His Majesty's Hope (29 page)

“I would never have come here if I didn’t feel I had no other option,” Maggie said. “But the truth is, I need somewhere to hide. And I thought that, maybe, you could hide me—and perhaps help me find a way out of Germany.”

“What’s wrong?” Elise’s once round and rosy face was now all shadowed angles and planes.

Maggie felt the stabbing pain of guilt. How many innocent people would she entangle in her trouble? “The less you know about it, the better. Again, I never would have come here if I felt there were any other choice—”

“Did Father Licht send you?” Elise interrupted.

“Who?” Maggie was confused.
Who was Father Licht?
“No.”

She shook her head. “I just thought that—Well, you’ve been so kind to me …”
And you’re my half sister …

“Did Frieda tell you about me?”

Maggie’s brows furrowed. “Frieda?”

“It doesn’t matter. All right, I don’t know if I can get you out, but I can certainly hide you. We can cut and dye your hair—”

“No,” Maggie insisted. “I must leave Germany, but not because I’m a Jew.” In English, she added, “You see, I don’t actually belong here. I’m British.”

Elise gaped at Maggie.
“Nein,”
she exclaimed.
“Nein!”
Her face had gone pale.

“It’s true,” Maggie insisted.

Then, to Maggie’s astonishment, Elise started to laugh, golden
and sweet, punctuated with hiccups. “No!” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “
No!
This is a joke! Surely one of the girls at the hospital sent you, as some kind of prank …”

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “But it’s true. I know it sounds crazy, but …”

Else’s giggles had turned to laughter, hysterical laughter. “You
—you
are a spy?”

Half sister
. “Yes.”

“No, it can’t be, it’s like a dream,” Elise said. “I’m going to wake up any minute.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Maggie said.
Believe me, I know
.

Elise reached out and clasped Maggie’s hand. “I will do everything I can to get you out.”

“So, will you hide me? Help find a radio?”

“Of course.” Elise wiped her eyes as her haggard face bloomed into a smile. “Of course. Now, let me get you somewhere safe before anyone sees us.”

The door to the roof opened. Both women tensed until Elise saw that it was Frieda.

“Was zum Geier?”
Frieda exclaimed.
What the vulture?
Maggie translated literally. Meaning, were the vultures circling already?

“It’s all right,” Elise reassured Maggie. “She’s one of us.”

Then, to Frieda, “She’s a friend. A friend who needs help.”

Frieda scowled. “And you’re going to take her home with you, too? Yet another lost kitten?”

The tension Elise lived with day and night began to break through. “I’d like to remind you that your husband is one of my ‘lost kittens,’ Frieda!”

“But you don’t think things through, Elise! The pilot—people eventually assumed he ran away because he’s a deserter, but you never even gave a second thought to what an empty bed would
mean. And I’m being harassed day and night by SS, wanting to know where Ernst has disappeared to. Do you even have a plan for smuggling them out of your attic? And then—you want to add”—she sniffed at Maggie—“her to the mix?”

Maggie’s heart quickened.

“What would you have me do, Frieda? Deny her shelter? She’s as good as dead out there!”

Frieda smiled. A strange smile. “Well, I’m glad then that I made my
Pakt mit dem Teufel.
”

“What do you mean—pact with the Devil?”

“Giving my husband, my beloved, to you,” Frieda snapped. “Trusting him to your care.”

“Frieda—”

“Nein!”
The blonde put a thin, blue-veined hand up in the air. “We are done.” She went to the exit, then slammed the door shut behind her.

Elise and Maggie stared at each other.

Maggie could see the strain in Elise’s eyes. “No room at the inn?” She felt her last chance dying. “I don’t want to put you, or anyone else, in any danger.”

Elise put her hand on Maggie’s.
“Nein,”
she said, “there is always room for one more.”

At St. Hedwig’s, Elise led Maggie directly to Father Licht’s office. He looked up from the paperwork on his desk.

“I thought I might see you today, Elise,” the priest said. “Please close the door.”

“Father, this is Fräulein Margareta Hoffman—”

His eyebrows rose, and behind his glasses his eyes opened wide. “You are Margareta Hoffman?”

