Mr. Churchill's Secretary (37 page)

Maggie took a deep breath. She had to ask. “Do you remember … I mean, did you see …”

Sarah knew what she was asking. “No, I don’t remember anything,” she said. “And probably a good thing, too. Although Mr. Frain filled me in on the details.”

“Mr. Frain?”

“Came to see me at the hospital. Convinced me to play dead for Paige—Claire—that bitch—in the interrogation room. My best role to date. Juliet’s death scene will be nothing after this!” Sarah spoke in a strong voice, but Maggie could see her hands worrying at each other.

“It was quite the—”

“Yes,” Sarah said quietly.

Maggie reached over and took her hand. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

T
HE PHONE RANG
. It was David. “Hullo, Maggie. How’re you holding up?”

“Doing pretty well,” Maggie said, “considering. By the way, you’ll never guess who’s with me.”

“We know—Sarah,” David said smugly. “Yes, Snodgrass and Frain have taken me into their confidence. Finally. I know all about Sarah’s part.…”

Maggie rolled her eyes at Sarah, across the room.
“David,”
she mouthed and Sarah nodded.

“So anyway,” David continued, “we’re all going to the Blue Moon Club tonight. Good band playing and all.”

“The Blue Moon?” Maggie said, jolted. “At a time like this?” She still felt shaky and weak. Surely Sarah couldn’t be up for it, strong as she sounded.

“Well, I say, Magster—we saved London. I do think we’re entitled to a few drinks and dancing.”

“I don’t know.…”

Walking over to Maggie and the telephone, Sarah said, “Here, give me that.” She took the receiver. “Right. What time? Yes, we’ll be there. With the proverbial bells on.”

She hung up the phone, and Maggie looked at her.

“I nearly died, love,” she said simply. “It’s time to live.”

The agents, whoever they were, had taken all of their not-too-vast wardrobes. Sitting in their room at the Savoy in her bathrobe, Maggie let Sarah style her hair in red ringlets and apply lipstick and powder.

Sarah burned a bobby pin over a candle to rub the black on Maggie’s lashes and smudged some iridescent aquamarine shadow from a carefully preserved tube over her eyelids. “So this is how you do things at the Sadler’s Wells?” Maggie asked.

“Ha!” Sarah laughed. “If you were going onstage you’d need at least three more inches of pancake, scarlet cheeks, and false eyelashes. I’m going for something a little more natural for you.”

She’d done her own face already, and her shining black hair fell in perfect finger waves to her shoulders. She wore a black-silk confection with red-satin roses on the shoulders, very Spanish and seductive.

Then she took a look in the closet. “Hmmm, I think this should do nicely,” she said, pulling out a long dress of white silk and holding it against Maggie.

The dress, while exquisite, was low in front and even lower in the back. Cut on the bias, it would skim the body so closely as to leave very little to the imagination.

“Um, I don’t think so,” Maggie stammered, pulling her tattered flannel robe around her. There was having a glamorous evening, but there was also such a thing as modesty.

“I know it’s very spring ’thirty-eight, but really, it’s not as though anyone else—”

“No, no, no! It’s not outdated—it’s gorgeous—but, um, don’t you think it’ll be a little long? And tight?”

“Oh, darling, this one was always a little too short on
me. And there’s plenty of room through the hips. Now, shake a leg, we only have a few minutes.”

Maggie hesitated.
Hips?
she thought, about to lodge a retort. Then she remembered that Sarah had almost died—and thought the better of it.

“ ‘Beauty for duty,’ Maggie, remember?” Sarah said. “Are you going to shirk?” she demanded, holding out a pair of silver high-heeled evening slippers.

They were going to be too small, Maggie could tell, but she jammed her feet in nonetheless. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. “No, indeed.”

“Well, then, get dressed!”

Later, looking at her reflection, Maggie wasn’t displeased. The dress was gorgeous—the gleaming fabric was heavy and cool to the touch. A sea-green wrap covered her bandaged arm nicely. There were circles under her eyes, to be sure, but she was young, and they weren’t that dark. She was perhaps a bit thinner than she’d been a few months ago, but it wasn’t that obvious. There were no sudden lines or wrinkles, no wiry white hairs.

And yet she felt different. She was not the same person she was before.

Suddenly she stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror and picked up her beaded handbag, ready to go downstairs.

Maggie and Sarah walked through the oak-paneled lobby with its urns of fresh roses and scent of floor polish to the American Bar, a clubby little hideaway in the Savoy in the same flat, geometric, elegant deco style as the lobby. Only the fire extinguishers and signs pointing to the nearest air-raid shelters indicated that there was a war on.

Photographs of Hollywood stars—Bette Davis, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Errol Flynn, and Clark Gable—looked down from the walls. The room was
hazy with smoke; the tinkle of Gershwin on the piano competed with the low murmur of conversation, mostly from men with gray hair accompanied by young women. Who were
not
their daughters, Maggie noted.

Frain was already there, at a side table a little removed, with a good view of the room. He immediately stood and pulled out a burgundy velvet-covered chair for Sarah and then for Maggie. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked. “Not that you have to feel better, of course. But sometimes a hot bath and some sleep can work wonders.”

“Yes, indeed,” Maggie said. Everything still felt a bit surreal and as though it were moving too fast. She was glad Sarah was there beside her.

A tall and slender waiter appeared at their table. “What may I get for you?” he asked, putting down a gleaming silver bowl of salted almonds.

