Dorothy was new to Washington, and she was brand-new in the Intelligence department. Still, she knew that something was wrong, and she sensed that this particular decrypt was of paramount importance. The Japanese had plans for the military base at Pearl Harbor—and the U.S. fleet was in jeopardy.
She showed her translation of the decrypt to Chief Bryant, her supervisor. “It’s interesting, to be sure, Mrs. Edgars,” he murmured, glancing at his watch. It was Friday, and he was eager to start his weekend. “But surely it will keep until Monday.”
Dorothy bit the inside of her lip in frustration. “I’ll keep working on the translation, sir,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He waved her off. “Would you mind getting me a cup of coffee first? Milk, no sugar.”
But back at her desk in the deserted office, Dorothy continued the translation, hoping that when Lieutenant Kramer arrived, he, at least, would see its importance.
She finished the final lines: If the above signals and wireless messages cannot be made from Oahu, then on Maui Island, six miles to the northward of Kula Sanatorium … at a point halfway between Lower Kula Road and Halakala Road (latitude 20°40′ N, longitude 156°19′ W, visible from seaward to the southeast and southwest of Maui Island), the following signal bonfires will be made daily until your EXEX signal is received: from 7 to 8, Signal 3 or 6, from 8 until 9, Signal 4 or 7, from 9 to 10, Signal 5 or 8.
“Oh my stars,” she whispered, reading the translation again. “Oh! Oh my stars!”
She waited, heart thumping, pencil tapping, until Kramer arrived. “Look, sir!” she exclaimed, jumping up even before he entered the room.
“Mrs. Edgars, please allow me to take off my coat and hat before you start badgering me,” Kramer snapped, not happy to be working the weekend shift, especially after Bratton’s false attack alarm of the previous weekend.
When he’d settled in at his desk, she walked to his open office door and knocked. “Please, sir,” she said, holding out her translation of the decrypt. “Read this. I think it might be important.”
Kramer looked cross as he took the papers. “I don’t know why you’re staying after hours to work on something that isn’t even in your jurisdiction.”
He picked up a pen and began to edit her copy. “You need to make your translations sound more professional, Mrs. Edgars.”
After working at it a few minutes, he said, “Why don’t you run along now, Mrs. Edgars. Although you’ve made a brave attempt at a translation, it still needs a lot of work. I’ll have to finish the editing properly myself next week.”
“But, sir—”
“Go home, Mrs. Edgars,” Kramer insisted. “Your shift is over, and your husband is probably already there, waiting for his dinner. We’ll get back to it on Monday.”
Dr. Carroll knew he didn’t have long if he wanted to solve the mystery of Clara Hess. “Tell me about the first time you revealed yourself to Dr. Teufel.”
Clara smirked. “I thought he was going to piss his pants. He was trying to get her to change her name—he wanted her to have a spy name. So she told him about me—and how I was her doll when she was little, how I was her friend, how she thought I was alive. She was convinced I would talk to her. And of course I did!”
“Then what happened?”
“He gave her an IV drip—and she began to get a horrible stomachache.”
“Do you know what was in the drip?”
Clara shook her head.
“Can you see the writing on the bag?”
She squinted. “S-sodium amatol,” she said, as if reading.
Sodium amatol was a barbiturate that induced trance-like states. “And then?”
“And then she was I—I was she. I was in control of the body. I had the power.”
“And what did you do?”
“I grabbed Dr. Teufel’s arm. I said, ‘It is I!’ The idiot—he actually had to say, ‘Who?’ And I replied, ‘Clara Schwartz!’ ”
“What did he do?”
“You should have seen his face!”
“What was it like?”
“Afraid. Very afraid.”
“And after that, what did he do to get you to come out?”
“He would call my name—‘Clara Schwartz! Clara Schwartz!’ ”
“And then what would happen?”
“Agna would get a horrible stomachache—and I would appear.”
“And this required the medication?”
“At first. Then I didn’t need it anymore. Oh God, she’s coming back!” She doubled over as if in pain, clutching her abdomen. She moaned in agony, then slumped back to her bed.
