His Majesty's Hope (7 page)

“Thank you,” Maggie whispered back as they reached Noreen’s office. They both sat down on a worn sofa.

“Now, your cover story is the most important part of the operation,” Noreen told her, picking up a folder from the low table and handing it to Maggie. “Here you are. Your name is Margareta Hoffman. You were born on the second of June, 1916, in Frankfurt, to a German businessman and his wife. You were educated in Switzerland, which will explain any inconsistencies with your accent or verbiage. You met Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome, where you were hired as his typist.”

For the next two hours, Maggie read and memorized the file, including names and addresses of contacts in Berlin, and Noreen quizzed her on it, even adding in trick questions, such as “Who does your hair?” “What’s your doctor’s name and address?” and “How do you do laundry?”

Then Maggie wrote letters to her family and friends, telling them that, once again, she would be away on official business, and would contact them when she returned. To Aunt Edith, in Wellesley, Massachusetts. To her father, Edmund Hope, at Bletchley Park. To Sarah, on tour, care of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet. To the newly wed Nigel and Charlotte Ludlow. David and Hugh knew, more or less, what she was doing, but she wrote to them anyway.

In case she didn’t come back. She’d already made out her will, leaving her most precious possession, her slide rule, to David.

Afterward, Maggie was quizzed by another agent named Kim Philby, a dashing young Cambridge graduate, who was wearing a gray pin-striped suit with a deep red tie and red double-point pocket square. He was tough but thorough, and when she’d finished with him, she felt more secure with her cover. “Remember,” Philby admonished, “you are now Margareta Hoffman. Let your life here melt away. The more comfortable you are in Margareta’s skin, the safer you’ll be.”

Maggie nodded. She wasn’t at all against the idea of leaving Maggie Hope in England. Maggie had problems—a bluestocking
aunt who’d lied about her father’s death while raising her, a father who’d kept his existence a secret until she uncovered it, and a mother who—well, Maggie was still wrestling with the ugly truth of that. John, the man whom she’d loved and turned away, was dead. And Hugh was … confusing. Margareta was free from all that.

Noreen swept back in. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.

Maggie raised one eyebrow but complied.

Noreen peered inside. “Well, I can see you’ve had good American dentistry, but on the Continent, fillings are gold, not silver. We’ll need to switch them out. I’ll make you an appointment for our dentist.”

“You’re going to change my
fillings
?”

Noreen nodded, walking to the telephone. “You only have two, so it shouldn’t be that bad.”

“We leave nothing to chance,” Philby added.

Just after noon, her fillings replaced with gold by an SOE dentist, Maggie returned to the office. Her teeth hurt. But the pain took her mind off her nerves.

In Noreen’s office, there were clothes on hangers on a hook behind the closed wooden door. “Go ahead, put them on,” Noreen told her. “They’re quite nice, actually.”

Maggie locked the door, then stripped down to nothing and first put on the underthings. At one time, she would have asked Noreen to leave, but her time at paramilitary camps had done away with modesty. The lingerie was German-made and quite luxurious, compared to what she usually wore. Next came a Jaeger suit and blouse, broken-in Rieker shoes with the soles rubbed in German soil, and an elegant leather handbag.

“Quite cosmopolitan,” Maggie commented.

“Forget bombs—letting that gorgeous bag go may quite literally kill me,” Noreen said.

“I promise to bring it back, safe and sound.”

“Inside, you’ll find a wallet with some Reichmarks, face powder, keys to your flat, Goethe’s
Faust
, and Hitler’s
Mein Kampf
. You’ll be given a suitcase with a few changes of clothes, your gown for the party, more undergarments, a nightgown, and toiletries, including German-brand sanitary towels, just in case.”

Noreen appraised Maggie’s face. “You don’t wear much makeup—that’s good. Nazi women don’t, just like they’re not supposed to smoke and drink—not that that stops them, of course.” She laughed. “Oh, all this luxury is wasted on you! You should see what we have picked out for the girls parachuting into France later this month—hideous dowdy things—no style at all. Smelly and scratchy. You’re very lucky.” Without missing a beat, she continued, “Nelson gave you the lipstick with the cyanide pill in it, yes? Let’s put that in there.”

