The Prime Minister's Secret Agent

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “And why did he hatch you? What was his purpose?”

  “To be the perfect spy, of course. Which I became. Which is what I was in England during the Great War.”

  “Were you ever afraid of him?”

  Clara threw back her head and laughed, a rough, harsh laugh. “He—” She raised a finger and stuck it in Dr. Carroll’s face. “—he was afraid of me.”

  “And what did he have you do?”

  “Assignments—simple at first. Receiving an envelope, then holding it for pickup. Delivering packages around Berlin. Continuing Dr. Teufel’s lessons.

  “Agna doesn’t care that the kikes are pigs,” she said suddenly. “But they all stick together and try to cheat the Aryan. If you turn your back, they’ll stick a knife in it.”

  “What if I were Jewish—would you hate me?”

  “I only hate things that are worth hating.”

  “Do you hate yourself?”

  “There’s hate in everyone—and sooner or later it will always come out.”

  “But do you hate yourself?”

  “No.” Clara laughed, her disdainful laugh. “But I do hate Agna. And they don’t just teach you how to hate—they teach you how to destroy.”

  “Destroy what?”

  “You mean, destroy whom.”

  “Murder?”

  “How to hit, how to kick, how to use your opponent’s own strength and weight against him. Detect, destroy, demolish. We climbed ropes, took furniture apart with razor blades, loaded and unloaded guns …” She smiled proudly. “I became the perfect weapon. Dr. Teufel was proud of me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He liked to show me off. To his colleagues. Other doctors.”

  “What did he do?”

  Her face darkened. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What did he do?”

  Perspiration began to break out on her forehead. “No, no,” she said, looking flustered for the first time since she had emerged. “No. I passed the test, I don’t want to think about it anymore. They made it so I wouldn’t remember!”

  “What test?”

  Clara put her head in her hands, unable to meet the doctor’s gaze. “Dr. Teufel gave me the drip. Well, he gave Agna the drip, and then I appeared. It was a special performance for the other doctors.” Clara began to tremble.

  “What’s wrong?” Dr. Carroll asked.

  “I’m scared,” she answered, looking up with large green eyes, sounding more vulnerable than she ever had before. For a moment, Dr. Carroll thought he might be speaking with Agna, but from her facial expression, it was still clearly Clara.

  “Why are you scared?”

  “They kept me over the weekend,” she whispered.

  Dr. Carroll made a note—Clara was reliving an experience. “The doctors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the date?”

  “It’s 1914, right before I’m supposed to go to London. Dr. Teufel needs to prove to them that I’m perfect—the perfect agent. That I will do anything.” She shuddered. “Absolutely anything.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In a sort of operating room,” Clara said, her voice small. “Dr. Teufel is with me. There are some other doctors up in the gallery. It’s a performance.” She took a deep breath. “No food. No water. I felt sick.”

  Her eyes darted back and forth. “The nurses are pushing me down!” She appeared to struggle. “No! Stop it!” she shrieked.

  “Are they administering the IV?” Dr. Carroll asked.

  “No,” Clara answered in a low voice. “I was already there.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “He has a candle.”

  “A candle?”

  “It’s part of the performance. He lit it.” She began to breathe faster. “No, no!” she cried. “No!”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s asking me questions! He’s trying to get me to denounce my blood, my race!” Clara gasped. “No! No!” She began to struggle. “He says it won’t hurt, that he has total control, but …”

  “What won’t hurt?”

  “He’s trying to put the candle … he’s trying to put the candle …” Clara’s eyes were wild. “No! You said I wouldn’t remember! That I’d never remember!”

  “Was this part of the experiment?”

  “Yes! To prove that I would let them do anything to me!” Then, “I hate you!” She growled, low in her throat, like a wounded animal. “I want to kill you!”

  She made an ungodly sound, more of a howl than a scream. Then she went limp. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He pushed it between my legs,” she said in a little-girl voice. “And they all laughed and clapped. They laughed at me!”