After a few moments, her eyelids fluttered open. “Where am I?” she asked in a sweet voice.
“Where do you think you are?”
“England? Is it London?” She turned to him, her voice Agna’s but older, a young woman’s voice. “Where is my husband? My daughter?”
“What are their names?”
“Why, Edmund and Margaret. Edmund and Margaret Hope, of course. May I see them? I must see them!” Tears began to spill from her eyes. Suddenly she started, as if pierced by memory, and put a hand to her heart. “And Peter.”
“Peter?” Dr. Carroll looked down at his file. “Peter who?”
“You can’t tell them,” she whispered. “No one must know.”
“No, no, of course not—but who else must you see?”
“Peter. Peter Frain.”
The woman clutched her abdomen. “It hurts, it hurts so much …”
Then came Clara Schwartz’s rough voice again, as if nothing had happened. “The Aryan woman is not the concubine of the Jew! It’s revolting and wrong! It’s against the natural order of racial purity! Does a lion mate with a tiger? No! It’s all about breeding. If a Jew mates with an Aryan, they should be sterilized. Any offspring should be sterilized.”
“This is what you are taught?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you taught to hate?”
“To get me ready for the mission.”
“ ‘The mission’?”
“To London. To Edmund Hope.”
“Who were you when you were with Edmund Hope?” Dr. Carroll decided to press further. “Did Agna know Edmund Hope?”
“I went to London, and Edmund knew only Agna. Grown-up Agna.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Clara shrugged. “Agna is … lovable.” She grimaced with disgust. “Like a fluffy cottontail bunny. And Edmund was an idiot. Plus, Agna didn’t know anything. Not about the training, not about the mission. She could never confess anything, even under torture. Agna was the perfect dupe.”
She smirked. “Of course they fell in love.”
Dr. Carroll was on the telephone in his office. “Frain, I know what you think. But you must come, you must see her for yourself.”
“I’m not up for a dog-and-pony show, Carroll. We’re at war, if you haven’t forgotten, and while we’re bracing for the Kraut invasion, that doesn’t mean we don’t have any number of domestic threats, as well.”
“Half an hour. Give me just thirty minutes. There’s a new personality I want you to observe—an adult Agna. She’s the one who was present in London—she’s the one who married Edmund Hope, who gave birth to Maggie Hope … It was the personality of Clara who was the spy, but Agna was also in London.”
“No.”
“If she indeed has multiple personae, some of them are innocent. Then I must insist on getting another medical opinion before letting you proceed with this execution.”
“Get as many opinions as you want, Doctor. But they won’t sway mine. Unless Clara Hess is willing to cooperate, she’ll be shot on December seventh. Let’s see—that gives you until Sunday.”
The phone rang, the bell shrill in the empty office. Kramer waited for Mrs. Edgars to answer it for him, then realized he’d already sent her home. He picked up the black receiver and barked, “Kramer.”
“I’ve found somet
hing.” It was Bratton. “You need to come over, quick.”
“After your crying wolf last week?” Kramer snapped. “I don’t think so.”
“Just because the wolf wasn’t there last Sunday doesn’t mean there’s not a wolf,” Bratton retorted.
“Fine, fine.” Kramer sighed. “I’ll be right there.” He dropped Mrs. Edgars’s translation into his overflowing in-box, to be dealt with the following Monday.
When Kramer arrived at Bratton’s office, he was cold, damp, and even more annoyed. “You scared everyone to death last week,” he admonished, brushing melting snowflakes off the shoulders of his overcoat. “What is it this time?”
Bratton seemed oblivious to Kramer’s sharp tone. “Tokyo’s alerted its embassy here to stand by for a long message in fourteen parts.”
“So?” Kramer took off his hat and coat and sat down. It was the weekend. Only a skeleton crew was working, all of them exhausted from last week’s false alarm.
