Mr. Churchill's Secretary (29 page)

I
T WAS IMPENETRABLY
dark. Only the dribble of yellow light from the shuttered headlights and the sliver of moon permitted Pierce to see into the gloom. They passed through bleak, deserted villages and over grassy hills. Edmund drove uncomfortably fast, the car shuddering and shaking around some of the tighter corners.

“Nearly there, nearly there,” Pierce said, consulting an old road map. “Now turn right. Yes, right here. Into the drive.”

An ornate sign proclaimed
Westmore Place
, but the rusty black gates and grass-tufted drive belied the elegance of the name. Edmund and Maggie exchanged a look in the rearview mirror as the car headed up a steep rise and pulled in front of a rambling timber-framed brick house. Some of the stonework was crumbling, and the shrubbery was overgrown. Ivy obscured the windows. An owl shrieked through the silence.

They went up a cobblestone walkway, Pierce with his gun to Maggie’s back. They reached the front door, once painted a glossy black, now dull and peeling. Pierce reached out to the bellpull, which made a low, mournful chime.

After a pause, the door was opened by a large-boned
woman. Her coarse salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She was dressed in a brown twill skirt, cashmere cardigan, and sensible lace-up oxfords. A triple strand of gray pearls encircled her neck. The dim light from within spilled out in a corona around her.

Behind her was a red-cheeked, snowy-haired man with an enormous white handlebar mustache, wearing plaid trousers and a brown hunting jacket.

“Mrs. Leticia Barron? And Mr. Roger Barron?” Pierce asked.

“Yes, of course,” Leticia said, her eyes taking in the ropes on Maggie’s wrists and Pierce’s gun. “Please do come in.”

Roger made a few grunting sounds.

They had a few moments to get their bearings. Two enormous black dogs with coarse and dusty fur were lying in front of a stone fireplace. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling that had seen better days, while moth-eaten stags with glassy black eyes, trophies of the chase, kept watch from above. Worn Persian rugs with large holes covered the stone floor. The windows were shrouded by blackout fabric, making the walls seem gloomy and close. The room smelled of wood smoke, mothballs, and wet dog.

One dog opened one dark, watchful eye, then closed it and went back to sleep. The other didn’t stir. “Linus and Mortimer,” Leticia cordially said to the three.

“I’m Malcolm Pierce, as you know. Henry Hodgeson from the London Saturday Club was kind enough to set this meeting up.”

“How absolutely wonderful to have you here,” Leticia trilled, extending a soft, white hand. Her eyes were bright. “Of course, when Henry told me the circumstances I was delighted to offer our humble home. Let’s
go into the kitchen, shall we? Oh, it’s been so long since we’ve had guests!”

Maggie realized Leticia saw no irony in this.

The kitchen was large, with high ceilings and a black-and-white tile floor. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The smell of fried offal and overflowing rubbish bins soured the air.

“Please sit down,” Leticia said, gesturing to the scarred wooden table. Even though her armpits were damp with fear, Maggie nearly let out a hysterical giggle when Leticia followed up with a genial, “Tea?”

Pierce gestured to the floor. “Sit down there, please.” It was awkward with her hands tied, but she and Edmund complied. Pierce sat down at one of the black Windsor chairs but kept the gun trained on them.

“No tea, Mrs.—”

“Leticia.”

“Thank you. Leticia. We still have a lot of work to do tonight.”

She took a seat next to Pierce at the table, while Roger hung back near the door. Her eyes danced with excitement. “I can’t tell you how thrilling this all is. We’re just glad to be able, in our small way, to help.”

“An enormous help,” Pierce said. “The Führer will be most grateful.”

“You know him?” she said, hand to heart. “What’s he like?”

“A god among men,” Pierce said. “He saved Germany. Gave her order and strength and discipline.”

“How amazing,” Leticia said, leaning in. “People here just don’t understand it. That drunken fool Churchill certainly doesn’t.

“And they—” Leticia gestured to Edmund and Maggie.

“One of Britain’s premier code breakers and one of the drunken bastard’s secretaries. Invaluable sources
of information, the both of them. Which is why we need to get them to Berlin.” He took a moment to smile at his captives, dimple flashing. “Tonight.”

“And that’s where we come in,” Leticia said, fingering the silvery pearls around her neck. “I knew it was dangerous to keep that old Airco in the barn. But I knew it might come in handy someday.”

Maggie tensed.
A plane?

Leticia stopped suddenly, her brow furrowed.

“What?” Pierce prodded.

“It’s just that—”

“Yes?”

Roger leaned up against the door frame. “Plane’s a two-seater. There’s only room for two.”

“Damn it,” Snodgrass said.

Maumbrey Cottage was still and silent; only the two half-full brandy snifters gave the illusion that the place was still inhabited.

“Damn it. We’re too late.”

“No!” John was vehement. “We must go after them.”

Snodgrass rubbed his chin, looking around for signs of a struggle.

“Can someone please explain to me what exactly’s going on?” David asked.

John gave him a grave look. “Paige never died,” he said. “She’s an IRA sleeper agent who faked her death. She tried to use Maggie to get classified information on Churchill. When that didn’t work, she infiltrated Number Ten and tried to assassinate the Old Man. Posed as Maggie to get in. Nearly worked, too.”

“Hardly,” Snodgrass snorted, still looking for clues. “We were watching closely. Of course we did a background check when Miss Hope was hired. We were already keeping a watch on Miss Kelly. The fact that she
and Miss Hope were friends was a red flag. I didn’t want her hired at all, if you recall.”

