The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (24 page)

Nomura was sitting on a leather sofa in front of a crackling fire in his embassy office. “When the transmission is finished, they want us to destroy our code books and our machines!”

Kurusu was sitting in a winged armchair opposite, his face impassive.

“ ‘Only specially screened members of your communications staff are permitted to process the fourteen-part message and prepare the typed translation,’ ”
Nomura read. He looked to Kurusu. “It will be hard without the help of a skilled typist.”

Kurusu pursed his lips. “Even though your employees here are Japanese, they have picked up the lazy American habit of the ‘weekend.’ ”

“True,” Nomura said, not wanting to argue. He, too, was fond of the “weekend.” He was in the office on a Saturday night only to wait for the message. “But this is too sensitive to have one of the girls type it up. Who can we get, at this late hour?”

“I’ll alert the code room,” Kurusu said. “The situation right now between Japan and the U.S. is extremely delicate. We must be prepared to have each part of the message decoded as soon as it comes in—don’t want things piling up.”

Nomura studied his compatriot, his usually jolly face apprehensive. “Do you know what this is all about?”

“No,” Kurusu said, his face poker-serious. “But I suspect all will be revealed tomorrow.”

Dr. Carroll was not going to give up without a fight. He was determined to question Clara Hess once more, convinced that if he could just find the link between the adult Agna and Clara, perhaps
the split could be repaired. “Do you consider Dr. Teufel to be your father?”

Clara played with her hair. “I suppose. I always thought I was hatched.”

“Like Athena, from the head of Zeus?”

Clara snorted and lit a cigarette. “Nothing so grand. Like a chicken egg. Dr. Teufel was my mother hen.”

“But Agna created you.”

“I was with Agna when she was small, yes.”

“But Dr. Teufel made it possible for you to come out fully, to take over Agna’s body. What does she do when you’re here?”

Clara blew out blue smoke. “She rests,” she deadpanned.

“Rests? She’s asleep?”

“Life is hard for her. My being here gives her a chance to rest.”

“How do I control you?”

“The IV drips help me come out, but no—at a certain point I learned I could appear whenever Agna needed me. When life was too hard. When she wanted to rest.”

“And why did he hatch you? What was his purpose?”

“To be the perfect spy, of course. Which I became. Which is what I was in England during the Great War.”

“Were you ever afraid of him?”

Clara threw back her head and laughed, a rough, harsh laugh. “He—” She raised a finger and stuck it in Dr. Carroll’s face. “—
he
was afraid of
me
.”

“And what did he have you do?”

“Assignments—simple at first. Receiving an envelope, then holding it for pickup. Delivering packages around Berlin. Continuing Dr. Teufel’s lessons.

“Agna doesn’t care that the kikes are pigs,” she said suddenly. “But they all stick together and try to cheat the Aryan. If you turn your back, they’ll stick a knife in it.”

“What if I were Jewish—would you hate me?”

“I only hate things that are worth hating.”

“Do you hate yourself?”

“There’s hate in everyone—and sooner or later it will always come out.”

“But do you hate
yourself
?”

“No.” Clara laughed, her disdainful laugh. “But I do hate Agna. And they don’t just teach you how to hate—they teach you how to destroy.”

“Destroy what?”

“You mean, destroy whom.”

“Murder?”

“How to hit, how to kick, how to use your opponent’s own strength and weight against him. Detect, destroy, demolish. We climbed ropes, took furniture apart with razor blades, loaded and unloaded guns …” She smiled proudly. “I became the perfect weapon. Dr. Teufel was proud of me.”

“How do you know?”

“He liked to show me off. To his colleagues. Other doctors.”

“What did he do?”

Her face darkened. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What did he do?”

Perspiration began to break out on her forehead. “No, no,” she said, looking flustered for the first time since she had emerged. “No. I passed the test, I don’t want to think about it anymore. They made it so I wouldn’t remember!”

“What test?”

Clara put her head in her hands, unable to meet the doctor’s gaze. “Dr. Teufel gave me the drip. Well, he gave Agna the drip, and then I appeared. It was a special performance for the other doctors.” Clara began to tremble.

“What’s wrong?” Dr. Carroll asked.