  She turned her face to the wall. “That was when I started to hate him. And that’s when they realized I was ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Ready to go to England,” she said flatly, without emotion. “Because they had created the perfect spy.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dr. Carroll was in his office. It was late at night. He had Clara Hess’s file in front of him.

  As he read through, he tried to put the pieces together. A German woman named Clara Hess had surrendered herself to the British. She claimed she wanted to disclose Nazi secrets, but would only speak with her British-born daughter, Margaret Hope. When Miss Hope refused to see her, Clara refused to speak with anyone else, and fell into what he considered a depressive state.

  Then, without any warning that he could see from her medical records, she not only revealed another personality, but regressed, into a girl of about five, named Agna Frei, who was sweet and innocent. Agna Frei had, in fact, been Clara Hess’s maiden name, Agna Clara Frei. Clara had started out as a doll, but eventually became a facet of Agna’s personality. She was created by the trauma of witnessing her parents’ fighting, her mother’s narcissism, and her father’s neglect. Clara was brash and tough, with a sneer on her face and a chip on her shoulder. Her voice was different—lower and harder, harsh. She fiercely protected Agna, although she also longed for her own existence.

  From what Dr. Carroll could put together from their fractured conversations, Agna Clara Frei had been recruited by Sektion, a precursor of the Abwehr, the German intelligence agency, who exploited her childhood trauma in order to create a completely separate alternate identity. Thus Agna Clara Frei became the woman known as Clara Schwartz. Clara Schwartz was an aspiring opera singer, but was also being secretly trained by Sektion to become a spy. When her training was complete, as evidenced by the trial with the candle—here Dr. Carroll shuddered—she was sent as Clara Schwartz to London. There she met Edmund Hope. But Edmund met and fell in love with Agna, not Clara. They married, and she had a daughter, Margaret Hope.

  At some point her mission was concluded and she changed back into Clara, then went back to Berlin, leaving her husband and daughter to believe that she had died in a car accident. Secretly, though, she had staged the accident and escaped from the hospital, substituting the body of a prostitute in the morgue for her own, and making her way back to Berlin.

  He sagged back in his chair and sighed wearily. It was ingenious, really. As part of the split personality, Agna could be kept in the dark, perfect for a cover. And Clara could step in when needed, obtaining the information Sektion wanted and then planning her escape. It all made perfect sense. Except for one thing.

  Dr. Carroll made a note on Clara’s chart. What is Agna/Clara’s relationship to Peter Frain?

  He looked at his desk calendar. Only twenty-eight hours until Clara’s execution.

  Across town from the Japanese Embassy, Kramer was pacing as Bratton went through the latest of the decrypts. “You’re sure this is all thirteen parts?”

  “Yes,” Bratton said bleakly. The strain of the last month was showing. “Tokyo’s holding the final part until tomorrow morning.”

  Kramer sniffed. “Well, I’m going to make the rounds with what we have so far. Th
ank God the President’s back on the Magic distribution list. And let me know the moment the missing part arrives.”

  “Of course.”

  With his wife as his driver in their trusty blue Chevrolet, Kramer planned to deliver the message in locked briefcases to every single one of the addressees on his distribution list—General Marshall, Secretary Knox, Admirals Stark and Turner, Captains Ingersoll and Wilkinson.

  At the White House, the President was in bed with a sinus infection. Kramer gave it to Harry Hopkins—who didn’t have a Magic key. Hopkins accepted the thirteen-part decrypt, saying he would deliver it to the President. “But don’t worry, the Old Man just sent a personal message to the Emperor. He’s sure it will get negotiations back on track again.”

  At Admiral Stark’s residence, his aide answered the door. “Admiral Stark can’t be reached tonight, sir.”

  “Well, where the hell is he? I need to get this to him!” It was late, and Kramer was cold and tired.

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  At General Marshall’s, the butler checked his watch. “It’s after ten, sir, and General Marshall always retires early.”

  By now, Kramer was apoplectic. “Get me his private secretary!” he bellowed.

  The butler was unruffled. “Yes, sir.”