“I believe I owe you a martini, Miss Hope.” He turned to Maggie. “Would that suit?”

Would it?
“Of course.”

“Miss Sanderson?”

“Same, thanks,” she said.

“Three martinis, dry, straight up,” Frain replied.

Apparently, rationing doesn’t exist here
, Maggie thought. When the waiter left, she said, “And call me Maggie, please.”

“Then you must call me Peter, both of you. After all, we’ve been through quite the ordeal together.”

The waiter returned silently with the drinks. Drops of water beaded on the glasses.

“An understatement … Peter,” Sarah said as they clinked glasses. They sipped their drinks. The martinis were cold and medicinal.

“Miss Sanderson,” Frain said, “if you don’t mind … I have something I’d like to speak to … Maggie about.”

“Of course. Excuse me, won’t you?” Sarah asked, rising to her feet. “I need to powder my nose.”

“Thank you,” Frain said, also rising to his feet. He and Maggie watched Sarah as she made her way gracefully through the bar.

“I don’t know if this is the right time to bring it up,” Frain said, “but the truth is, there’s not always the time that we’d like.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the agents were at your flat picking up your things, they happened to notice your diploma, summa cum laude in mathematics. Your Phi Beta Kappa key. Newton’s
Principia Mathematica
.” He raised one eyebrow. “Most impressive.”

Goodness gracious
, she thought.
What else did they see? Did I make the bed? Were there stockings and pants and brassieres hanging in the bath?
Although it seemed like several lifetimes ago when such things were important, she suddenly felt mortified. “Guilty as charged,” she said, taking another sip.

“Mr. Snodgrass said you’re a mathematician. Handy with allocation, queuing, trajectories, that sort of thing. He also said that you’re the one who broke the code contained in the newspaper advert.”

Maggie had to smile.
Did he, now? I’ll have to have a chat with my new pal Dicky
.

“And the agents saw lots of books, too. Books in French and German. Do you just read those languages, or can you speak them as well?”

“Oh, my aunt Edith made sure I learned to read, write, and speak several languages at an early age. German is required for any mathematician, of course. And I’m fluent in French as well.”

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
he asked softly.

“Clar,”
she replied without thinking, slipping into
German easily. “How else could one discuss the life and work of Johann Carl Friedrich Gauss?”

“Who taught you?” he asked. His accent was perfect.

“One of the German professors at Wellesley,” she replied. “My aunt Edith wanted me to learn, and Frauline Drengenberg missed Berlin and speaking German—so it worked out well.”

Maggie smiled. Mr. Frain—Peter—was right. A hot bath and a drink really did work wonders; she hadn’t felt this relaxed in, well, a long time. She took another sip.

He switched back into English. “The reason I ask is that I’d like you to come work for me.”

This revelation brought her up short, causing her to slosh her drink. “Work for
you
?”

“Yes. At MI-Five.”

Her mind was working remarkably slowly. “At MI-Five? Me?”

“The Prime Minister can get anyone to type, but we’re always on the lookout for smart recruits.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You proved you can work well under pressure. You’re smart. You speak French and German fluently. And the fact that you’re, well …”

“What?” she asked, eyeing him warily.

“The fact that you’re an attractive young woman is a plus in this line of work,” he said formally.

Maggie arched one eyebrow. “You want me to become a spy?” She found the idea at once ridiculous and strangely appealing.

“Why, yes,” Frain said. “Maggie, we’d like you to join MI-Five and train to be a spy.” He took a sip of his martini, then put down the glass. “Would you consider it?”

An MI-5 agent. A spy.

Was Frain—Peter—playing with her? Did he get some sort of erotic thrill from approaching young women
with this offer? Did he do it to make himself look glamorous and powerful? Was he trying to get her to sleep with him?

Maggie took his measure, looking into his flinty gray eyes. Somehow, she didn’t think so.

“Of course, you’ll have a lot of questions,” Frain said.

Do I ever
.

“And so I’ll set up a meeting tomorrow morning so we can discuss them.”

“What about Mr. Churchill?”

“While you’ve distinguished yourself in your position as typist, I believe your considerable talents might be put to better use elsewhere. MI-Five might be just the place for you.”

“I’ve led a rather quiet life,” Maggie said. “I’m not sure—”

“The world is turvy-topsy these days, isn’t it? You don’t have to decide tonight,” he said. “But do think about it.”

Sarah returned to the table, and the three finished their cocktails. Frain caught the waiter’s eye, and silently the glasses were cleared and the bill slipped onto the table. He took care of it in a practiced motion.

“And about that offer,” Maggie said. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” he said, rising and holding out one arm to Maggie and one to Sarah. “And now, shall we be off?”

A
T THE
B
LUE
Moon Club, the sound of trumpets and clarinets cut through the clouds of smoke and dim light as Maggie, Sarah, and Frain crowded into a small velvet banquette already occupied by David, John, Edmund, and Snodgrass. The twins were both on the dance floor, cutting the rug with two soldiers on leave. She was gratified to see John raise his eyebrows, just a touch, at the sight of her in the white-satin dress.

“You do clean up well, Magster,” David said, as Will Archer and a few other agents joined the group.

As the Moonbeam Orchestra played a cover of Duke Ellington’s “In the Mood,” Frain ordered a bottle of champagne, which the waiter brought on a silver tray. First they toasted to Will Archer. Then to the whole MI-5 team. Then to Edmund. Then to Frain. Then to David, for driving. Then to John, for driving, too. Then to Sarah. And then to Maggie.