Thank you,” the dancer said, after a moment. “You always believed I was innocent.”

“Of course,” Maggie said. “And I really didn’t do anything. The evidence acquitted you.”

“Still. I suppose since this is over now, the Vic-Wells will finish our Edinburgh run.”

“Where are you and the company off to next?”

“Glasgow, I think.” Sarah gave a thin smile. “It’s hard to tell the cities apart after a while—all you see are hotel rooms, studios, and stages.”

“I’m sure.” The bleat of the telephone in the hall made them both startle. Maggie rose and walked to the corridor, then picked up the receiver. “Hello? This is Maggie Hope speaking.”

“Miss Hope, it’s Mark Standish,” she heard over the crackling line. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Maggie braced herself for what might come next. “I’m listening.”

“Well, no beating around the bush—I’m calling from Chalmers Hospital. Officer Craig at the police station was kind enough to let me know that after Mildred Petrie was cleared of any sort of murder charge, she was taken directly to hospital.”

Maggie’s hands tightened on the telephone receiver. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

Sarah looked over. Maggie put up one finger, to say
wait
.

“I haven’t spoken with any of her doctors yet, but Officer Craig says she was coughing horribly and running a high fever.” Mark cleared his throat. “What’s odd is that, like Estelle, Mildred also had black sores running from her right hand up to her shoulder.”

Maggie looked to Sarah in the next bed, pale and haggard. “Sarah’s under the weather, too, and has a nasty cough. Maybe it’s flu?”

Sarah sank back against her pillow and closed her eyes.

“Given we have one dead dancer and another in critical condition, I don’t want to leave anything to chance. Let’s get Miss Sanderson to hospital immediately,” Mark told Maggie. “Bring her to Chalmers—I’ll meet you both there.”

Maggie called for an ambulance and they managed to transport Sarah from the Caledonian to Chalmers Hospital, which had been requisitioned for civilian casualties. The trip to Lothian Road took only minutes, but to Maggie it felt an eternity before they reached the hospital’s emergency entrance on Lauriston Place, with Sarah slipping in and out of consciousness. Maggie squeezed her hand, desperate to transfer whatever health she herself had to Sarah.

As the medics took Sarah from the ambulance and transferred her to a waiting gurney, Maggie spied Mark in the lengthening shadows. “Mildred Petrie is here,” he reported, walking up to her, “in quarantine. Miss Sanderson will be quarantined, as well.”

“Quarantine? Under whose orders?” Maggie asked.

“Cyrus Howard, head of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries.”

“Howard again? What does he think—that three ballerinas went fly fishing and picked up some sort of strange disease along with their trout? These are professional dancers—they don’t have time to cavort in the great outdoors.”

“You can come with me and ask him yourself—he’s getting a cup of tea down in the cafeteria.”

“Let’s get Sarah settled first,” Maggie decided, keeping pace with Mark and the gurney. Sarah’s eyes were jerking back and forth beneath the lids and she was muttering in a fever dream. “Then we can question Mr. Howard.”

To Sarah she said, “You’re safe here—you’re in the hospital. The doctors and nurses will take good care of you.” She had a momentary pang thinking of another nurse she knew—her half-sister, Elise, who’d been a nurse at Charité Hospital in Berlin.

At the sound of Maggie’s voice, Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. Her breathing was ragged.

“You’ll be in a bed soon. And I’ll be right here beside you, I promise.”

“Wha—what’s wrong with me?” Sarah managed to gasp.

“Probably just flu, darling.” Maggie forced a reassuring smile. She brushed damp tendrils of dark hair from Sarah’s face. Her forehead was burning, perhaps even hotter than before. “Pneumonia at worst. You ballerinas—always so dramatic.” She reached
again for Sarah’s hand, but then stopped. The dancer’s graceful hand was covered in angry black blisters.

Maggie’s and Mark’s eyes met. They didn’t know what Sarah had, but they both knew it wasn’t flu.

Sarah’s doctor was one of the many Polish doctors, most of them from Warsaw, at the University of Edinburgh’s Polish School of Medicine. It was a unique institution that provided medical education and training to medical students and doctors exiled after the Nazi invasion and occupation.

Dr. Janus was a slight man, with a large pink bald spot. What hair remained was thick and silver, and wrapped around his head like a ladies’ fur stole.

After his examination of Sarah, he went to the waiting room to speak with Maggie and Mark.