His Majesty's Hope (8 page)

She was sure she’d never sleep on the plane, but before long her eyes had closed and her mind was filled with images of burning swastikas and the sound of howling wolves. And then she felt the sergeant poke her arm. “Wake up, miss,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Maggie was so groggy and dazed by her nightmare that she didn’t have time to panic as she stood and let him help her on with her parachute. “Now remember what they taught you in training,” he told her. “Keep your legs together when you jump and tuck your chin. And, most important, bend your knees when you land.”

He went to the hatch in the floor and opened the doors. A great gush of icy wind came up, nearly knocking her over. Maggie took a few steps toward it and peered down into the darkness.

“They’re under blackout, too,” the sergeant said. “But, look—that’s our man on the ground. He’s giving the signal. Don’t worry—he’ll take good care of you.”

Maggie felt her heart starting to beat faster and faster. She forced herself to take deep breaths. “It’s time now, miss.”

The plane circled lower and slowed. Maggie walked, with tiny steps, closer to the hole. She and the sergeant squatted down at the edge. Below, they could see a bonfire glittering orange in the darkness. “You all right, miss? Do you want to jump, or should I push you? No shame in it—done it for lots of the boys.”

That made Maggie twist her mouth in a half smile. “No, I want to jump on my own.”

“That’s right,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder again. Maggie was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for his touch. “Now, just remember—bend your knees. Five, four, three, two …”

Maggie jumped, or rather stepped, into the hole and dropped straight down. It felt as if there was no air in her lungs as she fell, her body pushed almost sideways by the contrast in speed, as she plummeted through the air.
S = D/T
, Maggie thought in the logical part of her brain, even as the other parts screamed in fear and excitement, a trick she’d learned on practice jumps.
Speed=Distance divided by Time
.

She pressed the button on her harness to release the parachute, heard it engage, then open, and felt a painful tug on her legs and rear where the straps were attached.

Her descent into darkness began to slow and she almost, almost, had a split second to enjoy the feeling of flying before she hit the ground—sooner than she expected.

And much harder.

She lay on her side, in pain. Slowly the burning feeling subsided, although her knees still throbbed. From a long way off, she heard voices. “
Gute nacht, gnädiges Fräulein!
So glad you could ‘drop in,’ ” a male voice said. She saw the glare of flashlights.

I bet he’s been working on that all day
. Maggie spat out dirt and
grass and sat up, grabbing the hand in front of her and coming up to her feet. There she swayed, unsteady, testing her limbs and joints for damage. But as she hit the disk on her belt to disengage the parachute, she smiled.

“Thank you. Next time, I’ll remember to bend my knees,” she said in perfect German.

One of the men detached the parachute from the crate protecting Maggie’s suitcase, then retrieved the suitcase itself from the padding. “You will be needing this, Fraulein Hoffman,” he said, handing it to her.

“Danke schön,”
Maggie said, trying not just to speak but to
think
in German, as she extricated herself from her jumpsuit. Her ankles and knees were sore, but her left hip had taken the brunt of the impact. She brushed grass from her face and hair and continued to spit out dust and dirt. “What’s your name?”

“Herr Karl. If you can walk now, the auto is over this way.” He picked up her valise and led the way to a waiting truck, its headlights dimmed by blackout slats.

“In you go,” he said, opening the door for her. “I’ll put this in the back.” He also folded both parachutes and broke down the crate, pulling nails from the wood until it collapsed, then putting everything into the truck bed.

As Maggie sat in the front seat, she realized her legs were shaking. And her hands. She was overwhelmed, but part of her was still thrilled.
I’m in Germany!

They drove down a dark and twisting road, to a small farmhouse. There Maggie was introduced to Frau Karl, Herr Karl’s wife, and a young man, their son, called Carl.
Carl Karl
. Maggie tried not to smile.

Herr Adelwin Karl was in his late fifties, with pale, thinning hair and a weather-burned face. His light eyes were filled with fear, and darted back and forth, as though he expected the Gestapo
to break down the door at any moment. Frau Karl was small and dark, with a no-nonsense air that indicated she was the boss of the operation. Carl was young, sixteen at the most, and had an eager, round face. He was solidly built and somewhat clumsy in the way most teenagers are, with large hands and large feet, like a puppy’s.

“Sit down, sit down!” Frau Karl called to all of them as she bustled about the warm and delicious-smelling kitchen. “Dinner is almost ready.” Maggie did as she was bid, sitting at a rough-hewn wooden table, already set.

Sure enough, there were onions sizzling in a cast-iron pan; Frau Karl turned them over with a pair of tongs. Carl took a loaf of brown bread from the cupboard, and Adelwin filled three glasses with milk and brought them to the table. Frau Karl brought a large bowl of mashed vegetables.
“Himmel und Hölle,”
she told them, putting it down. “Apples from heaven and potatoes from the earth.”

Maggie was surprised to find that she had a voracious appetite. She downed everything, mopping up the onion grease with the bread, as well as a good portion of the
Himmel und Hölle
. What she couldn’t finish, Carl Karl tucked into with abandon.

When they were done, and the table was cleared, Adelwin brought out train schedules and maps, to make certain that Maggie knew where she was going in the morning. Herr Karl would drive her to the station early; there Maggie would take the train to Berlin, where she would meet up with Gottlieb Lehrer.

“There aren’t many SS here in our tiny town,” Frau Karl told her, “but you still need to be careful. Anyone can turn you in for anything, at any time. Always assume you’re being watched.”

Maggie gave an enormous yawn; it was well after midnight. “Excuse me.”

“Come, let me show you to your room,” Frau Karl said.

Maggie bade good night to the men, then followed Frau Karl
up the narrow wooden stairs. “Your suitcase is in there,” she said, indicating a guest room. “
Schlafen Sie gut
. I will see you in the morning.”