Maggie stiffened, ready to bolt. Who was this man? How did he recognize her name? Just because he was wearing a priest’s collar and skullcap didn’t mean he was on their side …

“Yes, why?” Elise said.

Father Licht rose. “I am very glad to see you, Fräulein Hoffman. Elise, how did you know to bring her here?”

“I just thought maybe I could hide her, the way I did with—” She stopped abruptly. “But once again, Father, I’ll need your help.”

“My children, we have much to discuss,” he said, rubbing his thin hands together. “But before we begin, I suggest we all take a moment to say a prayer.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Maggie and Elise did the same.

“Now,” said the priest, when the prayer was ended, “let’s discuss how we’re going to handle this, shall we say, rather
unusual
situation.”

The final part of Hugh’s assignment was to let Clara Hess know that Operation Aegir had succeeded. Masterman’s plan was that Hugh carry out the mission Krueger would have. Or at least make it
seem
as if the mission had been carried out.

Hugh’s orders were to stencil large wooden crates with a skull-and-crossbones symbol plus the stern warning

Then he was to take photographs of the crates. These he would send to Hess in Berlin, to prove the mission’s triumphant success.

However, Hugh had a few other plans.

And for those, he’d need a partner. He picked up the green Bakelite receiver and dialed Mark Standish, his friend at MI-5. “I need a favor, old thing,” he said. “Can you get away from the wife and little one tonight?”

“Why?” Mark replied instantly. “Do you actually want to go out and have some fun, instead of moping after your girlfriend?”

Mark had worked with Hugh on the IRA bomb case and the Windsor case—and knew all about his relationship with Maggie. “Meet at the Rose and Crown for a pint?”

“Rose and Crown, first—and then have some fun, yes,” Hugh replied. “Lots of fun.”

By the time Hugh and Mark had downed innumerable pints at the Rose and Crown, and reached the designated storage building with the crates Hugh was supposed to paint, both young men were well and truly drunk.

The warehouse was massive and stuffy. Hugh found the light switch and turned on the overhead fluorescents. Mark had the camera from the XX Committee slung around his neck and an open can of Barkley’s stout in each hand. Hugh carried the stencils, black paint, and a paintbrush.

“So, what now?” Mark demanded, wobbling from all the beer he’d consumed. “We stencil the crates and get a few shots for Hess?”

Hugh grinned. He was staggering as well. “I have something a bit more … interesting in mind.”

He set the paint can down and pried off the lid. Inside, the paint
was glossy and black, and smelled of linseed oil. He dipped his paintbrush into the thick liquid. “And here, my dear friend Mark, is where we’re going to—as Maggie likes to say—wing it.”

Mark stood back and watched as Hugh painted each box, eyes growing wider with each one. “You can’t be serious,” he protested. “Surely we’re going to turn them around and paint with the stencils now, yes?”

“No.” Hugh’s eyes were dark with suppressed anger. “We are not.”

Mark held up his hands. “You must be joking. This is career suicide.”

“She killed my father,” Hugh said. “She nearly assassinated the King and kidnapped the Princess.”

“She’s Maggie’s mother,” Mark stammered.

“Yes, and she left her.
Left her
. Believe me, if Maggie knew what I’m doing, she’d approve. My father—may he rest in peace—would, too.” He dipped the paintbrush into the paint, then pulled it out, splattering himself inadvertently with tiny black drops. “Get the camera!”

“You’re a madman!” Mark said, taking a swig and handing the other beer to his friend. “You’ll give the film to Masterman, he’ll somehow get it to Clara Hess in Berlin, and then—”

“And then I’ll finally have my revenge. Or at least a tiny sliver of it.”

Mark gave a gust of a sigh. He was too drunk to argue. “Well, it’s your arse on the line, my friend.”

“And that, my friend”—Hugh smiled, a wild and dangerous smile—“gives me a
fantastic
idea.”

Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, Head of the Abwehr, lifted the handset of his telephone and dialed 1 for his secretary. “Tell
gnädige
Frau Hess I need to see her.
Now!
”

Canaris was an enigma to most. A distinguished-looking man with white hair and shaggy white eyebrows, he was ostensibly head of the military intelligence organization, yet distrusted by Hitler and most of the high-ranking Nazis, including his former protégé SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich; the German Foreign Minister, Joachim von Ribbentrop; and the Abwehr’s own Clara Hess.