Maggie transferred the gold tube with the false bottom from her bag to Margareta’s. She sniffed—the bag smelled of something both beautiful and disarming. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said. “What is it?”

“Jicky,” Noreen said. “There
are
benefits to conquering France—Jicky is Guerlain, of course. There’s a small bottle in your purse. And this is one of our best toys.” Noreen handed Maggie a red and white box of Milde Sorte cigarettes. Maggie turned it this way and that to see what it really was. “It’s a subminiature spy camera with a film cartridge, small enough to fit into a cigarette pack. Just in case you find anything useful.”

Noreen patted a chair. “Now, come, sit down. I’m going to teach you how to do your hair.” With deft fingers, she fashioned Maggie’s coppery tresses into an intricately braided updo, the latest in Germanic elegance.

“I feel like I should be dancing around a solstice bonfire,” Maggie said, turning her head back and forth and looking in the mirror of her compact. “I just hope I can replicate it.”

“You’ll have plenty of downtime with nothing to do, so you can practice.” Noreen scooped up Maggie’s clothes and folded them, then wrapped them in brown paper. “We’ll keep these safe for you,” she promised. “And it’s only four days. You’ll be back before you know it.”

Then Noreen handed Maggie a scrap of silk with writing on it. Maggie’s codes. For her to use each time she communicated, and then tear off and destroy. “And what happens if you don’t have the silk and you need to radio us?”

“Then I have to use a poem instead,” Maggie answered. “A poem I’ve memorized.”

“If the enemy knows you’ve destroyed this code, it will be in their power to make you tell them your poem.” Noreen’s eyes were grave. “Remember it’s what would allow the Germans to transmit to England and endanger the lives of all who come after you. That’s why you have the pill.” Then she smiled. “Now, here’s your ‘poem’—we chose it especially for you.”

Maggie was expecting something from Shakespeare, Milton, or even the King James Bible—but not what Noreen passed her.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Maggie smiled, delighted to see the words again. As she’d been taught, she picked five words at random:
equal, rights, life, liberty
, and
happiness
. Noreen copied the words down, then created Maggie’s code. And so the five words became:

which corresponded to the code alphabet of

“You’re our honorary Yank,” Noreen said. “So we wanted something appropriate.” She pointed to Maggie’s skirt. “There’s a secret pocket in the hem.”

Maggie found it and tucked the scrap of silk away.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing.” From a shelf, Noreen pulled a bag full of black yarn and long knitting needles. She drew out a scarf in progress. “Margareta is a knitter.”

“All right …” Maggie said, not seeing the point but willing to play along.

“Do you know why?”

Maggie’s forehead creased. “Knitting socks for German soldiers?”

“Yes, many German women do that in their spare time. But,” Noreen said, holding the half-done scarf in one hand, “this knitting might save your life. Do you see the pattern?”

Maggie squinted. It was hard to see any sort of a pattern in pearl stitches against flat stockinet in black yarn; it all looked like mistakes. “Not a great knitting job.”

“Look closer,” Noreen said.

Maggie did. “It’s
code
,” she said, realizing.
Ah, brilliant!
“Morse code.”

“In an emergency, if you can’t get to a radio, knit a message into your scarf, then go to Hasenheideplatz, located just outside your contact’s flat. There will be an older woman there, every morning, sitting on a bench and working on her knitting—Berlin’s answer to Madame Defarge. She’ll see the code you’ve knit in and copy it, to get it back to us. Likewise, she may provide information for you. When you’re done, rip the coded stitching out.” Noreen looked hard at Maggie. “You
do
knit, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Maggie replied. “I do. Not well, and I can’t turn heels, but enough to knit some code, certainly.” It was one of the few
traditionally feminine crafts that Aunt Edith had taught her. Knitting had a structural logic based on geometry and proportion that had always appealed to her. She accepted the needles and ball of yarn from Noreen, and tucked them into her handbag.

There was a sharp rap at the door. “The car’s here, ladies,” a woman called.

Maggie and Noreen made their way downstairs. A glossy black Riley had pulled up in front of the door and was idling. The driver, a FANY in her brown uniform, exited the car. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said as she walked around to open the trunk.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, handing over her valise. “You
are
coming with me?” she said to Noreen in what she hoped was a strong and confident voice.