The first thing Maggie did was open her suitcase, checking for the radio transmitter crystals and the microphone. She breathed a sigh of relief: both seemed undamaged.

She was able to undress and put on her nightgown before the first wave of exhaustion engulfed her. She barely had time to pull the quilt over her before she was fast asleep.

Downstairs, Frau Karl cleaned up the kitchen, washing the last of the dishes. “Do you think she’ll make it? She’s a woman after all. She might have an advantage. No Nazi would ever believe that a woman could be a spy.”

“I hope so,” Herr Karl said, drinking ersatz coffee. “I certainly hope so.”

Elise had been shocked to receive the invitation to Gretel Paulus’s memorial service. The card stock was thick and bone-white, the text engraved in black ink.

The day of the memorial service, Elise donned her best black crepe dress, hat, and gloves. It was hot; Elise’s dress stuck to the small of her back. Underneath the hat, her hair was damp.

The service was traditional, and the priest sounded truly sorrowful to have lost the little girl from his congregation. Afterward, Elise, with the rest of the mourners, went to the Pauluses’ nearby home. It was a large and comfortable third-floor apartment in a
baroque limestone building. Inside, Bauhaus furniture was juxtaposed against nineteenth-century herringbone wood floors. The wide windows looked out over a courtyard garden, where roses bloomed and a raven croaked in an apple tree. People dressed in black milled about, clutching delicate cups and saucers, speaking in subdued voices.

“Ah, Nurse Hess,” said Gretel’s father, finding her in the crowd. His eyes were blank and his voice was a monotone. “How good of you to come. Gretel always spoke so well of you. Won’t you have something to drink? Eat?” He indicated a plantation table in the dining room, swathed in white linen, piled high with fruit, cold cuts, cheeses, breads, and pastries. A fat black housefly buzzed over the table, finally landing on a sticky, almond-covered
zuckerkuchen
.

“I’m fine, thank you, Herr Paulus,” Elise replied. “I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t know Gretel for long, but she was a lovely child. She was always so brave and cheerful.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Nurse Hess,” he said, his eyes trying to focus.

Elise wondered whether to press on. The girl was dead, after all. Why upset a grieving father? Then she remembered Gretel holding her little bear, and took a breath. “If I may ask, Herr Paulus, what was the cause of her death?”

“Pneumonia,” he said flatly. “They told us she died of pneumonia.”

“They ‘told you’?” Elise repeated, confused. “Gretel didn’t die at home? I wasn’t aware that she’d been readmitted to Charité.”

Herr Paulus blinked. “No, no—she left Charité and was sent to the Hadamar Institute, for additional evaluation. While she was there, she caught pneumonia. They sent us her ashes in an urn. We didn’t even have time to see her. We don’t even have her body to
bury. They sent her away to Hadamar without telling us. It was only later that we were informed. And then it was too late.” He turned to the urn on the mantel, in front of a framed oil painting of Hitler. It was shiny and black, an enameled swastika facing front.

“I’m so sorry,” Elise repeated to Herr Paulus, thinking of the little blond girl with the teddy bear who’d been on the gray bus. Hadamar?
Why on earth had Gretel been sent to Hadamar?
Elise gave her condolences to Gretel’s mother as well and left, taking the S-Bahn to Charité. Something was wrong.

And she was determined to look at Gretel’s files.

Despite the war, football continued in Britain.

Under a gunpowder-gray sky, Chelsea, in royal blue uniforms, took the grassy green field, representing West London. They were facing off against Sunderland, in red, white, and black.

Peter Frain, head of MI-5, might have looked as though he’d be more at home at the ballet or opera, but he was a lifelong Chelsea fan. The crowd, mostly Londoners, was busy booing Sunderland star footballer Horatio “Raich” Carter, who’d joined the Sunderland Fire Service. Although most of the prominent professional players left in the leagues had already volunteered for or been drafted to the armed forces, the fire service was a reserved occupation, and some thought it was a tactic to avoid military service. As a result, Carter was often jeered by the opposing team’s fans.

Far, far up in the stands, well away from the crowd, Frain and his younger protégé, Hugh Thompson, booed Carter along with the crowd. As the game commenced, Frain lit a cigarette. “Did you see Maggie Hope before she left?” he asked, squinting.

“Briefly,” Hugh replied. “She’d just returned from training. And she was assigned immediately.”

Frain smoked impassively, until one of the Chelsea midfielders lost control of the ball, allowing one of the Sunderland players to move it toward Chelsea’s goal. “Damn it! Come on, boys!”

Hugh had worked with Frain for several years, ever since Winston Churchill had appointed Frain to the post, and had never seen him in any context that was not professional. He was somewhat amused by his boss’s demeanor at the game.

“You and she did well with the Windsor situation,” Frain remarked.

“Thank you, sir,” Hugh replied. He was proud of his work with Maggie at Windsor Castle. They had indeed worked well together—saving the Princess Elizabeth from being kidnapped by Nazis and carried off to Germany. And the experience had made them grow closer.

But that had been months ago. He’d been officially promoted, but still—nothing really had changed. He was itching for another big assignment. And more work to help him keep his mind off things. When he and Maggie had worked the Windsor case, they’d discovered that Maggie’s mother had been a German Sektion agent, one who’d killed Hugh’s father, an MI-5 operative, among others. Hugh didn’t hold what he’d learned against Maggie; after all, she’d never known her mother. Still, he was having a hard time grappling with the truth about his father’s murder, battling insomnia and lack of appetite.

“You know Robertson.”

“Of course.” Lieutenant Colonel T. A. Robertson was the MI-5 agent in charge of finding and turning over German spies captured in Britain.