The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (20 page)

Below them lay a grassy valley, dotted with grazing sheep. The scene was pastoral, bucolic, except for the armed soldiers stalking the perimeters. “Keep your head down!” Maggie growled through her teeth.

Mark did as he was told.

Maggie watched as the soldiers pulled on white hoods, gas masks, gloves, and orange jumpsuits. They looked like something from H. G. Wells’s
War of the Worlds
, just as strange, and just as terrifying. In their protective garb, they grabbed at sheep, each carrying his to a row of pens. They looked like stockades in a line.

Then the soldiers ran to take cover. Maggie realized what was
happening. “They’re setting off a bomb …” she said. “They’re seeing how far the effects will go. However many of the sheep die in the line—”

“—shows the circumference of the damage,” Mark concluded grimly.

“And we’re—”

“—downwind!”

They both scrambled and rushed down the hill to the coast.

An hour later, they climbed back up to ascertain the damage. Sheep carcasses were being pulled from the stocks and removed on stretchers by the men in gas masks. The ones still alive were released to graze, while one of the men made notes on a clipboard. “So, that’s how far the bomb carries,” Maggie whispered.

The soldiers dumped the dead sheep into what looked like an incinerator, and soon the air was filled with the putrid smell of burning wool and flesh. Maggie longed to bury her face in the grass to escape the stench, but she kept watching. Sarah’s life depended on it, she was certain.

The men washed off their gas masks, hoods, and jumpsuits in the water, then put them in a small shed. They made their way back to their boat.

“Come on!” Maggie said.

“Can’t we go back now?”

“They must keep their research notes here—they’re much safer than their offices on the shore. Come on—we’re going to have a look around.”

The sun was beginning to turn red as it dropped closer and closer to the horizon. It was increasingly cold, and the winds were picking up. “Of course we are,” Mark muttered.

On the other side of the field was a hut made from corrugated
metal. “I don’t suppose you have the key?” Mark muttered. His sour mood was intensifying.

“Don’t need one,” Maggie informed him; “I’ve been taught by Glaswegian safecrackers how to unlock almost anything. This—” She looked at the three padlocks. “—is a breeze.”

It was dusk when Maggie finally got the door open.

“Finally,” Mark said.

“I said I was good. I didn’t say I was fast.”

Inside were military-issue desks and chairs, bookcases and file cabinets. Maggie switched on a light.

“Really?” Mark said, his voice rising slightly. “Really?”

“Are you worried about blackout rules here and now? There are no ARP matrons to fine you, I assure you,” Maggie said tartly. There was a safe in the corner. She went straight to it.

Mark found an apple on one of the desks and grabbed it. “Want some?” he mumbled, his mouth full.

“No thanks,” said Maggie, taking stock of the safe. She was familiar with the model, but that still didn’t mean it would be easy. She sat down in front of the metal box and patted it. “Now we’re going to have a nice little chat …” she said.

“What?” Mark asked. He was going through the researchers’ desks, finding a few sugar cubes, which he popped into his mouth. “Here!” he said, tossing one to Maggie.

She caught it with one hand, then turned back to the safe. She dropped the cube on her tongue. It was delicious. Then she shook her head.
Back to the safe, Hope
.

She twirled the knob back and forth, her ear pressed to the cool metal door, listening. Every tiny click and clack meant something. Finally, finally, the door swung open.

“Bingo,” Maggie breathed, taking out the papers and paging
through them. There, in a manila folder, were all of the research notes on the experiments, all neatly typed, all stamped with
TOP SECRET
in red ink.

“Bingo?”

“It’s American for ‘We got you, you bastards.’ And now, Mr. Standish, I think it’s time to go.”

They dragged their boat back into the water and sailed to shore, with Maggie navigating by the stars, as she’d been taught. Once ashore, Mark asked, “Back to the train?”

Maggie looked at him, then down at herself. Their feet and legs were caked with mud, their clothes were filthy, and they had grass snarled in their hair. Mark’s cashmere coat was torn. “We’ll only draw attention on a train,” she said. “And we don’t have time to clean up. Come on.”

