Mr. Churchill's Secretary (33 page)

Nelson gazed up at her with his inscrutable green eyes.

“I’m doing it,” she said.

Everyone turned toward Frain. “Right, then. You’ll be briefed on the mission with Miss Kelly, and then both of you will head out directly. Thank you, Miss Hope.”

Edmund looked at her and gave a resigned sigh. “Well, in any case, you should have your arm taken care of before you leave.”

“I’ll do it,” John offered. Then, at David’s look, “I
do
know first aid.”

“Right,” David said, taking off his glasses to give them a quick polish. “Go on, then.”

“We have the first-aid kit in the office. Do you want me to bring it here?” he asked.

“I can make it,” Maggie said, trying to keep her tone light. “I think.”

When she tried to stand, it felt as though every muscle in her body seized up, every single nerve ending protested,
No more. Please, no more
. Nelson gave a sharp meow as he was dislodged to the floor, then concentrated on cleaning his fur.

John held out his arm without comment, and Maggie took it.

In the private secretaries’ office, John offered Maggie his desk chair. He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, busying himself with the bandages and ointments.

“If you could, er—”

“Take off the sweater?” Maggie unbuttoned the cardigan and tried to pull it off. The dried blood had fused the cotton fibers to the wound. “Damn,” she said as the sweater came off. “Damn, damn, damn.”

John smiled in spite of everything that was happening. “Good to know you don’t mince words.”

Maggie closed her eyes against the fresh waves of pain. “I think I’m going to have a lot more to say when this is all over.”

“Now, if you could just, um, unbutton?” John asked.

Gingerly, Maggie did as he asked, wincing again as the fabric pulled from the wound, which was revealed to be an ugly gash, black from clotted blood, now oozing.

“Not as bad as I thought.”

Despite the pain, Maggie had to give a weak smile. “Ah, that trademark British understatement.”

“Stiff upper lip, don’t you know. We don’t believe in drama.”

“I’ve noticed.”

As John gently cleaned the burn with antiseptic, Maggie started shivering. “You’re in shock.” He put his arms around her. “It’s going to be all right.”

Maggie grasped his forearm; the part of her mind not distracted by pain noticed that John smelled of soap. “Really?” she said. “Because I’m starting to wonder.”

He went back to bandaging, laying clean gauze over the wound and then taping it up. “I believe in you,” he said, meeting her eyes. “And you have all of us—me—right behind you.”

“Thank you, John,” Maggie said.

Maggie rolled down her sleeve and put her sweater back on. She would have loved to change her clothes—how long had she been in them?—but she and Frain had agreed that it would look more realistic for her to wear the same outfit.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied lightly. “By the way, you were right.”

“Right?” Maggie didn’t know what to say. She was suddenly quite conscious of his proximity.

“If you hadn’t figured it out, Paige—Claire—might
have gotten to the P.M., and your father might be on his way to Berlin. So—”

Maggie gave a grim smile. “Two down, one to go.”

Claire looked at Maggie when she entered the holding cell but didn’t speak.

Which was a good thing. The sight of Claire—wearing her clothes, although now wrinkled and stained, her hair dyed garish red—was almost too much for Maggie to bear. But they were going to have to work together, Maggie realized, so she needed to put aside her feelings.
For the moment
.

“Paige,” Maggie ventured finally. “Although I hear it’s Claire now.”

“Maggie, I’m so, so sorry,” she began, “I never meant to—”

“Claire, Paige—whoever you are. I don’t want to hear it.” She took a deep breath. “We’re going to go through with this mission. We’re going to find Devlin. And we’re going to get the override key so that we can save Saint Paul’s from blowing up. And that. Is. All.”

Claire’s eyes filled with tears. “Maggie, please—”

“I’m afraid that we don’t have time for this, Miss Kelly,” Frain said from the doorway. “In fact, we have less than two hours now.” He walked toward Claire with an iron key, then used it to unlock her handcuffs.