  An assistant came and looked over the document. “I don’t want to disturb the General for something that’s incomplete, sir,” the young man said, handing it back. “Let me know when the final part is in, and I’ll give it to him then.”

  At Secretary Knox’s residence, the windows were dark and no one answered the door. Kramer had his wife drive him to the nearest phone booth, where he fumbled for change and cursed at his cold, stiff fingers as he struggled with the dial. At the Secretary of the Navy’s residence, the telephone rang and rang.

  Cursing, Kramer hung up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next day, Maggie and Sarah took the train from Edinburgh to Glasgow, changing trains at Queen Street Station under the great glass ceiling, pigeons pecking on the platform. Maggie had arranged for their things to be sent. Sarah leaned on a walking stick.

  On the train from Glasgow to Fort William and then Arisaig, both young women were silent, watching the scenery as it passed. Fields neatly arranged and dotted with white farmhouses. Swiftly running streams and low fences. Telephone lines black against sky as blue as the Scottish flag.

  Scotland’s history flashed before them, the snowy mountains, created by ancient volcanoes and cut by primeval glaciers, the ruins of pagan stone circles, towns and lonely church spires, ancient graveyards set back on the curve of hills.

  As they wended higher into the mountains, Maggie looked over at Sarah. “How are you doing?”

  “My feet are freezing.”

  “It’s not too much longer.”

  “I look at this and think of it being invaded.”

  “I know.”

  “Can you imagine this as Nazi territory?” Sarah asked, gesturing to the landscape out the window. “Since France was invaded, I haven’t been able to banish the image from my mind. And now, my grandmother …” Her face clouded, but she didn’t cry. Maggie took her hand.

  She thought about the deadly anthrax Britain was developing. Would it keep the Nazis from invading? If anthrax was right to use as defense, what about offense? Was it being developed to be dusted over cities, cities with civilians?

  At the highest elevation, the train pierced through clouds, the ground covered in snow, the evergreens becoming more sparse. Finally, after a stop at Fort William, the train pulled into the Beasdale station, where Mr. Burns was waiting to meet them and drive them back to Arisaig House. There was the sharp blow of a whistle, the scents of wood smoke and pine, and the tang of the sea. The tall pine trees were dusted with snow.

  “Welcome, Miss Sanderson,” Mr. Burns said, pipe clenched between his teeth. “I hear you’ll be staying with us for a time.”

  “Yes, thank you, I do appreciate it.”

  “You must sign the Official Secrets Act.”

  “I have already.”

  His bushy eyebrows raised. “You have?”

  “Yes, in July 1940. It should be on record.” Sarah shot Maggie a look. “So, what exactly do you do for the war effort, Maggie?”

  Maggie gave a sly grin. “Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that.”

  “Your cat missed you,” Mr. Burns remarked as they climbed into his jeep. “And he was quite vocal about it. Mr. Fraser was not pleased. Neither was Riska.”

  It was cold and damp, the omnipresent damp that seeped into bones. The kind of cold only a hot bath and hours by the fire would dispel.

  And so once they were back in her little apartment, Maggie lit a fire and ran Sarah a bath. While Sarah was in the W.C., she went through the icebox. Arisaig House’s cook, Mrs. MacLean, had left a pot of stew that Maggie put on the stove to reheat. The aroma of the rich stew filled the room as the flickering fire warmed it.

  However, K was nowhere to be found.

  “K? K?” Maggie called. “Mr. K?”

  She found him on her bed. He gazed at her, rose, stretched, and began to speak. If it had been English, it would have been profanity of the worst sort. “Meeeeeeeeeeh!” he chided. “Meh! Meh! Meeeeeeeeh!” And then turned his back on her, wrapping his tail around his body.

  “I think you’re in a bit of hot water there, Maggie,” Sarah said, fresh from the bath, wearing one of Maggie’s flannel dressing gowns, her hair in a towel. “He seems a bit put out.”

  Maggie was disappointed and tried not to show it. “Well, let’s get you settled. Would you like a cup of tea? Dinner?”