“I’m scared,” she answered, looking up with large green eyes, sounding more vulnerable than she ever had before. For a moment, Dr. Carroll thought he might be speaking with Agna, but from her facial expression, it was still clearly Clara.

“Why are you scared?”

“They kept me over the weekend,” she whispered.

Dr. Carroll made a note—Clara was reliving an experience. “The doctors?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the date?”

“It’s 1914, right before I’m supposed to go to London. Dr. Teufel needs to prove to them that I’m perfect—the perfect agent. That I will do anything.” She shuddered. “Absolutely anything.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a sort of operating room,” Clara said, her voice small. “Dr. Teufel is with me. There are some other doctors up in the gallery. It’s a performance.” She took a deep breath. “No food. No water. I felt sick.”

Her eyes darted back and forth. “The nurses are pushing me down!” She appeared to struggle. “No! Stop it!” she shrieked.

“Are they administering the IV?” Dr. Carroll asked.

“No,” Clara answered in a low voice. “I was already there.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “He has a candle.”

“A candle?”

“It’s part of the performance. He lit it.” She began to breathe faster. “No, no!” she cried. “No!”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s asking me questions! He’s trying to get me to denounce my blood, my race!” Clara gasped. “No! No!” She began to struggle. “He says it won’t hurt, that he has total control, but …”

“What won’t hurt?”

“He’s trying to put the candle … he’s trying to put the candle …”
Clara’s eyes were wild. “No! You said I wouldn’t remember! That I’d
never
remember!”

“Was this part of the experiment?”

“Yes! To prove that I would let them do anything to me!” Then, “I hate you!” She growled, low in her throat, like a wounded animal. “I want to kill you!”

She made an ungodly sound, more of a howl than a scream. Then she went limp. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He pushed it between my legs,” she said in a little-girl voice. “And they all laughed and clapped. They
laughed
at me!”

She turned her face to the wall. “That was when I started to hate him. And that’s when they realized I was ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to go to England,” she said flatly, without emotion. “Because they had created the perfect spy.”

Dr. Carroll was in his office. It was late at night. He had Clara Hess’s file in front of him.

As he read through, he tried to put the pieces together. A German woman named Clara Hess had surrendered herself to the British. She claimed she wanted to disclose Nazi secrets, but would only speak with her British-born daughter, Margaret Hope. When Miss Hope refused to see her, Clara refused to speak with anyone else, and fell into what he considered a depressive state.

Then, without any warning that he could see from her medical records, she not only revealed another personality, but regressed, into a girl of about five, named Agna Frei, who was sweet and innocent. Agna Frei had, in fact, been Clara Hess’s maiden name, Agna Clara Frei. Clara had started out as a doll, but eventually became a facet of Agna’s personality. She was created by the trauma of witnessing her parents’ fighting, her mother’s narcissism, and her father’s neglect. Clara was brash and tough, with a sneer on her face and a chip on her shoulder. Her voice was different—lower and harder, harsh. She fiercely protected Agna, although she also longed for her own existence.

From what Dr. Carroll could put together from their fractured conversations, Agna Clara Frei had been recruited by Sektion, a precursor of the Abwehr, the German intelligence agency, who
exploited her childhood trauma in order to create a completely separate alternate identity. Thus Agna Clara Frei became the woman known as Clara Schwartz. Clara Schwartz was an aspiring opera singer, but was also being secretly trained by Sektion to become a spy. When her training was complete, as evidenced by the trial with the candle—here Dr. Carroll shuddered—she was sent as Clara Schwartz to London. There she met Edmund Hope. But Edmund met and fell in love with Agna, not Clara. They married, and she had a daughter, Margaret Hope.

At some point her mission was concluded and she changed back into Clara, then went back to Berlin, leaving her husband and daughter to believe that she had died in a car accident. Secretly, though, she had staged the accident and escaped from the hospital, substituting the body of a prostitute in the morgue for her own, and making her way back to Berlin.

He sagged back in his chair and sighed wearily. It was ingenious, really. As part of the split personality, Agna could be kept in the dark, perfect for a cover. And Clara could step in when needed, obtaining the information Sektion wanted and then planning her escape. It all made perfect sense. Except for one thing.

