His Majesty's Hope (36 page)

Maggie reached over impulsively to hug her friend. “I’ll do everything I can to be there, dear Chuck.”

Six underground stops away from Westminster Cathedral was Postman’s Park. Which was where Maggie went, instead of Nigel and Chuck’s baby’s christening.

It was a tiny green plot in central London, just a short walk from St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the churchyards of St. Leonard, St. Botolph, and Aldersgate, and the graveyard of Christ Church, Newgate Street, converged. Everyone called it Postman’s Park because so many of the nearby postal workers had their lunch there, but officially it was known as George Frederic Watts’s Memorial to Heroic Self Sacrifice. It was a small spot, humble, and easy to miss in the midst of the City’s rushing self-importance.

In a corner of the park, hidden under a canopy, were beautiful handmade painted tiles by William De Morgan, a contemporary of William Morris’s. Each tile was a memorial to someone who sacrificed his or her life to save another.

This was where Frain proposed that he and Maggie meet. Despite being so close to Fleet Street, it was quiet in Postman’s Park. And although the air was cool, it smelled of grass and soil warmed by the sun. Frain, who’d been sitting on one of the benches and reading
The Times
, stood when Maggie appeared. He looked as he always did, like an aging matinee idol—his hair sleek, his suit pressed perfectly, and his handmade Italian shoes impeccably shined. His eyes were the same, too: gray and hard as slate.

“This had better be good,” Maggie said, sitting and taking out a cigarette.

Frain sat back down and took out his lighter for her. The wheel struck the flint, producing a blue and yellow flame. “Thank you,” she said as she inhaled, both of them watching the tip ignite into red.

“Since when do you smoke?” Frain asked.

“Since when are you so curious about my personal habits?” she retorted. Then, “Since I returned from Berlin.”

“I see,” Frain said. Then, “Thank you for agreeing to meet me here.”

“Did I have a choice?” Maggie was exhausted—her face was drawn, with smudges of purple under her eyes. She had lost the plushness of youth.

“Of course you do. But since I was the one who originally brought you into the spy game, I do feel a certain amount of responsibility to you.” Frain lit his own cigarette. “How are you?”

“I’m getting through, one hour at a time. No, let me rephrase that—one minute at a time.”

She wouldn’t look Frain in the eye, and instead glanced over at the painted tiles.
“William Donald of Bayswater aged nineteen, railway clerk, was drowned in the Lea trying to save a lad from a dangerous entanglement of weed. July sixteenth, 1876,”
she read aloud.
“George Lee, fireman. At a fire in Clerkenwell carried an unconscious girl to the escape falling six times and died of his injuries. July twenty-sixth, 1876. Elizabeth Boxall aged seventeen, of Bethnal Green who died of injuries received in trying to save a child from a runaway horse. June twentieth, 1888.”
Maggie gave a delicate snort. “It’s a bit macabre, no?”

“Actually,” disagreed Frain, “I think it’s rather beautiful.”

“Didn’t realize you had a ghoulish streak, Peter.”

“Unlike these poor souls, you didn’t die, Maggie. But I want
you to know that I understand the sacrifice you made. That you’re still making. That you will continue to make.”

She finally fixed her gaze on him. “You knew all along, didn’t you? You and Churchill.”

There was no “Mr. Churchill” anymore.

“About my father and my mother.
That’s
why I was hired for the secretary job in the first place.
That’s
why I was able to become a spy.
That’s
why I was sent to Berlin. I was bait to bring Clara in.”

She stared at the tiles, no longer seeing the litany of heroics. “You both used me. And, worst of all, I let you. I was an ambitious young thing and I believed in the cause. I wanted to be a patriot.”

Her lips twisted in a smile. “Ha!”

“Maggie.” Frain searched for the right words. “I was hoping that you’d never learn the truth, but it was inevitable, I see now. Now you know. And now you have to deal with what’s been uncovered.”

“Well, I have a fantastic way to ‘deal with it,’ as you so ambiguously say—I quit.” She threw her half-smoked cigarette down and ground it savagely under her heel.

Frain sighed. “It’s not that simple, Maggie.”

“Well, let me make it that simple for you. I quit. I resign. I’m walking away. You can find someone else to get information out of that woman. Because I’m never going to speak to her, ever again.”

“I’m not sure that anyone else can. She’ll only talk to you. And if she doesn’t talk, she’ll be executed.”

“That’s not my problem—I quit, remember?”