In the darkness, they made their way to the researchers’ parking lot. Maggie ignored the cars and went straight to one of the couriers’ motorbikes.

She jumped on the leather seat, glad she’d worn trousers, and put on the helmet and goggles. “Come on,” she said, using a kick start to ignite the engine. Mark nicked a helmet and goggles from another motorbike and climbed on behind her, grabbing her around the waist. She revved up the motorbike, then—with the headlight’s blackout slats on—made for the exit to the road.

The four guards didn’t see the motorbike in the darkness, but they did hear the roar of its engine. It was boring work, being a guard, and the night shifts were long. Usually, they passed bottles of hard cider back and forth, and smoked cigarette after cigarette.

Which was why Maggie on her motorcycle had already broken through the wooden security gate before they could react.
“Bloody
hell!”
said the first guard, drunk and rubbing his eyes in disbelief. But the other three were already running to their own cycles. “Hurry! After him!”

The guard left behind pressed the alarm button, and a wail of low sirens pierced the darkness.

Maggie didn’t hear them—the rush of wind in her ears was too strong. She knew they were carrying information of great importance. Lives were at stake. Sarah’s life was at stake.

She opened the throttle full and adjusted the rearview mirror. Sure enough, in the distance she saw bright yellow pinpricks of light. Headlights.

She revved the engine. A narrow dirt path headed off from the main road, and she swung right to follow it. She knew it, having made her trainees run it often.

The path was narrow and full of stones, but she’d run it on foot enough times to be able to navigate it even in the darkness. Maggie clenched her teeth as her bike bobbed and weaved around the larger of the stones. Behind her, Mark tightened his grip.

The pinpricks of lights followed them.
Damn
, she thought, wondering how much of a lead she had, and how long she could hold on to it. She decided to take a risk. She hit the accelerator, rocks be damned.

It was a good thing she did.

If she’d been going any slower, she wouldn’t have made the jump over the ravine. The incline leading up to it served as a ramp, and the motorcycle was already airborne before she knew what was happening.

One exhilarating moment of flight and freedom as the motorbike soared.

When Maggie hit the ground on the opposite side, her front
wheel made contact first, out of alignment with the back wheel. The bike swerved and tipped over, hurling her into the dirt. Gasping for air, she spit dirt out of her mouth and tried to move. Although everything hurt, nothing was broken. Her nose was bleeding.

“You all right?” she managed to say to Mark. She rubbed blood from her nose.

“Oh just ducky,” he panted, spitting out blades of grass. “Right as rain.”

“As my instructor Mr. Burns used to say, ‘Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing.’ ”

Then she saw the headlights in the woods behind them. Their pursuers were coming, fast.

She and Mark grabbed the bike and dragged it behind some bushes, then hid behind a tree to watch.

The guards were not so lucky.

The first biker didn’t make it across the gully—he hit the dirt-and-stone wall opposite. Bike and rider fell, bursting into orange flames at the bottom.

The two other riders, seeing what happened, pulled up short on the opposite side. “Bloody hell!” one exclaimed, getting off the bike and running to the ravine, seeing the dancing flames and smelling the burning petrol.

“He’s dead,” said the other.

“Is the other driver dead, too, then?”

The first driver listened, then shrugged. “Probably. I don’t hear a motor. But we’ll have to see in the morning. If he’s not dead, he won’t get far.”

That
, Maggie thought, wiping more blood from her nose with filthy and scraped hands,
is what you think
.

Her mouth was parched. Her stomach was growling, too. She knew she could last without food, but she couldn’t keep up this breakneck pace without drinking something soon. Still, she didn’t
want to stop. She had to get back to Edinburgh. Surely what they had found would help Sarah and find the murderer.

She was thirsty, bleeding, dirty, and tired. She stank of fear and desperation. Another man had just died—a Brit—one of their own.
One who was working on biochemical weapons
, she reminded herself. She would not cry, she would not—there would be plenty of time for a cry later.

To their right, through the evergreens, she knew there was a small pond. She led Mark to it, through cool pine-scented air. At the water’s edge, they both dropped to their knees and drank as long as they dared.

The icy water tasted of dead leaves, but she didn’t care.