Dr. Carroll made a note on Clara’s chart.
What is Agna/Clara’s relationship to Peter Frain?

He looked at his desk calendar. Only twenty-eight hours until Clara’s execution.

Across town from the Japanese Embassy, Kramer was pacing as Bratton went through the latest of the decrypts. “You’re sure this is all thirteen parts?”

“Yes,” Bratton said bleakly. The strain of the last month was showing. “Tokyo’s holding the final part until tomorrow morning.”

Kramer sniffed. “Well, I’m going to make the rounds with what we have so far. Thank God the President’s back on the Magic distribution list. And let me know the moment the missing part arrives.”

“Of course.”

With his wife as his driver in their trusty blue Chevrolet, Kramer planned to deliver the message in locked briefcases to every single one of the addressees on his distribution list—General Marshall, Secretary Knox, Admirals Stark and Turner, Captains Ingersoll and Wilkinson.

At the White House, the President was in bed with a sinus infection. Kramer gave it to Harry Hopkins—who didn’t have a Magic key. Hopkins accepted the thirteen-part decrypt, saying he would deliver it to the President. “But don’t worry, the Old Man just sent a personal message to the Emperor. He’s sure it will get negotiations back on track again.”

At Admiral Stark’s residence, his aide answered the door. “Admiral Stark can’t be reached tonight, sir.”

“Well, where the hell is he? I need to get this to him!” It was late, and Kramer was cold and tired.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

At General Marshall’s, the butler checked his watch. “It’s after ten, sir, and General Marshall always retires early.”

By now, Kramer was apoplectic. “Get me his private secretary!” he bellowed.

The butler was unruffled. “Yes, sir.”

An assistant came and looked over the document. “I don’t want to disturb the General for something that’s incomplete, sir,” the young man said, handing it back. “Let me know when the final part is in, and I’ll give it to him then.”

At Secretary Knox’s residence, the windows were dark and no
one answered the door. Kramer had his wife drive him to the nearest phone booth, where he fumbled for change and cursed at his cold, stiff fingers as he struggled with the dial. At the Secretary of the Navy’s residence, the telephone rang and rang.

Cursing, Kramer hung up.

The next day, Maggie and Sarah took the train from Edinburgh to Glasgow, changing trains at Queen Street Station under the great glass ceiling, pigeons pecking on the platform. Maggie had arranged for their things to be sent. Sarah leaned on a walking stick.

On the train from Glasgow to Fort William and then Arisaig, both young women were silent, watching the scenery as it passed. Fields neatly arranged and dotted with white farmhouses. Swiftly running streams and low fences. Telephone lines black against sky as blue as the Scottish flag.

Scotland’s history flashed before them, the snowy mountains, created by ancient volcanoes and cut by primeval glaciers, the ruins of pagan stone circles, towns and lonely church spires, ancient graveyards set back on the curve of hills.

As they wended higher into the mountains, Maggie looked over at Sarah. “How are you doing?”

“My feet are freezing.”

“It’s not too much longer.”

“I look at this and think of it being invaded.”

“I know.”

“Can you imagine this as Nazi territory?” Sarah asked, gesturing to the landscape out the window. “Since France was invaded, I haven’t been able to banish the image from my mind. And now, my
grandmother …” Her face clouded, but she didn’t cry. Maggie took her hand.

She thought about the deadly anthrax Britain was developing. Would it keep the Nazis from invading? If anthrax was right to use as defense, what about offense? Was it being developed to be dusted over cities, cities with civilians?

At the highest elevation, the train pierced through clouds, the ground covered in snow, the evergreens becoming more sparse. Finally, after a stop at Fort William, the train pulled into the Beasdale station, where Mr. Burns was waiting to meet them and drive them back to Arisaig House. There was the sharp blow of a whistle, the scents of wood smoke and pine, and the tang of the sea. The tall pine trees were dusted with snow.

“Welcome, Miss Sanderson,” Mr. Burns said, pipe clenched between his teeth. “I hear you’ll be staying with us for a time.”

“Yes, thank you, I do appreciate it.”

“You must sign the Official Secrets Act.”

“I have already.”