“After the transmission, the Japanese Embassy has been instructed to burn their code books and destroy their decryption machines.” Bratton’s eyes shone with determination, and his jaw was clenched. “This is it! This means war! I don’t care—I’ll stake my reputation on it! I’ll stake my very life on it! The Japs are going to attack us!”
“Calm down,” Kramer snapped. “You nearly gave me a heart attack last week. No one’s in the mood for another false alarm, especially not on the weekend. Let me tell you, my wife sure was sore at me. I’m not going through that again.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Bratton said. “And I’m sorry I was wrong about the date. But I know I’m not wrong about the plan to attack. I know it.”
Kramer began to think. “What about their aircraft carriers? Where are they?”
“We don’t know,” Bratton replied, his expression dour.
“We don’t know?”
“We’ve lost them.”
“You’ve lost the Japanese aircraft carriers?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this just gets better and better, now, doesn’t it,” Kramer grumbled, shaking his head. “Have any scotch?”
Bratton pulled a bottle out from a desk drawer, handed it to Kramer, then pulled out two glasses. Kramer poured and both men sipped, lost in their own thoughts.
“I know it looks as if I’m crying wolf again, but I’m convinced they’re going to attack us on Sunday. This Sunday. Sunday, December seventh.”
“So, what can we do?” Kramer sounded resigned.
“Tokyo’s holding the final part until morning, but if you would make the rounds with what we have, I’d appreciate it, Al.”
Kramer started at the first use of his Christian name. “All right, Ruf,” he replied at last, returning the compliment. “Let’s wait for a few more parts to come in—and if they do, then I’ll go to the President.”
Maggie took Sarah by taxi back to her room at the Caledonian, where she fussed over her, fluffing her pillows, tucking a rose silk quilt over her, and making her tea. The blackout curtains were drawn, and the radiator clinked and hissed.
The telephone in the hall rang. It was one of the men from the front desk, saying there was a Mr. Mark Standish in the lobby for Miss Hope. “Do you mind if I meet with him?” Maggie asked Sarah, who was drifting in and out of sleep.
“Go … I’ll be fine, kitten …”
“All right, but I won’t be long, I promise.”
Downstairs, Maggie crossed the lobby quickly. Mark started when he saw her. “How’s our patient?” he asked, taking off his hat.
“Better,” she said with a smile. “It’s going to take a while, but I have no doubt she’ll pull through.”
Mark nodded. “Come, let me get you some tea to celebrate. Or something stronger?”
“Stronger, definitely.”
The bar at the Caledonian had dark wood paneling hung with Sir David Wilkie paintings, full of shadow and menace. Picture lights glinted off the oils, and a fire crackled on the far side of the room.
They sat at a table in a corner near the fireplace. Mark ordered them both scotch. “ ‘The best thing for a case of nerves is a case of scotch,’ as W. C. Fields likes to say,” Mark remarked as the waiter set down two heavy glass tumblers.
“I’m not sure I’ll need that much, but this is lovely, thank you.”
“Least I could do.” He lifted his glass. “To you, Miss Hope. I spent a lot of time thinking you were a waspish shrew and a willful, dangerous girl. But now I can see where ‘winging it’ can be a valid course of action.”
Maggie lifted her glass and they clinked. “Thank you, Mr. Standish. Whatever my mistakes may be—and I know I’ve made plenty—at least I don’t make them twice.” She took a sip of the scotch. “And I am only occasionally a waspish shrew.”
“Cheers. And please call me Mark. I think, after this case, Christian names are permitted?”
“Please call me Maggie.” She smiled. Then, “What’s happening with Diana Atholl?”
“She’s been formally charged with the murders of Estelle Crawford and Mildred Petrie. She’ll be in prison until the trial, which is scheduled for January of the new year.”
Maggie watched the flames dance behind the grate. “Meanwhile, Richard Atholl, the man who had the affair, goes free.”
“His lover’s dead, his wife’s in prison …” Mark pointed out. “Surely that’s retribution?”
“You know,” Maggie said, “they really are Atholls.”
