The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (33 page)

Churchill smoked impassively, a wreath of blue smoke drifting above his head. The fire crackled in the hearth.

“Miss Hope, we’ve been discussing theoretical moral problems in our highest circles. Let me pose to you one of our most frequently discussed scenarios. Suppose Hitler has given orders for the Luftwaffe to obliterate a city—a city that is not London. A nonmilitary target. An undefended city of civilians. Hitler wants to demonstrate his power—that he can flatten any target he chooses in Britain and get away with it. We know of this because our cryptographers at Bletchley Park have unscrambled some of that secret Nazi code. There’s no mistake, it’s been checked and crosschecked.”

He kept the full intensity of his gaze upon her. “Now, what would you do?”

Maggie thought before replying. “Could the attack be stopped with an all-out effort by the RAF, sir?”

“Yes, of course. But there’s a catch—the Germans will know we had prior knowledge of the raid. They’ll know we broke their code. It comes down to the code, or the city.”

“Well, surely we could evacuate the children …”

“No! To do so would betray the secret. And the city would be bombed anyway and we’d still have lost the advantage of breaking the code. Think, Miss Hope!
Think!
”

“Just to clarify, sir, we are talking about letting innocent civilians die. Without warning.”

“Yes. Now let’s make it more complicated—because life often is. This city that will be bombed—it’s a city near Bletchley, and many of the people working at Bletchley have relocated their families there. So it’s not random and anonymous families who will die, but families of the people who broke the code in the first place.”

Maggie’s forehead creased. “There are only two possible moves, sir—either defend the city in an all-out battle, or—”

“Or what, Miss Hope?”

“Or …” Her heart sank as she realized the only other option. “… sacrifice the city and keep the secret. Lose the battle, in order to win the war.”

The Prime Minister rested his cigar in a cut-glass ashtray. “And what would
you
do, Miss Hope?”

“I would—” Maggie stared into the dancing flames. “But it’s—it’s an impossible choice, sir.”

“Yes, but as Prime Minister: You. Must. Decide.”

“I would sacrifice the city,” Maggie said finally. “I would sacrifice the city to win the war.”

“And now, Miss Hope, you know how impossibly hard my job is. And how impossibly hard it was, with you, in regard to your past. But we had an advantage and I pressed it. I used you to press it.”

“You used me.”

“I did. And I’m deeply remorseful, Miss Hope, for any mental anguish I’ve caused you. But you’ve furthered our cause more than you know.”

Maggie took his words in. “Thank you, sir. I accept your apology. But what about the anthrax? With all due respect, how could you possibly approve the development of such a monstrous thing, sir?”

“You yourself have used a gun, Miss Hope, have you not?”

“Yes, I have,” Maggie answered, voice steady. “I took a man’s life in Berlin. And I take full responsibility for my actions—and will until my own dying day. But biotoxins—they’re indiscriminate. They’re shameful. They’re—for want of a better word—
dirty
.”

“Dirty, you say? And you prefer
clean
weapons, like guns.”

“At least you look your enemy in the eye. And it’s better to die by gunshot than by a long, slow, festering illness.”

“You’re talking again about your friend. The one who nearly died.”

“Yes, and two women who did die. Innocent women, who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Doctors, whose edict is to ‘first, do no harm,’ are making poisons to be used as weapons. It turns civilization on its very head.”

“Do you think we are alone in our potion making? We received all of our information from France before she fell. Germany has its own wizards and warlocks, making their own bubbling cauldrons of poison. Surely we would be remiss not to act to protect ourselves against our adversaries?”

He sighed gustily. “Sometimes I miss the Battle of Britain. Everything seemed so clear back then. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Black and white. Freedom and slavery. But we’re fighting against humans who have been infected with an inhuman germ. And so we must fight. With broken bottles and pitchforks if we must. And even with mustard gas and anthrax.”

He rose and walked to a credenza arrayed with various cut-crystal bottles and glasses. “Oh, my dear Miss Hope, things are going to become much darker before the dawn.” He poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black into one of the glasses and added a tiny splash of water. “And people wonder why I drink,” he muttered.

