The Prime Minister's Secret Agent

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “I have an idea,” Maggie said.

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow I’ll go and have a little chat with Mr. Burns.”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t say. But if you’re serious about helping the war effort, and you speak perfect French, I think that perhaps they can find you a little something.”

  In the darkness of night in the Pacific Ocean, 230 miles north of the Hawaiian Islands, all 183 Japanese planes were in their final positions on the aircraft carriers. The midget submarines had already been launched. And now the pilots were waiting, nerves strained, for their next order.

  Admiral Yamamoto spoke to them by broadcast, played over the ships’ loudspeakers. “You have just heard the Imperial Proclamation from the Emperor. The success of this mission depends on the element of surprise. If and when we achieve it, the code words Tora! Tora! Tora! will be sent out.

  “Now that the time of battle draws near, I will not burden you with the usual pep talk. Instead, I shall hoist the famous Z flag, beneath which Commander in Chief Togo led his fleet to victory in the historic battle against the Russians.”

  Throughout the Japanese fleet, men cheered, all their training and courage leading up to this moment. Privately, Yamamoto still had questions. Once the microphone had been turned off, he said to his aide, “There’s still one issue to be resolved—when to declare war officially. Our Emperor demands that war be declared before commencement of hostilities, as mandated by Article One of the Third Hague Convention, which we promised to uphold.”

  “Sir,” the young man said, handing over a sheaf of papers, “Section Chief Toshikazu Kasc has written a diplomatic note for Ambassador Nomura to hand to Secretary Hull, prior to the launching of military operations. It is a declaration of war—but without immediately alerting the United States and losing the surprise element of the attack.”

  Yamamoto accepted the document, the saigo no tsukoku or “Final Notification,” and read it through. There was no mention of Pearl Harbor or any immediate outbreak of hostilities. Still, the meaning seemed clear.

  “Please take a message,” Yamamoto said, “and send it to the Emperor and General Tōjō—that the Final Notification is adequate. And hostilities must not start until after it is delivered. It must be presented in Washington at precisely one P.M., exactly thirty minutes before the attack is to begin. This is crucial.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The aide departed, and Yamamoto was left alone. His eyes went to the small kamidana altar on his credenza. “It’s a gamble,” he muttered. “I only hope it isn’t a terrible mistake.”

  As Yamamoto prayed, the first wave of Zero planes launched from the Japanese task force’s aircraft carriers in the darkness, flying off through the fog and clouds, en route to Pearl Harbor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, Sarah still felt weak. But after tea and porridge, she began to do barre exercises holding on to the windowsill—a few demi-pliés and tendus, slowly building back her strength.

  Maggie watched from the armchair, shoes off, feet tucked under her, hot cup of tea in hand. The blackout curtains were open and it was a glorious day in Arisaig, the sky a warm blue velvet. The windows were cracked open, and the air smelled clean and fresh after the previous night’s rain. “Spring is coming,” she said, sniffing. “I know it’s winter, but you can smell it, can’t you? Or at least the promise of spring.”

  Maggie sprang to her feet. “I must go to work now, but I’ll check in with you later. Be good.” She waggled a finger. “Naps. Lots of tea. And no clove cigarettes!”

  The band at the Manoa Hotel was playing a cover of the Andrews Sisters’ “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” Admiral Kimmel, with his wife on his arm, walked into the “Ball for Britain.” The Manoa was known as the “First Lady of Waikiki”—a turn-of-the-century four-story Beaux-Arts building, right on the beach. The evening air smelled of jasmine.

  They made their way through the hotel lobby, with high Corinthian columns painted cream, and with huge vases of red anthurium and lazily turning overhead fans. They cut through to the back beachfront garden, where the party had already started. The courtyard was filled with chattering couples, clustered around ancient parasitic banyan trees with trunks the size of small cars, strung with fairy lights that glittered against the darkness. Torches burned around the perimeter, while candles shone in hurricane glasses. The ball was being held to raise money to send to support the British war effort.