She dropped back on the stones, panting, looking up at the dark sky encrusted with stars. “So, Miss Hope—this is winging it?” Mark dropped down beside her.

“Indeed,” Maggie said.

Mark groaned. “And what now?”

“And now we ride as fast as we can, back to Edinburgh.”

Many, many hours later, back in Edinburgh, they both went to their respective hotels to wash and change clothes, then met in Maggie’s room at the Caledonian.

Mark knocked and she let him in, the room illuminated by a circle of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

Maggie had already read through the papers. “Well, it’s official,” she said, handing him the folder. “The British are developing what they’re calling N—anthrax, the official name for
Bacillus anthracis
. The weapons-grade anthrax itself is made at Porton Down, but the experiments are being carried out on the island they’ve code-named Neverland.”

Mark sat down on the chair and began to read. “Holy pish!” he said, flipping pages.

“My thoughts, exactly.” Maggie started to pace restlessly. “We certainly have enough now to make Howard talk. But that still doesn’t bring us any closer to our murderer.”

“There’s a payroll,” Mark pointed out. “And a list of contacts at Porton Down.”

Maggie stopped in her tracks. “We’d have to get a list of everyone associated with the ballet company and the Lyceum, and then cross-check with Neverland and Porton Down.”

She flung herself on the bed. She was exhausted. Two dancers and a man were dead, Sarah was dying, the British, whom she always thought of as the White Hats, were developing anthrax … Dead sheep burning …

“I may not have been all that useful on our mission, Miss Hope,” Mark said, taking out a folder of papers, as well as a fountain pen from his breast pocket, “but I can assure you, paperwork—and tracking people down—is where I excel.” He went out to the hall to use the telephone.

While Maggie napped, Mark made call after call, using “MI-Five” often, as well as calling in some personal favors. Finally, he returned and slumped back in his chair. The folder and the papers fell to the floor.

“What?” Maggie gasped, startled. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Anything?”

“Damn it, no. We seem to have reached a dead end. At least until I can think of another angle.”

“Let me see,” Maggie said, stretching out her hand. Mark gave her the papers.

She read through them all again. Nothing. “And then—what do you have? A list of everyone at the Vic-Wells?”

“Yes, and the theater, too. No one’s name checks out.”

“Stage names,” Maggie said.

“What?”

“A lot of the dancers use stage names. And women, of course, take their husbands’ names. We need to find their legal names and see if any of them match. Maybe Mildred Petrie used a stage name? And be sure to check for Diana Atholl.”

But Mark was already struggling to his feet. “I’m ordering us an enormous breakfast from room service, and then I’m on it. What are your thoughts on haggis for breakfast?”

“I think I’d rather have toast, thank you.”

After dawn had broken and office hours had begun, Mark continued with his research. Maggie decided she had somewhere else to be. She was waiting outside on the steps of the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries when Cyrus Howard arrived.

“I have nothing to say, Miss Hope,” he said, taking out his keys to open the door.

“Really, Mr. Howard?” she said, pulling out her trump card, the file. When he saw what she had, he paled.

“Come in, Miss Hope,” he said.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

In Howard’s office, he sat and Maggie paced.

“My friend is dying,” she told him. “My friend is
dying
from anthrax poison that you and your cronies are making at Porton Down and testing on an island off the coast of Arisaig. ‘Neverland,’ ” she spat.

“Miss Hope—”

“Somehow, this poison has infected at least three civilians—two are dead and one is dying. And yet you cover it up …”

“We have everything under control. There’s no need for MI-Five or police involvement.”

“I don’t think you understand that my friend is
dying
,” Maggie snapped. “I can go to any number of people at this point. I can go to the Prime Minister. I can go to the King. I can go to the BBC …”

“Don’t you know?” Howard shot back. “The Prime Minister is behind these experiments. If you go to him, you’ll be arrested for treason.”

Mr. Churchill? Developing anthrax?
Maggie felt her legs buckle. “That doesn’t stop me from going to the press,” she retorted.

“You’ll be
hanged
.”

“At this point, Mr. Howard, I don’t really give a
flying fig
!”