PRAISE FOR SUSAN ELIA MacNEAL’S
Maggie Hope Mysteries
“MacNeal’s Maggie Hope mysteries are as addictive as a BBC miniseries, with the added attraction of a well-paced thriller. It’s not just an action-packed mystery; it’s also the story of a family and lovers caught in WWII and one woman’s struggle to find her place in a mixed-up world.”
—RT Book Reviews (TOP PICK, 4½ stars)
“Enthralling.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
“Compulsively readable … The true accomplishment of this book is the wonderfully complex Maggie.… With deft, empathic prose, author MacNeal creates a wholly engrossing portrait of a coming-of-age woman under fire.… She’ll draw you in from the first page.… You’ll be [Maggie Hope’s] loyal subject, ready to follow her wherever she goes.”
—Oprah.com
“A charming book with an entertaining premise … a fast page-turner with several interesting plot lines keeping you on the edge using humor and playfulness to keep the story moving.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Brave, clever Maggie’s debut is an enjoyable mix of mystery, thriller and romance that captures the harrowing experiences of life in war-torn London.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“MacNeal layers the story with plenty of atmospheric, Blitz-era details and an appealing working-girl frame story as Maggie and her roommates juggle the demands of rationing and air raids with more mundane worries about boyfriends.… The period ambience will win the day for fans.”
—Booklist
“Maggie, a cerebral redhead, makes a smart plucky heroine.”
—The Boston Globe
“A captivating, post-feminist picture of England during its finest hour.”
—The Denver Post
The Prime Minister’s Secret Agent is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some of the well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books eBook Edition
Copyright © 2014 by Susan Elia MacNeal
Excerpt from Mrs. Roosevelt’s Confidante by Susan Elia MacNeal copyright © 2014 by Susan Elia MacNeal
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Mrs. Roosevelt’s Confidante by Susan Elia MacNeal. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
MacNeal, Susan Elia.
The Prime Minister’s Secret Agent: a Maggie Hope mystery/Susan Elia MacNeal.
pages cm.—(A Maggie Hope mystery)
ISBN 978-0-345-53674-7
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-53910-6
1. Women spies—Fiction. 2. Undercover operations—Fiction. 3. World War, 1939–1945—Scotland—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. 5. Spy stories. I. Title.
PS3613.A2774P69 2014
813’.6—dc23
2013050770
www.bantamdell.com
Title-page image: © iStockphoto.com
Cover design: Victoria Allen
Cover illustration: Mick Wiggins
v3.1_r1
Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
—Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act IV, Scene 1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Historical Notes
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Excerpt from Mrs. Roosevelt’s Confidante
Prologue
THERE WILL ALWAYS BE AN ENGLAND!
The graffito had been painted defiantly in blue on a brick wall in an alley off Piccadilly, near Green Park in London, during the Battle of Britain, in June 1940. Now, almost a year and a half later, it was faded, pockmarked, almost obliterated. Like London itself, like the British people, still standing alone against Hitler and bracing against imminent invasion of their island, it had seen better days.
Commander Ian Fleming walked past the scrawled sentiment with Dušan Popov, down Piccadilly to St. James’s Street, then made a sharp left onto the almost-hidden St. James’s Place. Their destination: Dukes Hotel, one of the Commander’s favorite haunts. In Fleming’s opinion, the bar at Dukes was the best place in London for a Martini, the American Bar at the Savoy notwithstanding.
Fleming was the private secretary and protégé of Rear Admiral John Godfrey, Director of Intelligence for the Royal Navy and the linchpin of all of the top-secret British intelligence agencies as well as the Prime Minister’s staff. He was a handsome man, with hooded, downward-slanted eyes, a largish nose, and full lips. He’d just returned from the United States, where he’d assisted Godfrey in writing a blueprint for a new intelligence agency for the U.S. government, in the hope that it would help the existing ones overcome the petty infighting and withholding of information.
Fleming and Popov passed through Dukes’s elegant lobby with its graceful staircase to the dimly lit bar. “It’s not the same,” Fleming mused, shaking his head as they sat down on blue velvet chairs at a small table in the corner, where they couldn’t be overheard.
“What’s not the same?” Popov asked, beckoning to a waiter in a white coat. They were surrounded by the soft sounds of murmured conversations, punctuated by the occasional muted ring of the telephone from the front desk. “Champagne, my good man.”
Popov was known as an international playboy, a lawyer with an import–export business in Belgrade that often took him to London. He was handsome, almost louche, with a rakish self-confidence that made some of the women in the bar—as well as a few of the men—glance over with interest. His receding brown hair was brushed straight back, his complexion olive, and his eyes gunpowder gray. His hands were manicured.