“That’s why it’s important to differentiate the Germans versus the Nazis. The Nazis are a humorless creed, and a damned creed, carrying misery and fear where they go. In addition, they’re dreary sentimentalists. The kind who go to a whorehouse, and then, after it’s over, show the whore pictures of their wife and children back home and cry. They’re not terrible, and they’re not even all that interesting when all is said and done. Crashing bores, really.

“Miss Hope, you don’t have much family, do you?”

Maggie tried not to guffaw in the presence of the Prime Minister.
That’s an understatement
. “No, sir.”

“I didn’t, either, you know. In that way we are alike.”

“Sir?”

“Like you, I was an only child. My father was absent more than he was present—was absent even when he was present. And my mother—well, she was like a movie star to me, just as glamorous and just as real as an image on the silver screen. We moved so much, when I was young, and then I went to boarding school … and then she died …”

He shook himself from his reverie. “That’s why I married Clemmie, why we built Chartwell, why we had children. Family, Miss Hope, family is what’s important!” he roared, raising his glass. “And while we can’t choose the one we come from, we
can
create our own.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Think you’ll settle down, get married?”

Maggie blushed. “Maybe after the war is over, sir.”

“My advice is—don’t wait too long. Get married and have children. Four, if possible—one for Mother, one for Father, one for Accidents, one for Increase.”

Maggie cleared her throat. “Mr. Churchill, your mentioning family brings me to another thing I wanted to ask.”

“What? Speak up, Miss Hope!”

“I’m actually not an only child. In Berlin, I learned that I have a half-sister, Elise Hess.” Maggie chose her words carefully. “If you promise to do everything in your power to get Elise Hess out of Germany, then I will come with you to Washington, DC.”

The Prime Minister sat down and pondered his drink for a moment. Then he looked up. “You think I have time to locate and save one German girl—the daughter of a high-ranking Nazi, no less?”

“She’s on our side, sir. She’s a nurse and an aspiring nun, and she put herself in great danger to help John Sterling and a Jew named Ernst Klein, who’s now patching up the British army in the Mideast. And she’s my sister.”

The P.M. smoked, then took another swig of his drink. Ash fell on his vest. “Well played, Miss Hope, well played. And so I say to you—I will do everything in my power to rescue your sister, if you agree to come to Washington with me. We leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Sir?”

“Tomorrow. Get your things in order and return bright and shiny in the morning.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He waved his cigar at her. “Go. Go away now.”

Maggie stood. She had won. She would save Elise. “Yes, sir.”

Back at the party, David was waiting. “How did it go with the Boss?”

Maggie smiled. “Looks like I’ll be coming to DC with you.”

“Wizard!” David exclaimed, clapping her on the back. “We’re going to have an excellent time. No rationing there, remember?”

Maggie lowered her voice. “I’m worried about Mr. Churchill.”

David’s smile faded. “The pressures are starting to get to the P.M., I’m afraid. It’s a horrible thing to say, but the attack on Pearl Harbor couldn’t have come at a better time. Things were quite grim for a while there. Grimmer than most people knew.”

The pianist segued into “There Will Always Be an England.” People stood to sing.

As voices drew out, “Britons, awake!,” the P.M. burst into the room. “We’re going to watch
That Hamilton Woman
,” Churchill declared, “in honor of our voyage to America! We have moved into a new phase of this war, and while it might not be the beginning
of the end, I do believe—now that we stand side by side with the United States—that it just may be the end of the beginning, the part where Britain stood alone.

“The film’s been set up. Move along, then, move along!”

“Again?” someone whispered.

David mouthed to Maggie, “He’s obsessed.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The assembled guests found seats in the long Pillared Room. The lights were dimmed, the projector began to roll, and the film started.

The Prime Minister mouthed the words Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh spoke as Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton along with them in the darkness.
“ ‘Tell him we’re not the guardian angels of every country too lazy to look after itself. You’ve got to do something too! At the battle of the Nile, we cleared them off the seas, but as long as those madmen had their armies on land no country in Europe is free, they want to get hold of the whole world. If you believe in freedom, stir yourselves! Prepare and help drive them off the land!… You cannot make peace with dictators! You have to destroy them, wipe them out!’ ”

In the dimness, Maggie thought of the next generation and, God willing, the next. She thought of Chuck and Nigel’s baby—his cuddly roundness and the way his head smelled like shortbread, warm from the oven.
If our generation doesn’t do something, what will the world be like for the next? I may physically die. I may morally die. I may lose my soul. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. Take me, use me. I’m ready
.