“You can’t quit, Maggie,” Frain said. “You’re a spook now. You’re part of a family.”

“Don’t you
dare
talk to me about ‘family’!”

“When you first started with Churchill you were certainly smart, but unfocused, a bit unformed. Frankly, I didn’t know if
you had what it takes to work in Intelligence—whether you had the skills, the cunning to survive. But the way you handled yourself in Berlin shows us that you’re the whole package now. Look at yourself. You’re strong, capable, and yes, even ruthless. You should be proud of how far you’ve come.”

“I don’t want to be ruthless,” Maggie shot back. “I never wanted to be ruthless. I want to be ruthful. Full of ruth, in fact.”

“I understand that you’re upset. But it will be worth it when we win this war.”

“Look, Peter,” Maggie said bitterly. “I’ve changed. I’ve done things I never thought I was capable of doing. I killed a man. A boy, really. He’s dead now—because of me. Me! His blood is on my hands, and I’ll think of him for as long as I live.”

“He was the enemy.”

“That’s nonsense! He was a boy. A boy! A scared little boy, with the rest of his life ahead of him.”

“A boy who was willing to kill you.”

“Because he
had
to. Because that’s what he was brainwashed to do. That’s the world we live in now. Just a few years ago, we might have been friends.”

“And that’s the world we’re fighting for,” Frain argued. “But, for now, you must … turn your heart to stone. We don’t have time right now for guilt or empathy or compassion. You must set aside your moral compass—and do whatever it takes—to win.”

“
 ‘Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster.’
 ” Maggie stood and smoothed her skirt. “If I set aside my moral compass, doesn’t that mean we’ve already lost?” She blinked back hot tears. “Just as I’ve lost a sister. She thinks I’m a monster, you know. And then there’s Gottlieb—” Her voice broke. “Gottlieb is dead now. Because of me.”

“No.” Frain shook his head. “Gottlieb is dead because he was a German resistance fighter who, unfortunately, was caught.”

“He didn’t want me to stay. He didn’t want me to work for Oberg.”

“If you hadn’t worked for Oberg, you’d never have found the files that you were able to pass on to the resistance circle.”

“He’s dead,” Maggie insisted dully. “Just like that boy is dead.”

Frain leaned back, studying the tip of his cigarette. “We’re part of the same club now, Maggie. It’s the club no one realizes exists before they’re in it. And it’s the club no one with any sanity would want to be a part of. But now we’re in it. Together.”

“The murderers’ club. Yes, I’m a card-carrying member now. How absolutely wonderful for us. Is there a secret handshake? A certificate? A medal, perhaps?”

“You need some time. You need to heal.”

“I’m just so tired.” She slumped down on the bench. “Can’t you understand that? I’m tired—exhausted—in the very marrow of my bones.” Then, “That boy’s face haunts me.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. But we need
you.
”

She stabbed a finger at him. “You need my access to Clara.”

“We need you.”

“But I don’t need you. I’ve already spoken with Lord Nelson, and I’m going back to Arisaig, to the training camp. It was peaceful there. I can teach the new recruits. Get them into shape. Run along the Scottish coast. That’s all I can handle right now.”

“Of course. Run the beaches, get your head together. But I’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t be. I’m serious.”

“Listen to me, Maggie Hope. I’m older than you. I’ve seen things you can’t even begin to imagine. I’ve done things that make me want to smash my head against a wall and howl. I know I have the reputation for being cold and calculating—ruth
less
, if you will. I follow my brain, not my heart—and certainly not my conscience. But one thing I’m sure of in this war is
you.
”

Maggie gave a harsh laugh. “Flattering words, Peter, and a few months ago, they would have done the trick. But I don’t want to be a ‘warrior’ anymore. So—no. Thank you.”

Frain rose and held out his hand. “And I don’t want to be this dashing and debonair. But we all have our crosses to bear.”

Maggie smiled, finally. She grasped his hand. It was strong and warm. She rose as well.

“Go to Scotland,” Frain said, clapping her on the back. “Whip those trainees into shape, get your head together. In a few months, I’ll give you a call and we’ll see where you are. Oh—and get that bullet removed.”

Maggie put her hand to her side instinctively. “How do you know about my bullet?”

Frain crushed his cigarette beneath the sole of his shoe. “I’m in Intelligence—it’s my job to know everything. And it’s damned stupid to keep that thing inside of you.”

“I’m quite fond of it now.”