“Nothing’s the same,” Fleming replied. “Dukes. London. All of Britain. It’s sad now, worn-out, disheartened. I brought you here instead of Boodle’s because I knew you’d appreciate the scenery.” The two men looked around the small bar. A fire crackle
d in the fireplace, but still the room was chill. Forced white hyacinths on one of the side tables drooped; they gave off the sickly sweet aroma of decay. A few older men and their lady friends sipped drinks.
Fleming lowered his voice. “But look at these women—too thin, wearing made-over gowns, their lipstick more wax than color. Last year, they would have been laughing and flirting. Now they just look tired—”
The waiter returned with a bottle of Champagne and popped the cork. He poured the pale liquid into two coupes.
Fleming lifted his to the light and inspected it. “—and even the Champagne’s flat.” During the first year of the war, Londoners had delighted in defying Hitler, making it their personal battle to drink and dance as much as they could to thumb their noses at the Nazis and their bombs, which rained down nightly. In the midst of tragedy, it had been a mark of honor to attend parties and the theater, even if evenings ended in bomb shelters. Those days were now gone. London was changed, scarred, depressed, nerves stretched to the breaking point.
“I passed by a factory the other day,” Fleming continued, taking a sip of Champagne. “There was all sorts of noise and banging hammers and singing—sawdust everywhere. And I thought, How wonderful—life and industry go on.” He grimaced at the wine’s taste and set the glass down. “Then I realized they were making coffins.”
Popov took a sip and, like Fleming, pushed it away. He lit a cigarette. “It’s bad in Berlin, too, if it makes you feel any better.”
“A bit,” Fleming admitted. He looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “Now, let’s hear what you have for us.” Popov was working for the British, as a double agent. He was Serbian by birth, born into an affluent Yugoslav family. And he was also a spy. First as agent “Ivan” for the Nazis, then as double agent “Tricycle” for the British.
Popov leaned in. “I’ve just returned from Lisbon,” he said in a low voice. “My Abwehr handler there wants me to set up a network of Nazi spies in the U.S. They have a number of willing recruits, but they’re so bumble-fingered that they were caught by the OSS. So Canaris wants me to go to the U.S. and do the job right. Specifically, the Germans want me to go to Hawaii.”
“Hawaii?” This surprised the usually unflappable Fleming. “That’s a bit off your usual beat, old thing.”
“My handler gave me a very interesting questionnaire, from the higher-ups at the Abwehr, who are working with the Japanese. He wants me to fill it out when I go to the United States next week.”
“Really.”
“It has to do with Pearl Harbor, to be exact. The U.S. just moved their fleet there, from San Diego. They want me to gather information to be passed to Germany, then on to the Japanese. Detailed questions about Pearl Harbor’s port facilities, fuel supply, fuel dumps, ammunition dump, ships and where they’re berthed. Detailed operational planning. Looks like the British attack on Taranto proved to be an inspiration. The Royal Air Force took out more than half the Italian fleet at one go. One can only assume that Japan wants to repeat a surprise Taranto-style raid at Pearl Harbor.”
Fleming shook his head. “Pearl’s too shallow.”
“When the RAF took out the Regia Marina in the harbor of Taranto they used aerial torpedoes, which took out the ships despite the shallow water.”
“Bloody hell.” Fleming took another sip of Champagne and grimaced again. “If the Japs attack Pearl Harbor—”
“—it might be just the thing to get Roosevelt and the Yanks into this war.” Popov sighed, tapping his cigarette’s ashes into a heavy crystal bowl.
“I’ll set up a meeting for you with Hoover at the FBI when you arrive in Washington.”
Popov leaned back in his chair, eyeing a new woman who’d entered the bar. “By the way, did you know that the Germans aren’t using invisible ink anymore?” he said, finally turning his attention back to Fleming.
“No?” Fleming cocked an eyebrow. “What are the Krauts using?”
“Microdots. Pages and pages of information, stored in a period on a piece of paper. Here’s a telegram with one—have your people take a look at it.” He reached into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and pulled out an innocuous-looking missive, laid it on the table. Then, “Speaking of the Abwehr, how is Clara Hess?”
Fleming sighed, then reached over and smoothly pocketed the envelope. “She’s been in the country for over two months now. We haven’t gotten much from her. But Churchill feels she’s worth more to us alive than dead.”
“Beautiful woman, Clara Hess.”
Fleming once again raised an eyebrow. “Her too?”
Popov shrugged. “What can I say? I have a reputation to uphold.” He smiled. “Frain says now that she’s defected, she wants to spy for Britain—become a double agent.”
“I don’t trust her.” Fleming pushed away his coupe. “However, that doesn’t mean she can’t be useful to us.” He beckoned to one of the white-jacketed waiters.