The truth was that Canaris was part of the undercover German resistance movement. In September 1939, the Admiral had visited Poland and seen the atrocities committed by the SS Eisengruppen. He learned, through Abwehr agents, about other incidents of mass murder throughout Poland. These murders weren’t the actions of a rogue Nazi squadron but actions on orders from Hitler himself.

Shocked and horrified, Canaris began working covertly to overthrow Hitler, posing as a loyal Nazi and trusted friend. He climbed the political ladder at the Abwehr and was instrumental in recruiting like-minded men, all determined to work against the Nazis and for the enemy for a Germany free from Hitler.

He used his position in the vipers’ nest of the Abwehr to control both the information and the so-called disinformation the
Nazis received. Although he was technically Clara Hess’s boss, because of her connections with Hitler and Goebbels, she was beyond his sphere of power. Today, however, even they couldn’t help her.

And he took a moment to rejoice in the fact that he would soon be rid of her.

Clara Hess was not used to being summoned. She’d always sided with Ribbentrop, usually against Canaris, in Abwehr politics and policies—and knew the Admiral was no admirer of hers. After powdering her face and applying a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick, she strode reluctantly into his office, leaving behind her a trail of Chanel No. 5.

As a former stage performer, she knew not to let any fear show, and held her head high. Canaris stood up behind his massive desk when she entered.
“Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!”

“Please have a seat, Frau Hess.”

Clara did so, displaying her silk-covered legs in spectator pumps to their best advantage. Canaris sat as well. He picked up a file. “We’ve received the photos from your man in Britain,” he said.

Clara smiled. She’d been in touch with Krueger and knew things were on track. “Fantastic,” she said. “May I see them?”

Canaris passed the folder to Clara, and she opened it to look at the glossy photographs. When she saw the first, of a crate emblazoned with the sloppy challenge
IN LONDON IN
1914,
YOU MURDERED HUGH THOMPSON, SR.
, she blinked, and became very still.

One photograph after another showed wooden crates, painted with personal messages:
I GREW UP TO TAKE HIS PLACE
.

WE OUTWITTED YOU AT WINDSOR & WE HAVE OUTWITTED YOU AGAIN
. She paged through them, one by one, her face betraying nothing.

And then, in stark black and white, was a picture of Hugh, from behind, trousers pulled down, displaying his lean and pale buttocks to the camera.

Clara closed the folder and swallowed hard. She slid the folder across the desk, back to Canaris. He took it and slipped on a pair of glasses. “I’m afraid, Clara, in light of the Windsor situation and now, this botched mission—”

“My spy was turned,” Clara interrupted. “He was weak, susceptible …”

“You were in charge. You must take responsibility.”

“I hope they hanged him,” she spat. “Bullets would be wasted on him.”

“Clara—” Canaris put the folder into a desk drawer and locked it. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but there have been too many mistakes. It’s hard enough that you’re a woman, working in a man’s world—”

“You won’t get away with this!” Clara raged, standing. “Wait until Goebbels hears about this!”

Canaris spoke gently but firmly, the way he would have with a child or dog. “It’s over, Clara. I’m sorry. I’ve spoken with Goebbels—he’s the one who interceded for you, actually.” He pressed a button on his telephone.

Two SS guards appeared at the door. Canaris nodded. “Please escort Frau Hess to the car we have waiting to take her home.”

“I need to go back to my office,” she insisted. “I’m going to the opera tonight and I have to change.”

“Still playing the part.” Canaris sighed. “All right, you may go back to your office.” He nodded at the waiting guards. “Tell the
driver to take her directly to the Berlin Opera House when she’s finished.” He looked back to Clara. “Any personal effects you have in your office will be packed and sent to your home.”

She looked down at him with a cryptic, almost pitying smile.
“Jawohl,”
she said, and swept out.

At St. Hedwig’s, Elise and Father Licht decided that Maggie would go to Elise’s. “I know I prepared those rooms for the children …”

“Children?” Maggie asked.

“The children of the euthanasia program,” Elise explained. “Operation Compassionate Death.”