She noticed that, a row away, John was watching her. He made a little walking motion with his fingers and she nodded. They left the room together. John found their coats, and they went up to the roof, where the P.M. used to watch the Blitz, to the deep consternation of his private detective and Mrs. Churchill. The edges were lined with walls of sandbags.

“London doesn’t look so bad,” Maggie remarked, “at least, covered in snow. I was thinking about that earlier. It hides a lot. Although all the damage is still there, underneath.” Her hand went to her own bandage. But her wound—her wounds—were healing now.

“At least the bombing’s stopped—for the moment—while Hitler turns all of his attention to Russia.”

“Oh, Lord,” Maggie said, looking at the devastation below, realizing. “While I was gone, they took out the Admiralty. Mr. Churchill must have been disconsolate.”

“Actually, what he said was, ‘Now I can see Nelson on his column more clearly.’ ”

“Yes, that sounds like him.” Maggie smiled.

“So,” John began, “how was your time in Scotland? I picture you like Artemis, running the moors of Scotland with a bow and arrow.”

“Artemis has a gun these days. I suppose David can be my Apollo.”

John ran his hands through his hair. “Well, please don’t turn me into a deer, like poor what’s-his-name.”

“Actaeon. No, you’re more like Orion, I suppose.”

“Not Adonis?” John said, with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh, you’d like that, would you?” She laughed. “But these days I’m sure I’ll end up alone. Like Artemis. Or Athena. Or even Bastet, the cat goddess.”

They stood for a moment in silence, as large lacy snowflakes began to fall. Then John said, “I wonder what everyone’s doing downstairs now. Probably breaking out the Champagne. The
good
Champagne.” He looked down at Maggie. “Sorry you’re missing it. And you must be cold. Shall we go downstairs now?”

“Well,” Maggie said with a grimace, remembering the last time she’d been drunk, and had made herself a fool in front of John,
“I’ve more or less sworn off liquor these days. Besides, I know exactly what’s happening. Mr. Churchill will swear. Then Mrs. Churchill will say, ‘Oh, darling, please don’t use that word in front of the ladies!’ And Mr. Churchill will say, ‘Oh, bother, Clemmie. Lady Hamilton never chided Lord Nelson for
his
language …’ And then David will offer them both drinks and smooth everything over.”

“He does love that film.”

“I love it, too. I thought of you tonight, while I was watching it. Especially when Lady Hamilton mocks Lord Nelson.
“ ‘And there sits John Sterling, exhibiting his various moods, one by one. John Sterling in a bad mood. John Sterling in a good mood. John Sterling in an exuberant mood …’ ”

“Yes, well …” John looked at Maggie and took her gloved hand in his. “What mood is this?”

She remembered the film enough to remember the line was “in love,” but didn’t want to say it. “John Sterling—allowing himself to be just a wee bit happy?”

“It will be Christmas soon, and then New Year’s—1942. How strange it sounds …”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, like a chivalrous knight.

“This doesn’t change anything, you know,” Maggie managed.

“No, of course not,” John said, tucking her hand under his arm.

“In Washington, our relationship will be strictly platonic,” she insisted. “We shall be consummate professionals.”

He smiled. “Consummate,” he agreed.

As they headed back down to the party, Maggie said, “I like what Mr. Churchill said about beginnings and ends tonight—‘This might not be the beginning of the end, but it may be the end of the beginning.’ ”

Clara Hess was ready to die.

Like German spy Josef Jakobs before her, she had been court-martialed in front of a military tribunal at Duke of York’s Headquarters in Chelsea. Because of her unwillingness to participate in the Double Cross system, she’d been convicted after a one-day trial and sentenced to death.

Like Jakobs’s execution, Clara’s was to take place in the East Casements Rifle Range, on the grounds of the Tower of London. Eight soldiers from the Holding Battalion of the Scots Guards, armed with .303 Lee-Enfields, were waiting to fire in unison at her heart.