The man walked over and bowed slightly. “Is everything all right, gentlemen?”
Fleming waved a hand. “Please take away this ghastly excuse for wine—”
The waiter bowed again. “Yes, sir. So sorry, sir—”
“—and bring us each one of your fabulous Martinis. Plymouth Gin, of course.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The waiter swiftly made his way back to the bar.
Fleming called over, “And my good man—make sure they’re shaken, not stirred.”
As befitting his cover as a Nazi agent, Popov took a Pan American Dixie Clipper flying boat from San Ruiz, Portugal, to New York, and then traveled by train on to Washington, DC. He was carrying seventy thousand dollars in cash, four telegrams containing eleven German microdots, a hardcover copy of Virginia Woolf’s Night and Day—which he would use for coding radio messages back to London—and a torn business card to identify himself to a German agent in New York City. He used one of the microdots to bring the Pearl Harbor questionnaire—which he intended to give to Hoover.
Popov arrived at Union Station in Washington, then took a taxi to the Beaux-Arts-designed Mayflower on Connecticut Avenue. He checked in using the U.S. dollars he’d been given by his German handler. The first thing he did after tipping the bellman for his bags was to search his penthouse suite for listening devices. He didn’t trust the FBI. He didn’t trust the Nazis. He didn’t trust anyone except himself, really.
Placed about the rooms were vases of exquisitely made orchids in cut-glass Waterford vases. He pulled the flowers out. One by one, he checked every vase, and in every one, microphones were attached to the stems of the silk flowers—FBI-issued, from the looks of them.
Popov unzipped his suitcase and took out several boxes of medical cotton wool, kept for just such occasions. He wrapped each microphone in each vase individually, smiling as he did so. It would have been too easy just to destroy the mikes; leaving them, but keeping them from actually recording anything, was a much more elegant solution.
Despite jet lag, he had a reputation to uphold. A quick shower and shave, a bespoke dinner jacket, a splash of lavender-scented Pour un Homme de Caron, and he was ready to go to hear jazz at the Howard Theatre.
After days of interminable bureaucratic delays, Popov finally was able to have his audience with Hoover. The head of the FBI was an autocratic man, whose public image was that of puritanical morality. He was stocky, with a fleshy face and tightly set lips.
After a string of late nights, Popov arrived freshly shaved and lightly scented with cologne, hair slicked back with pomade. Although he’d met a number of times with Percy Foxworth, chief of the FBI’s Special Intelligence Service and principal liaison with British Security Coordination, this was his first meeting with Hoover. The FBI director didn’t bother to stand as Popov was ushered into his office by a stern-faced secretary.
He met Popov’s eyes with a baleful glance and then a brusque “Sit down.”
Popov did, looking around Hoover’s office. It was spacious, but spartan and meticulously
clean, with a large American flag and an enormous bronze eagle presiding. The room smelled of floor wax and window cleaner.
“I realize this meeting is unusual,” Popov said, crossing his legs and taking out a cigarette, “but it’s urgent. I have information you must see—a matter of the United States’ national security.” Popov handed over a sheaf of bills, a few telegrams, and a personal letter.
“No smoking in here,” Hoover barked. Then, “What’s this?”
Popov put away his unlit cigarette but gave a Cheshire-cat smile. “Information from the Abwehr. A questionnaire from the Japanese—about Pearl Harbor.”
Hoover examined the bills, turning them backward and forward, holding them up to the light to check for invisible ink. He found nothing. And nothing on any of the other papers. “Don’t joke with me, Popov—you’ll regret it.”
“Sir, I assure you that all the information from the Abwehr is contained in those documents.”
“Fine, I’ll have one of our cryptographers take a look at them.”
Popov’s smile spread over his leonine face. “No need. Is there a microscope in the building? Tweezers?”
Calls were made and when a young and cowed minion finally procured both, Popov picked up a seemingly nondescript telephone bill and held it in the slanted light from the window, showing Hoover how one of the full stops had a reflective coating. Carefully, Popov lifted the dot from the paper with the tweezers, and then put it under the microscope. He gestured to Hoover to look.
The director of the FBI stood and begrudgingly did.
Popov’s smile broadened. “In that particular dot, you will find the Abwehr questionnaire, which we believe is research for Japan’s Taranto-style attack on Pearl Harbor.”
Hoover’s face turned red. “Sit down, Popov,” he snapped, starting to pace.
Popov continued, “The U.S. fleet in the Pacific operates on an inflexible schedule—at sea for certain lengths of time and at port in between. If someone is able to figure out this schedule, a sneak attack while the ships are docked at Pearl—most likely on a Sunday—is a clear possibility.”
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