  “Something to eat would be lovely, thank you. It smells marvelous.”

  “That’s good—if you’re hungry, that means you’re feeling better.”

  Sarah curled up in the worn armchair by the fire as Maggie banged and clattered in the tiny kitchen, ladling out bowls of venison stew. “Just glad it’s not mutton,” Maggie muttered, thinking of the sheep being poisoned with anthrax and repressing a shudder.

  “Sorry?” Sarah called.

  “Oh, nothing—No wine, I’m afraid, but I do have some of Mr. Fraser’s cider put away, would you like a glass of that?”

  “Yes, please.”

  When Maggie came out with Sarah’s half-pint of cider, she found K on her friend’s lap, purring and rubbing his cheek against her.

  “Well, I see someone’s making friends,” Maggie said, setting the glass down. She tried not to be jealous.

  K ignored Maggie, instead getting up on his hind legs and using his front paws to knead at Sarah’s bosom.

  “You know, K,” Sarah said, smiling down at him, “I’m usually treated to cocktails and dinner before I let any taxi tigers make moves like this.”

  “Shall I remove him?” Maggie asked.

  “Oh, no,” Sarah said, petting his silky head. “Yes, you are a fine and handsome old thing,” she said to the cat, rubbing under his chin. “But it’s amazing what you can get away with. If any human tried this without so much as a by-your-leave, I’d have cut his hand off, just so you know.”

  The women began to eat their stew. Sarah finally had a chance to look around her and take in Maggie’s living quarters. “Oh, Maggie, this is charming.”

  “And wait until you see the views tomorrow morning—mountains, the shore, and even a bit of the loch. When you’re a bit stronger we’ll take a walk down to the shore—it’s absolutely beautiful. And until then, you will be a princess in a tower, with plenty of tea, healthy food, books to read …”

  “So, is this handsome fellow the only man in your life?” Sarah teased, stroking K.

  “Yes, he is,” Maggie said, setting down a small bowl of stew on the floor. K eyed it, then begrudgingly wandered over to Maggie. After a brief standoff, he rubbed his furry face against her legs. “That’s my K,” Maggie said, scratching behind his ears. He butted his head into her leg, hard. All was forgiven.


  She scooped K up and went back to sit near Sarah. “Cats and knitting,” Maggie said. “That seems to be my lot in life right now.”

  “Socks come in pairs,” Sarah said.

  “Well, people don’t. Or at least they don’t have to. My life was just too complicated in London. But now it’s simple—I work, I have a cat, I knit. I am Diana, the Virgin Huntress.”

  “But Diana’s celibate!” Sarah cried, in mock horror.

  “Believe me, I know.”

  “That’s awful.” Sarah dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and took a sip of cider. “Honestly, with two men in love with you, I don’t see why you had to choose at all, Mags. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ménage à trois?”

  Maggie choked. “Sarah!” Then, “Do you have someone special?”

  “Not really. There was for a while, but …” Sarah rose and went to her bag, returning with a silver case of clove cigarettes and a lighter.

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “With your cough?”

  “Oh bother, you’re probably right. This being an invalid is a rather trying role.”

  “You must miss performing. Will you rejoin the ballet when you’re well?”

  Sarah shrugged. “Maybe. I was feeling frustrated already. Now I think …”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to do something to help the war effort. I’m not sure. Remember how back in London, I was torn about doing something so frivolous while there’s a war on?”

  Maggie remembered that day in Regent’s Park well. “I do. And I also remember what I said then—that we need beauty and art—a reminder of all that’s worth fighting for.”

  “Well, I’m not sure it’s enough for me now,” Sarah said. “Paris has been invaded … My grandmother was shot. Shot. I’m not sure I can just dance anymore. I want to do something.”

  Maggie chose her words carefully. “Whatever you decide to do, you know you’ll always have my wholehearted support … Your French is very good, you know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When you were angry, at the hospital, you spoke perfect Parisian French.”

  “Merci beaucoup. Je parle Français depuis toujours.”