“Absolutely,” Noreen answered, opening the car door. “Come on, hop in.”

It was getting dark by the time they reached the Whitley airport in Reading, the night air chill after the warm summer day. The car went through security and then out to the airfield.

They pulled into the parking lot. Maggie and Noreen exited the car and entered the building. “Why don’t you use the loo? It’s a long way to Berlin.” Noreen touched Maggie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry—they won’t leave without you.”

Maggie found the ladies’ W.C. Her face in the mirror was gray.
What am I doing?
she wondered. But it was too late to go back now.

“Almost ready!” Noreen chirped to Maggie when she returned. She pulled papers from her purse. “Now, here are your passport, identity card, proof of Aryan descent, and your ration card. Put them in your wallet. You’ll need to sign them, as Margareta Hoffman,
of course. Let’s see, and clothing coupons and some more Reichmarks. Don’t spend them all in one place.”

Maggie accepted the fountain pen, a Lamy, and practiced her new signature in German script a few times before actually signing her name. “Did this actually come from Germany?” she asked as she signed numerous documents and official papers.

“It’s German, but it came from the Lower East Side of New York City.”

Maggie finally finished signing everything. Her stomach was doing flips in nervous anticipation.

“Goodbye, Margareta,” Noreen said, kissing her on both cheeks. “We don’t say ‘good luck’ in this business, so I’ll just say ‘cheers.’ We’ll see you soon.”

Maggie took a shaky breath as her heart thudded in her chest. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, kissing Noreen back. “Piece of cake.” It was now time to board the plane.

This moment was exactly what she’d trained for. Still, now that she was climbing the narrow ladder to the Westland Lysander’s hinged door, she was having second thoughts.
I’m stupid, I’m so ridiculously stupid—why couldn’t I have stayed a secretary? Or a governess? I was actually good at those things …
Maggie reflected as she took off her shoes and put them in her suitcase. Then she bandaged her ankles, rolled up her skirt, zipped up her padded jumpsuit, and pulled on heavy boots.

It’s just like training, it’s just like training …
she repeated to herself, like a mantra.

“Your parachute’s up there.” The RAF sergeant, a young man with high color, low voice, and a Scottish accent, wore a shearling jacket. He helped her up the ladder through the trapdoor in the midsection of the plane, a converted Halifax bomber, with the underside gun turret removed and replaced by a hatch.
The belly of
the beast
, Maggie thought. Her nostrils flared as she detected the scent of oil.

The RAF sergeant boarded behind her; he would be her dispatcher when they reached the drop zone. Her folded-up parachute was at one end of the plane. Her suitcase, now packed into a crate, was attached to another parachute.

The engines started up with a roar. Maggie strapped herself in next to the sergeant, in the walled-off area that was just behind the nose, where the flight crew sat. “You doing all right there, miss?” he said. “If you need to be sick, there’s a bucket in the corner.”

“I won’t need it, Sergeant,” Maggie assured him.
At least I really, truly hope not
.

The plane began moving, slowly at first, then gaining speed as it finally achieved liftoff, and Maggie could hear the wheels being retracted with a loud crash and a corresponding tremor.

“Now, I have some hot tea,” the sergeant said, pulling out a green-and-silver Thermos. “But I also have some gin if you’d prefer.”

“Tea, please,” she said, thankful for a civilized beverage in strange circumstances. “Just a little,” she amended, realizing the plane had no toilet.

“We also have some cheese sandwiches. Oh, look, a bar of chocolate!”

Maggie’s stomach turned a few somersaults. “Really—you have it.”

“Nervous?” he asked, not unkindly.

“No. Well—maybe a little.”

“It’s good to be nervous,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder. “Means you’re alive. Now, we’ll be flying over the Netherlands and then into Germany. Might try to get in a catnap while we’re up here. They’re going to turn the lights off soon, anyway.”

Maggie finished her tea, crossed her legs and arms, and closed her eyes. She internally recited Canto III of Longfellow’s translation of Dante’s
Inferno
—it seemed appropriate, after all—