The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (29 page)

“Mr. Thompson!”

Hugh looked up from his glass. It was Philby. “Have you heard?” Hugh asked. “About Pearl Harbor?”

“Yes,” the older man said. “Walk with me.”

Hugh put a few coins on the bar and the two men made their way outside. “I wanted to speak with you. You see, I’m being reassigned. I’m leaving SOE and transferring to MI-Six,” Philby said.

“Oh.”

“But I do have a special mission in mind for you, and I wanted to speak with you about it before I go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In France, we’ve discovered that making connections with and working with Communists is our only hope of fighting Fascism. I’m not sure where you stand ideologically …”

“I hate Fascism with all my heart and soul,” Hugh vowed.

“Well, Great Britain and Russia are allies now. The bulldog stands with the bear.”

“I had a brief flirtation with Communism at university,” Hugh admitted.

“Where were you?”

“Selwyn College, for a degree in theology. But on scholarship.” He shook his head. “The class divisions were hell.”

“Ah,” Philby said, nodding. “I was at Trinity. I know exactly what you mean.”

Hugh cocked his head. “I was influenced by E. M. Forster:
‘All men are brothers. All men are equal.’
 ”

“And so you’d have no issues working with French Communists?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

Philby smiled. “Excellent. Your cover is that you are the newest member of the orchestra of the Paris Opèra Ballet. You are military excused from service because of a weak heart, and will take over as one of the cellists. I was told you play the cello quite well—is that true?”

“I play, I’m not sure I’m up to that level …” Hugh was flustered.

“Well,” Philby said, “start practicing. We have several resistance contacts among the orchestra, the ballet, and the intelligentsia. They are an armed branch of French Communists, called Francs-Tireurs et Partisans—the Free Fighters and Partisans, or FTP.”

“Who will be my radio operator?”

“We’re still looking. There’s someone we have in mind, but she has more training to do before she can be considered.”

Churchill was finishing his transatlantic telephone call with President Roosevelt when David and John came in. “Yes, Mr. President—we’re all in the same boat now. Good night.” As he hung up the telephone receiver, the Prime Minister’s face broke into a beauteous smile. “Gentlemen,” he said, “pack your bags, we are going to America!”

“To Washington?” David asked, astonished. “For how long? How many staff?”

“Tell Cook to make some sandwiches and bring them up—it will be a long night. We have much to plan, much to arrange. We shall go to Downing Street first, and then I want to leave as soon as possible.” He blinked, then looked at the two men. “Have either of you ever been to America?”

David and John looked at each other. “No—no, sir,” they both said in unison.

“I need an American, or at least someone who speaks American … Look at the debacle between Popov and that Hoover chap … I’m sure it was a language mishap.”

“They
do
speak English, sir,” David ventured.

“Two nations divided by a single language—I shall need a translator! For language and customs! We don’t want to misstep.
And
I’ll need a typist.” Churchill looked thoughtful. “Where is Miss Hope these days?”

David’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Maggie Hope, sir? She’s still in Scotland, as far as I know.”

“Well, bring the girl back! I need a typist, I need a translator, and it won’t hurt to have yet another person on my staff for protection. I must have Hope. Hope shall go with us to America!”

“I shall telephone her immediately,” David said.

“Excellent,” Churchill said. “Tonight I shall sleep the sleep of the saved and thankful. Thanks to God. Good night, gentlemen.”

In the gardener’s cottage, Maggie and Sarah had the wireless on.
“Meeeeeeh,”
yowled K, desperate for attention.

“Not now, you scoundrel,” Maggie said, scooping him up and holding him close.

“And now a rebroadcast of President Roosevelt’s address to Congress. It was made at twelve thirty today Eastern Standard Time—and we’ve just received word that the United States Congress has passed a formal declaration of war against Japan. The United States is at war with Japan.”

“My God,” Maggie said, rubbing her face against K’s warm flank, listening to President Roosevelt, his aristocratic and nasal voice serious but strong:
“Yesterday, December seventh, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”

Unconsciously, Maggie inhaled sharply. “No …” she said.

“The United States was at peace with that nation, and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleague delivered to our secretary of state a formal reply to a recent American message. While this reply stated that
it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or armed attack.”

“No!” Maggie cried. “It can’t be!”

“
It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace
.

“The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.”

“This is it,” Sarah said, looking at Maggie when it was over. Both women were pale. “This is what Britain’s been waiting for. Maggie, are you all right?”

Tears glinted in Maggie’s eyes.
America. Attacked. Bombed. And yet … And yet that means Britain will be saved
. She shivered, blinking back tears. “I suppose I never truly realized how much I love my country.”

“Which one?”

Maggie wiped at her eyes. “Both of them.”

The next morning, the Prime Minister and his staff moved from Chequers back to Number 10 Downing Street, where the P.M. was finalizing plans for his trip to Washington, DC, to meet with President Roosevelt.

The Prime Minister was in his claw-foot bath in his and Mrs. Churchill’s apartment at the Annexe. His body was large and pink. “It’s settled, then,” he announced, sprinkling in a large handful of
pine-scented Blenheim Bouquet bath salts. “We’re going to Washington. We set sail on the
Duke of York
on December twelfth for the so-called Arcadia Conference.” The P.M. peered at his two private secretaries over his gold-rimmed glasses. “And I must have Hope with me.”