As Claire rubbed her wrists, Maggie turned to Frain. “What’s next?”

“We’ve already created the fake accident site, in case McCormack or Devlin wants to check your story.”

“Fine,” Maggie said.

“Fine,” Claire echoed softly.

“The thanks and praise of a grateful nation will be yours, Miss Hope,” Frain said.

“A dry martini will do nicely.”

Frain’s lip twitched, and he nearly smiled. “I think
that can be arranged,” he said. “Good hunting. To both of you.”

From the backseat of Frain’s car at the accident scene, they heard ambulances wailing and saw crashed cars with broken windshields and people covered in what looked to be blood being wheeled away on gurneys by emergency service workers.

Maggie looked around at the scenario of destruction in disbelief. “And this is all staged?” she said to Frain.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Now, let’s review,” he said to Claire and her. “You two were involved in the accident. Claire was being transported to a women’s prison, awaiting trial, and Miss Hope was accompanying her to provide a deposition. And now I must do something I already regret.”

Without warning, he backhanded Maggie.

The slap reverberated in the small space of the car. She swayed under the force of the blow, the sting seeping into her face. Frain’s handprint was hot on her cheek.

“What the—” Claire started.

“—hell was that for?” Maggie finished, raising her hand to her face, which was already starting to swell. “My dead father is alive—and sane. I haven’t slept. I’ve been kidnapped. I’ve been held at gunpoint. I was burned by a hot poker. I just learned that my dead best friend is actually a live traitor. So I ask you, Mr. Frain—just what the bloody
hell
was that for?”

“Again, Miss Hope,” Frain said, “I apologize profusely. But you need to look like you’ve been injured in a car accident.”

“And you couldn’t have hit
her
?” Maggie said, rubbing her face.

“Now, remember,” Frain said, “our agents have covered the surrounding area.” He took out a pistol and
loaded it, then handed it to Claire. “Take this gun,” he instructed. “This has to look as convincing as possible.”

Slowly, with disbelief in her eyes, Claire accepted the pistol. She looked at Maggie. Then she looked at Frain.

“You know you won’t use it,” Frain said calmly. “Because you know you’re surrounded by agents. And because of Mr. Murphy.” He looked at Maggie. “Are you ready?”

Maggie raised one eyebrow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Maggie and Claire didn’t speak as they made their way to McCormack’s apartment. The building was remarkably nondescript, with red-brown bricks and lined by dusty shrubs.

At the door, Claire grabbed Maggie’s good arm. Her other was in her coat pocket, clutching the butt of the pistol for reassurance. “What if McCormack doesn’t believe us?” she said.

Maggie removed Claire’s hand from her arm. “First of all, don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Second, it’s our job to make him believe us. And you’re the expert at that, aren’t you?”

Claire had the grace to drop her eyes and look slightly ashamed of herself.

It almost made Maggie feel better. Almost.

Claire knocked at the door.

No response.

She knocked again, louder this time.

No response.

She put her ear up to the door. “I can hear his wireless,” she said. She knocked for a third time. “Look, we know you’re in there,” she called. “Open the door.”

Slowly, the door opened and they saw a slight man, hair gray at the temples, wearing a white button-down shirt, brown cardigan, and corduroy trousers. His face had a mild, sheeplike quality beneath heavy black spectacles.
In the background, they could hear the BBC broadcast
“… as people were evacuating the accident site. We have no word about the number of fatalities and injured, but reports are that more than a hundred people were affected …”

“Who are you?” he asked, eyes darting from Claire’s face to Maggie’s.

“Claire Kelly,” she responded.

The name sounds so strange from her
, Maggie thought.

“Who?”

“Claire Kelly. I’m a friend. I know Michael Murphy. He’s been compromised.”

McCormack’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally, closing the door.

Claire stopped it with her hand. “I need to speak to Devlin.”