David gave a slow nod.

“And certainly not as a private secretary.” Snodgrass sighed. “You may recall that Miss Kelly worked for Ambassador Kennedy before he returned to the U.S.”

John strode to the door. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m not going to just sit around and wait. We have the addresses of the Saturday Club’s safe house. I say we go. Who’s with me?”

“That’s where we met her,” David said, hurrying after John. “At one of those cocktail parties Joe Kennedy was always giving. Nigel would always invite us—he was trying to win over Chuck.”

“Yes,” Snodgrass said as they made their way to David’s car, and got into the passenger seat. “Miss Kelly made sure to connect with you. And when the tide turned and Chamberlain stepped down, she became even closer, didn’t she?”

John got into the backseat. “That’s why she suggested Maggie for the typist’s job,” he said, connecting the dots. “She wanted to get a friend into Number Ten, when she couldn’t get the job herself.”

“And that’s why you didn’t want Maggie to work as a private secretary,” David realized, sliding behind the wheel. “Too much classified information.”

Snodgrass gave a nod as David turned the key in the lock and the engine turned over. “I didn’t want her working at Number Ten at all. But then Mr. Frain convinced me it was safer. We could keep an eye on her.”

The car pulled out of the driveway in the darkness. “So she really could have been a private secretary, not a typist,” David realized.

“Good Lord, yes,” Snodgrass said. “That girl’s smarter than the two of you put together. I would’ve
been lucky to get her! But by that time we were suspicious that Miss Kelly and her handler were planning something big. It was easier to keep Miss Hope close but not let her know too much. Why do you think I was so distressed at her learning about RDF?”

“Ah,” said John, putting the pieces together.

“And what about her father?” David asked, straining to see the road ahead.

“Miss Hope believed he passed away in ’sixteen. We were concerned that if she found out he was still alive, she’d compromise his cover. Or that
he’d
compromise his cover—which, of course, he did.” He looked at David. “Once I found out what sort of a fool’s errand you and Miss Hope were on, I realized that I needed to make a few calls.”

“So he’s not really insane?” David said.

Snodgrass shrugged. “It was necessary—is necessary. There’s a spy at Bletchley. That’s how the Germans know to keep changing the rotator wheels for their ciphers once we manage to break them. And with Professor Hope considered brilliant but mad, we hoped that the spy would slip up and reveal himself.”

“Has he?” David asked.

“Not yet,” Snodgrass replied. “But we’re close. Very close.”

“But what about Maggie? And her father?” John said.

“Professor Hope must have, somehow, secretly asked Miss Hope to meet with him. It was inevitable, really—he hadn’t seen her for years, and having her think he was mad proved too much for him. We knew there was a chance that he’d attempt to reveal more.”

“But what
happened
to them?” David asked.

“He’s close to finding out who the German spy at Bletchley is. Or, failing that, by their removing him from the equation, our ability to break German ciphers would
be seriously diminished. I’m afraid that’s the significance of Operation Hope.”

David’s tone was grim, and his hands tightened on the wheel. “So they’re going to either break him or kill him?”

Snodgrass tilted his head. “Most likely break him, then kill him.”

John started. “And what about Maggie?”

“Hope probably wouldn’t break himself,” Snodgrass said. “But if …” He trailed off delicately.

“If his daughter’s in danger, he just might,” David finished, pressing harder on the gas pedal.

Roger watched Maggie and her father while Pierce went to the car for his radio. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Rather awkward, what?” Roger offered up.

Edmund looked away, pretending to be interested in a row of chipped crockery on the shelf.

“Indeed,” Maggie replied lightly. “My name is Maggie Hope, and this is my father, Edmund,” she said, giving them names, trying to humanize them in the eyes of their captors. “How do you do?” Maggie said to Leticia, giving her the most winning smile she could muster.

Pierce entered with his suitcase radio. “Shut up,” he snapped to Maggie, setting it down on the table and opening it. Leticia helped set up the aerials for transmission and then waited, nearly giddy with anticipation, as they heard the empty hiss of the airwaves.

Pierce typed out his code slowly and carefully. “It’s been a while,” he said, almost apologetically.

On the other end, there was an explosion of typing. Pierce copied it down, then asked for a repeat.

“Is that really Berlin?” Leticia breathed.

“Hamburg, actually.”

From his bag he procured his codebook. It took him several minutes to decrypt the message.

Finally, he looked up. “I have confirmation that they want me to break you both and then take the remaining one to Berlin,” he said.

“C
AN’T YOU GO
any faster?” John called from the cramped backseat.

“Mr. Sterling,” Snodgrass barked from the passenger seat. “Mr. Greene is driving an ancient car, with watered-down petrol, in the midst of a blackout. Perhaps you’d like to take over?”

“She’s not old,” David said from the driver’s seat, pushing up his glasses and then patting the leather-covered dashboard. “She’s vintage. Like a fine Bordeaux. And since yours blew a tire in Bletchley, she’s all we’ve got.”

“Maggie needs us. Her father needs us,” John said.

Snodgrass looked in the mirror back toward John, and his face softened for a moment. “And we’ll get there. Hang on, old boy.”

“You’re sure we’re going the right way?” David insisted.

“Mr. Frain has had men watching Malcolm Pierce. He believes Pierce will be going from Bletchley to a safe house before trying to leave the country. Apparently, one of the London Saturday Club’s members has a contact nearby, and that’s where Mr. Frain thinks Pierce will take Maggie and her father. At some point, somehow, they’ll probably try to leave the country.”