“Mr. Churchill …” David began. “I’ve tried to reach Miss Hope, but she’s not responding …”

“Well, try her again! Tell her it is
I
, asking for her!”

“Also, no women allowed on ships crossing the Atlantic,” John reminded him. “As per the Geneva Convention.”

“Miss Hope isn’t a woman,” Churchill rejoined. “Well, she is, of course—but she’s an
agent
, by Jove! And she types! And she speaks American. I need her! I must have her! The Prime Minister’s secret agent!” He splashed his hands in the soapy bathwater to punctuate his enthusiasm.

“But sir, why?” David asked. “We can hire a girl to type when we reach the United States.”

“No, no new staff!” Mr. Churchill kicked his feet under the water. “I must have Hope.” The Prime Minister was child-like in his steadfast resolve.

“Miss Hope is still in Scotland now, sir—”

“Well, bring her back!” Churchill bellowed. “I’m not getting on the ship without her!”

“Sir?”

“Do you know what the symbol of Hope is, Mr. Greene—Mr. Sterling?”

“Er, no, sir,” said John.

David resettled his glasses. “Afraid not, sir.”

“And you claim to have a classical education! Hope is an anchor—because of its importance in navigation, it was regarded in ancient times as a symbol of safety. The Christians adopted the
anchor as a symbol of hope—and Christ is the unfailing hope of all who believe in him. Hebrews six-nineteen says that when we have Hope as an anchor of the soul, we are firm and sure.

“As we sail to the United States, our new ally, we both literally and metaphorically are raising our Anchor and venturing forth into a new chapter of the war.

“And so I must have Miss Hope, my metaphorical anchor. Plus, I trust her to type decently. And tell me of the quaint American customs and verbiage of which I may not be aware. Hope shall be part typist, part diplomatic adviser, and all secret agent.”

David and John exchanged looks. “I’ll see what I can do,” David said.

The Prime Minister blinked and dropped below the surface of the water, blowing bubbles.

“So, how do we get Maggie back?” John said.

“You, my friend,” David replied, inspired, “shall go to Scotland, in person. You shall procure Miss Hope for the P.M.!”

John recoiled. “I? She hates me.”

“Oh, jumping Jove, I sincerely doubt that. And even if she does, you must change her mind. It’s about time you two kissed and made up.”

“Maggie won’t come with me.”

“Well, throw her over your shoulder caveman-style if you must. ‘I must have Hope with me in the New World!’ says our fearless leader. Do you really want to be the one to tell the P.M. no?”

“Then
you
should go to Scotland. She still likes you. She’ll listen to you,” John insisted.

“Oh, but I’m not going. As I said,
you’re
the one who’s going to journey off to the Highlands of Scotland and return with our own bonnie wee secretary.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “Caveman-style?”

“Well, it’s about time you two were reunited. I never understood why you two didn’t just have at it.”

“I … She … We …” Then, “No, no, I’m not going.”

David took a moment to examine his fingernails. “So dreadfully sorry to bring this up, John, but I outrank you now. And if the Boss wants you to go fetch Miss Hope, you’re going. It’s your duty to God and King. And Prime Minister.”

John muttered something.

“What was that? Didn’t quite hear.”

“Nothing,” John grumbled. “I’ll return with our Girl Friday.”

“Good, because I’ve already made your train reservations. Merciful Minerva! You’ll need to hurry if you want to make it to Euston on time!”

Maggie was with the others in the main conference room at Arisaig House when Germany formally declared war against the United States, with Reich Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop delivering a diplomatic note to the American Chargé d’Affaires in Berlin.

Now Hitler was addressing the Reichstag.
“… After years of negotiating with the deceiver Roosevelt, the Japanese government finally had its fill of being treated in such a humiliating way. All of us, the German people and, I believe, all other decent people around the world as well, regard this with deep appreciation …”

“Turn the blighter off!” Charlie called from across the table.

But they listened to the full version of the Führer’s rant before breaking for cups of tea. Maggie saw Satoshi and went to him. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a bit peaked.”

“Do you remember my telling you that my parents live in Berkeley? Well, I’m worried about them.”

“But your father’s a physics professor … And you’re here, helping train British agents. Obviously …”

“But it’s not obvious to the U.S. government. All the Japanese in America have been ordered to pack a single bag and be ready for transport at any time in the next few months. My family, and everyone that I love back home, is being sent to internment camps.”

“Internment camps?” Maggie blinked.
Internment camps—in the United States?

Satoshi sighed. “That’s what we hear.”

“Where?”

“Rumor has it they’re building in the southwest.”

“Is there any evidence of any Fifth Column activity?”

He started. “Well, certainly not in my family.”

“No, of course not,” Maggie said. “I’m truly, truly sorry.”

When Maggie returned to her cottage, she saw a dark figure on the steps to her flat. Above, the stars burned blue.

“Sarah?” she called. “Did you forget your key?”

But the figure was a man. It was John Sterling.

Maggie had imagined him so many times it took her a few blinks to realize it was actually him, not a daydream.

He held out his hand, revealing something that glinted in the moonlight. “You left these at my flat.”

“You came all the way to Scotland to return my earrings?” she said, trying to ignore the shock of longing she felt at the sight of him. That he was wearing his RAF coat and hat certainly wasn’t helping matters.