  Most of the men were in uniform and all the ladies were in bright-colored silk and satin gowns that glinted in the lights. Many of them had a flower, a plumeria or an orchid, in their hair. They wore the blooms Hawaiian-style—left for those taken and right for those looking. Kimmel and his wife, Dotty, found their table, and he pulled out her chair as she sat down. He took his seat.

  “Those B-17s are coming in from California tomorrow, Admiral,” one of the young men in a naval uniform already seated at the table said.

  Dotty smiled. “Now, Captain—can’t we have at least one night off from military talk?”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Kimmel,” the young man said, offering his hand as the band segued into “Stardust.” “Would you care to dance?”

  “Why, thank you, I would love to dance,” she replied, with a significant look in her husband’s direction. Kimmel grimaced and motioned to one of the waiters with a silver tray of drinks.

  As they left for the dance floor, another sailor, a private, leaned in to speak with Kimmel. “They’ve arranged for Honolulu air to stay on all night, so that the signal can guide them in, sir.” He had carrot-colored hair and a galaxy of freckles across his nose.

  Kimmel laughed, accepting a Mai Tai garnished with a slice of pineapple and a maraschino cherry from a waiter’s silver tray. “I hope they like the ukulele—only music the damn station ever plays!”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be manning the Opana radar site tomorrow, sir.”

  “What time does your shift start?”

  “Oh-four-hundred, sir.”

  Kimmel quirked a bushy white eyebrow. “Then shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “Yes, sir!” he said, jumping to his feet and saluting. “Thank you, sir!”

  Kimmel smiled. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Private Daniel Mathis, sir!” he said, saluting again from sheer nerves.

  “Well, Private Mathis—I wouldn’t say anything to your commanding officer if you had another drink before you left. Or a dance with a pretty girl.”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

  Kimmel winked and downed his Mai Tai, motioning over the waiter for another. “It’s not as if it’s the end of the world.”

  Maggie went to the main house first, for any messages and her schedule. “Here you go, Miss Hope,” Gwen Glyn-Jones said, handing her yet more messages from David.

  “Thank you—” Maggie almost called her Twelve. “—Miss Glyn-Jones.”

  “You know my name!” the girl cried. She smiled, a warm, wide smile.

  “Of course I know your name,” Maggie said, feeling slightly ashamed of how she’d treated the trainees. “And I know I was a bit tough on you. But you’re going to face …” Maggie had no idea what Gwen would face, where she would be sent, what she’d be up against—but she knew it wouldn’t be easy.

  “I just want you to survive,” Maggie finished. “When this is all over, I’d like to know you’ve come back to Blighty in one piece. That’s all.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hope,” the girl said shyly.

  Mr. Burns entered. “How’s your friend feeling? It’s Miss Sanderson, isn’t it?”

  “She’s feeling a bit stronger this morning, thank you, Mr. Burns. By the way, I recently learned that not only does Sarah Sanderson have a beautiful French accent, but she’s well acquainted with Paris—spent several summers there. She’s recovering from an illness, but she’s a trained dancer. She’s strong and flexible.”

  “Really?” Mr. Burns said. “Do you think she
’d like to interview for The Firm?”

  “I think she would. Can we set it up?”

  “Of course. If she’s a dancer, she’ll do well with the physical requirements. Not like—” He looked askance at Maggie. “—some people. And how was Edinburgh? You look better.”

  “I feel better, thank you.”

  “You were gone a bit longer than expected.”

  “An old friend at MI-Five needed some help.”

  “Glad we could lend you to them, then. But also glad you’re back.”

  Satoshi Nagoka entered the room and went to his mail slot, picking up files, memos, and a few airmail letters with American stamps. “Thank you, Miss Hope, for teaching my class.”

  “Sorry?”

  Then she remembered. The jujitsu class she’d taught before she’d left. How long ago it all seemed … “You’re American,” she realized, putting together the accent and the stamps. “I didn’t know that. I’m from Boston,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Hope from Boston,” he replied. “Satoshi Nagoka, from California, at your service. Thank you again for teaching the class.”