“You’re plucky, Maggie—I’ll give you that.”

“Oh, Peter, please don’t call me plucky. I
hate
being called plucky. Plucky is for Pollyanna heroines who stomp their feet, and toss their hair, and put their hands on their hips. Even if I ever used to be like that, I’m far too damaged now.”

“Give it time.” He tipped his hat. She nodded. After a long, hard look at each other, they turned and walked in opposite directions.

The christening supper was held at Chuck and Nigel’s flat. It was a simple affair—weak tea, Lord Woolton pie, and victory buns. There was a knock at the door. When Nigel went to open it, Maggie stood there.

“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, raising on tiptoe to kiss Nigel on the cheek. She took off her gloves and unpinned her hat, which he took. “And sorry I missed the ceremony.”

“We’re glad you could make it, Maggie,” Chuck said as she hugged her friend.

“Of course!” Maggie said, a little too brightly, handing Chuck a gift wrapped in gilt paper. “Congratulations on Griffin’s baptism. Where’s the darling boy?”

“The little bunny’s napping right now.” Chuck led Maggie inside. “Poor thing’s completely knackered from his big day. May I get you something? Tea?” Around the table were John, David, Freddie, and Ernst, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Greene. The men rose at her arrival.

“How lovely to see you all again,” Maggie said stiffly. She spotted an open champagne bottle. “Fizz?”

“Coming right up, darling!” Nigel said.

“Sit down, darling,” Chuck said. Maggie obeyed, sitting next to Ernst at the linen-swathed table, across from David and Freddie.

John had a blank look on his face, hard and cold, the kind of look Maggie imagined he’d had as he flew into battle.

“We were just talking about Ernst’s next move,” David said, realizing Maggie’s discomfort and trying to smooth things over. “Since he’s a doctor, a surgeon at that, he’s volunteered for active medic duty. He’ll be working on the front lines.”

“Ernst, you’re a Jew, yes?” Mr. Greene asked.

“Yes, sir,” Ernst answered. “And if not for Elise and Maggie, I’d be in a concentration camp by now. Or worse. And, because of your son, and his connections with Number Ten, I’ll be able to use my skills to help save British soldiers.”

“David,” Mr. Greene said, “is that true? Did you arrange that?”

“I see no reason why Ernst should be stuck in an internment camp. So I put in a word with the P.M.”

The Greenes exchanged a significant look. “You’ve saved a Jew,” his father said.

His mother put a hand over her heart. “It’s a
mitzvah
.”

“That’s wonderful, Ernst,” Maggie said, accepting the glass of champagne Nigel offered.

“You must have left family behind in Berlin?” Mr. Greene said.

“Benjamin,” Mrs. Greene warned. “He might not want to talk about it.”

“I did,” Ernst replied. “My beautiful and brave wife, Frieda.”

“Frieda?” Mrs. Greene’s forehead creased. “Surely that’s not a Jewish name?”

“No,” Ernst said. “Frieda is Lutheran. And blond and blue-eyed at that. Which is why I think—I pray—she will be safe. David even arranged for her to know that I’m safe.”

“Well,” Mrs. Greene said, giving her husband a significant look, “it’s a brave new world, isn’t it?”

David grinned. “And John’s coming back to Number Ten, right, old boy?”

“My plans are … uncertain.” He refused to meet Maggie’s eyes. “But yes, at least for the present, I’ll be back working at Number Ten.”

David broke the awkward silence. “And what are you doing, Mags? Can you tell us?”

“I’m going to Scotland. Really and truly,” Maggie answered, draining the rest of her glass. “Taking a bit of a working sabbatical.”

“Well, you’ve earned it, certainly.” Chuck reached over to squeeze her hand.

“Please,” Maggie said, desperate to change the subject, “open Griffin’s gift.”

The gold paper fell away to reveal a tiny blue hat and scarf. “Oh, how lovely!” Chuck exclaimed. “Did you knit it yourself?”

Maggie nodded.

David leaned over to take a look. “A few off stitches there, Mags. Not that I could do better, of course.”

“Not off stitches, David—it’s code, actually. Morse code.”

“Ooooh!” Chuck said. “How fantastic! What does it say?”

“Well,” Maggie said, “on the hat is
Griffin Nigel Ludlow, first of September 1941
. And, on the scarf—where I had a bit more room—is a Christina Rossetti poem.” Maggie recited. “Who
has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing through. Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.
”