Mark stared at her, and then began to laugh. He laughed so loudly that the other patrons began to look over in curiosity and annoyance.
“Please, I’ve been waiting all week for someone to finally say it. And look, whether things work out between you and Hugh someday—well, regardless, it was a pleasure to work with you, Maggie.”
“Likewise, Mark.” Her eyes dimmed. “But alas, I believe that ship has sailed. Hugh and I … Well, even if we’d stayed together, can you imagine the dinner conversations? ‘So, about that time your mother killed my father …’ No.” She shook her head. “It just wouldn’t have worked out.”
“And your RAF pilot?”
“Also not an option, for many reasons.” For a moment, seeing Mark’s wedding band glint in the firelight, Maggie felt just the slightest bit sorry for herself. And lonely. But that’s ridiculous. “I do have a cat now.” Maggie had a sudden longing to hold K and feel his fur against her cheek and the warmth of his compact body. “And, you know, I’m happy with that. Freud would have a field day with my so-called daddy issues—and so maybe it’s best that I’m on my own.”
“But not forever, certainly?”
“Mark, I don’t know. In this line of work …” Maggie started, then realized she was thinking more of being an agent than an instructor. Am I ready to go back into the field? But what about my old friend, the Black Dog? “… Well, let’s just say that at this point in time—given what I do—a cat is probably a better option than a beau. And certainly a better option than a husband.”
Sarah will live. There is no public health scare. “You realize a man died that night, when his bike didn’t make the jump over the ravine?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mark said. “I do.”
“And I’d do it all again, if I had to,” Maggie said bleakly. Surprised, she realized it was true—to protect those she loved, she would kill. There was no hand-wringing now, as over the dead German boy she’d shot. And the Black Dog was silent.
I’ve become a professional, Maggie realized. No more plucky ingenue.
And whether that’s a good thing or a bad, I have no idea.
Nomura was sitting on a leather sofa in front of a crackling fire in his embassy office. “When the transmission is finished, they want us to destroy our code books and our machines!”
Kurusu was sitting in a winged armchair opposite, his face impassive.
“ ‘Only specially screened members of your communications staff are permitted to process the fourteen-part message
and prepare the typed translation,’ ” Nomura read. He looked to Kurusu. “It will be hard without the help of a skilled typist.”
Kurusu pursed his lips. “Even though your employees here are Japanese, they have picked up the lazy American habit of the ‘weekend.’ ”
“True,” Nomura said, not wanting to argue. He, too, was fond of the “weekend.” He was in the office on a Saturday night only to wait for the message. “But this is too sensitive to have one of the girls type it up. Who can we get, at this late hour?”
“I’ll alert the code room,” Kurusu said. “The situation right now between Japan and the U.S. is extremely delicate. We must be prepared to have each part of the message decoded as soon as it comes in—don’t want things piling up.”
Nomura studied his compatriot, his usually jolly face apprehensive. “Do you know what this is all about?”
“No,” Kurusu said, his face poker-serious. “But I suspect all will be revealed tomorrow.”
Dr. Carroll was not going to give up without a fight. He was determined to question Clara Hess once more, convinced that if he could just find the link between the adult Agna and Clara, perhaps the split could be repaired. “Do you consider Dr. Teufel to be your father?”
Clara played with her hair. “I suppose. I always thought I was hatched.”
“Like Athena, from the head of Zeus?”
Clara snorted and lit a cigarette. “Nothing so grand. Like a chicken egg. Dr. Teufel was my mother hen.”
“But Agna created you.”
“I was with Agna when she was small, yes.”
“But Dr. Teufel made it possible for you to come out fully, to take over Agna’s body. What does she do when you’re here?”
Clara blew out blue smoke. “She rests,” she deadpanned.
“Rests? She’s asleep?”
“Life is hard for her. My being here gives her a chance to rest.”
“How do I control you?”
“The IV drips help me come out, but no—at a certain point I learned I could appear whenever Agna needed me. When life was too hard. When she wanted to rest.”
The Prime Minister's Secret Agent Page 18