  Maggie nodded. “How did you get here?”

  “The train from London, most likely the same way as you.”

  She laughed. “No, no—I meant from the U.S. to Britain. To Scotland. To SOE.”

  “Oh, that’s a long, long story.” Satoshi smiled. “You keep to yourself, don’t you?”

  Maggie blushed. “I suppose.” Then she offered: “I have a cat.”

  “In Japan, cats are considered wise spirits. There are many maneki-neko statues, said to bring good luck.”

  “How do you know that?” Maggie asked. “Are you Japanese? Or American?”

  “My parents are Japanese, and I’ve spent time there. But for the most part, I’ve lived in Northern California.”

  Maggie had never been to California. “In San Francisco? Japan Town?” she asked.

  “No, Berkeley,” he said, trying not to laugh. “My father is a professor at UC Berkeley.”

  “Oh,” Maggie said. She had assumed … I’m an idiot. “I’m sorry for my mistake.”

  Satoshi smiled. “It’s a common one—don’t fret.”

  They walked to the large windows overlooking what used to be the formal gardens and badminton lawn. “What does your father teach?” she asked.

  “Physics. For over twenty years.”

  “And what did you major in?”

  “Trouble.”

  Outside, Maggie could see Riska frolicking in the grass, chasing a squirrel. “Oh, come now.” As a professor’s adopted daughter, Maggie knew opportunities were few and far between. “I’m a faculty brat, too—and so I question how much mischief you really made.”

  “It’s true!”

  “You made trouble at Berkeley? What did you do—break into a lab and release the mice?”

  “I had a little trouble in J Town—or Japan Town, as you called it, in San Francisco.” He winked.

  “And is that where you learned jujitsu?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a course offering at the university.” Then, “So, you’re a faculty brat, too?”

  “My Aunt Edith, who raised me, is a professor of chemistry at Wellesley College, in Massachusetts.”

  “You didn’t get into any trouble back then?”

  “Long ago and far away, I was devoted to my studies—mathematics. Now—” Maggie held up her hands. “Well, let’s just say that since I came to Blighty, about four years ago, I’ve been in my share of hot water.” If he only knew … Maggie reached for the hard outline of the bullet in her side. She realized she hadn’t thought about it while she was in Edinburgh.

  “Anything you can share?”

  “Not really. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do. There are all sorts of rumors about you, you know. And since you don’t actually talk to anyone, they keep growing. Soon you’ll become the stuff of legend.”

  “I talk to Mr. Burns,” Maggie said, feeling defensive. “And Mr. Fraser, the gardener. And, as I mentioned, I now have a cat.”

  “You’re angry.”

  Maggie was surprised. “No. I’m not angry.” But she thought about it. “Yes, I’m angry. But not with anyone here.”

  “I was able to see you teach the last part of my class last week. I watched from the dining room windows. You’re hiding anger. That’s not good.”

  “When you were trouble, were you hiding your anger?”

  “Back then, I was fighting everyone—and everything. Yes, I was very angry. But I’ve learned a lot since.” Satoshi grinned. “Good luck, Miss Hope.”

  “And good luck to you, too, Mr. Nagoka.” They both bowed.

  Maggie had some time before teaching her class, so she went down to the shore, with its view of the isles of Skye, Mudd, and Rhum, past the stones and broken shells, and rhododendron trees with buds promising pink blooms. On the beach, she was alone, with just the cries of the seabirds and the sound of the surf.

  She sat down on a rock and looked over the water. Watching sparked a jumble of thoughts and images: fluid dynamics, Sir Isaac Newton, kinetic energy, stationary action, the Euler-Lagrange equation …

  Maggie watched the waves crashing on the shore, then receding to gather strength, then crash once more. A warm breeze tugged at her hair, loosening tendrils from her tight bun. The wave has to fall back in order to gather strength, before it can crash back onto the shore. Maybe that’s what I’m doing here at Arisaig House, in Edinburgh. Receding and gathering up my strength. Maybe it’s time to go back—to the SOE, to London, to where I can be useful again …

  She took off her jacket, laid it on the rock, jumped down, and took a few steps toward the water. Maggie took a deep breath and shook out her limbs.