“I don’t know anyone named Devlin.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Go away,” McCormack said. “Before I call the police.”

Claire took a step forward into the apartment. “You won’t call the police. And we both know why.”

McCormack tensed for a moment. “What do you want?”

“I have a hostage,” she said, indicating the gun in her coat pocket, pointed at Maggie. “Someone Devlin will want. Her name is Margaret Hope. She works with Churchill at Number Ten. Now, please, let me in before someone sees me.”

McCormack stepped aside and let the two girls in. The flat was neat and tidy. Stacks of student papers covered the rickety wooden kitchen table next to a mug of steaming tea and a plate of half-eaten toast and jam. A
pair of vivid green budgies preened in an antique Victorian birdcage near the window.

He closed the door. “How did you find me?”

“Michael. Michael Murphy.”

“I don’t know any Michael Murphy.”

“He knows you.” Claire took a breath. “Michael and I were working together. I was supposed to take out Churchill. But I was arrested. They were transporting me to a holding cell, and there was a car accident. Everyone was killed or injured. I managed to get a gun and then decided to take this one as a hostage. She’s Churchill’s secretary—too valuable to kill—at least without pumping her for information first.”

McCormack’s forehead creased with thought. “The accident I heard about on the wireless.” He said abruptly, “Don’t move.”

He went to the telephone, picked up the heavy receiver, and dialed some numbers.

“This is McCormack. A woman named Claire Kelly is at my flat.”

There was a short silence. “She claims a man named Michael Murphy told her.”

Another silence. “She has an asset. Someone who works for Churchill.”

Maggie held her breath, waiting.

“Yes, I understand,” he said finally. He hung up the receiver.

“Devlin will see you.”

I
N
M
C
C
ORMACK’S CAR
, a black Vauxhall, there was an uneasy silence. Ambulances from the staged accident keened in the background. Claire was driving, and McCormack and Maggie were in the backseat. He had the gun poking into her ribs.

“How far are we going?” Claire asked.

“Not far,” he said.

Claire looked at McCormack’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “You seem nervous.”

“What do you expect?”

“Look,” she said, “I wouldn’t have contacted you if I felt I had a choice.”

“And as a result, I have no choice.”

“We do whatever we need to for the cause, so what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem.”

In the backseat, Maggie kept going over the plan. This was their only chance to stop the bomb, she knew. And something, a number of things—anything—could go wrong.
Too many variables …

The car made its way through the rubble and debris of the East End—until the war, it had been the largest and most important port on the face of the earth—and
pulled up, finally, in front of a large gray warehouse. It stood intact amid the surrounding destruction, arrogant and alone. Large lorries rumbled in and out, and a few men in dirt-stained sweaters loaded heavy-looking boxes into an unmarked truck.

McCormack pointed. “Go through those doors and to the right. He’s expecting you.” Maggie and Claire got out of the car. As they walked toward the entrance, they suddenly heard the car’s engine rev behind them. They turned to see McCormack speeding away.

Claire looked at Maggie. Maggie looked at Claire.

They knew there had to be MI-5 agents getting into place—behind mountains of rubble, hidden by the few brick-and-mortar walls still left standing—but she couldn’t see them. Were they really there?

“This is it, I guess,” Maggie said finally.

Claire gave a quick nod.

There was a black gate with an electronic buzzer for deliveries. Claire pressed the button, and a shrill ring reverberated throughout the building.

Nothing.

She pressed it again, longer this time.

After an interminable pause, the door clicked open. They walked through and took a small freight elevator to the second floor.

Eammon Devlin was sitting behind a teak desk, flanked by two muscled flunkies. He was in the early part of middle age and remarkably pleasant-looking, with regular, even features and light brown hair parted neatly on the side and glossed with Brylcreem. He was dressed in an innocuous brown twill suit and looked like an accountant or perhaps a librarian. Behind him, the blackout curtains were raised, giving him a view of the boats working on the leaden Thames in the morning light.