  She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, taking in as much oxygen as possible. With great deliberation, she began a series of movements, done slowly, gracefully—more like modern dance than martial arts.

  She remembered what her first teacher had said: “First, it will teach you how to breathe. When you breathe, you relax. When you relax, you clear the mind. Clearing the mind allows you to focus, and being focused allows you to live in the present moment.

  “As you begin, you step out, then turn in, with your weight in your bent knees—double weighted,” she remembered. “Let all the weight sink into the balls of your feet, keeping the bend in the knee.”

  Maggie continued her sinuous movements. “Now relax into the knees and let the energy fill you up, from your toes, up into the arms, and out into the fingertips. Now you want to relax and bring the arms back into the body, relaxing the hips, letting the weight sink back down into the balls of the feet. Let the energy draw back up into the fingers, then relax the arms back down to your sides.”

  She wasn’t the best at it, but remembered her instructor’s words: “Breathe. There is no great and no terrible here. Just doing and not doing. And you’re doing.”

  She took another deep breath of cold salty sea air and did the sequence again. And again.

  “You could spend your whole life trying to get this move right, and it would not be a wasted life.” She’d never before known what that meant, but now she did, her movements slow and graceful, her mind at rest, focused only on the present. She was both in it and of it, connecting with the sand, the water, the sun, and the sky.

  In that moment, she felt strong again.

  In that moment, she felt truly alive.

  She felt a lightness, a change. Her cheeks were now rosy—flesh and blood instead of wax. The force that through the green fuse drives the flower, Maggie thought. She’d read it at school, but now she finally understood.

  Finally, Maggie floated her hands down to rest at her sides. There were tears in her eyes. She looked out over the water, at the large black rocks rising above the waves, and saw that she’d attracted an audience. Eight gray seals had stopped to sun themselves there, and perhaps wonder at the sight
of the curiously moving human. There was a brief moment when seal eyes met human eyes and the light changed just slightly to a more rosy hue, and the wind gentled, just a little.

  Maggie suddenly remembered all the times she’d come to the shore and thought of death, of filling her coat pockets with stones, like Virginia Woolf, or swimming out too far, like Edna Pontellier.

  Maggie took off her wristwatch. She removed her shoes and sweater, then dropped the rest of her clothes. She walked naked over the sand to the water.

  She stepped in and gasped. The water was icy on her toes, then feet, then legs, until she was up to her neck. She dove under the water, and came up giggling. It was cold, but agreeably so, the Gulf currents making it less frigid than it looked.

  Something bubbled up inside her, warm and delicious, and for a moment she didn’t know what it was.

  Then she remembered.

  It was happiness—and it flowed through her veins until it reached her mouth, turning it upward into a smile. For a moment she was afraid to move. But then she realized, it was like the waves—even if it disappeared, even if it disappeared for a long, dark time, it would eventually come again.

  “I think,” Maggie called to the seals, who were still regarding her curiously, “that after I teach my class today, I’ll have that bullet removed.”

  It was a beautiful Sunday morning in Washington, chill and blue. The streets were still quiet, with birdsong louder than the usual traffic. Dead leaves swirled and eddied in the breeze.

  Bratton and Kramer were in the “Magic” room, going over the fourteenth part of the message from Japan to the United States as it came in, the clicking of the typewriters loud in the silence. Both men had stayed up all night and were pale and hollow-eyed. Their jackets were off and ties askew.

  Bratton read the latest decrypt, translating it as it came in: “Will the Ambassadors please submit our reply to the United States government at precisely one P.M., December seventh, your time.” He looked up at the row of clocks. “What the hell’s the significance of one P.M.?

  Bratton kept reading and translating. “After deciphering part fourteen, destroy at once your cipher machine, all codes, and secret documents.”