The Prime Minister's Secret Agent

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “But sir, why?” David asked. “We can hire a girl to type when we reach the United States.”

  “No, no new staff!” Mr. Churchill kicked his feet under the water. “I must have Hope.” The Prime Minister was child-like in his steadfast resolve.

  “Miss Hope is still in Scotland now, sir—”

  “Well, bring her back!” Churchill bellowed. “I’m not getting on the ship without her!”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you know what the symbol of Hope is, Mr. Greene—Mr. Sterling?”

  “Er, no, sir,” said John.

  David resettled his glasses. “Afraid not, sir.”

  “And you claim to have a classical education! Hope is an anchor—because of its importance in navigation, it was regarded in ancient times as a symbol of safety. The Christians adopted the anchor as a symbol of hope—and Christ is the unfailing hope of all who believe in him. Hebrews six-nineteen says that when we have Hope as an anchor of the soul, we are firm and sure.

  “As we sail to the United States, our new ally, we both literally and metaphorically are raising our Anchor and venturing forth into a new chapter of the war.

  “And so I must have Miss Hope, my metaphorical anchor. Plus, I trust her to type decently. And tell me of the quaint American customs and verbiage of which I may not be aware. Hope shall be part typist, part diplomatic adviser, and all secret agent.”

  David and John exchanged looks. “I’ll see what I can do,” David said.

  The Prime Minister blinked and dropped below the surface of the water, blowing bubbles.

  “So, how do we get Maggie back?” John said.

  “You, my friend,” David replied, inspired, “shall go to Scotland, in person. You shall procure Miss Hope for the P.M.!”

  John recoiled. “I? She hates me.”

  “Oh, jumping Jove, I sincerely doubt that. And even if she does, you must change her mind. It’s about time you two kissed and made up.”

  “Maggie won’t come with me.”

  “Well, throw her over your shoulder caveman-style if you must. ‘I must have Hope with me in the New World!’ says our fearless leader. Do you really want to be the one to tell the P.M. no?”

  “Then you should go to Scotland. She still likes you. She’ll listen to you,” John insisted.

  “Oh, but I’m not going. As I said, you’re the one who’s going to journey off to the Highlands of Scotland and return with our own bonnie wee secretary.”

  John cocked an eyebrow. “Caveman-style?”

  “Well, it’s about time you two were reunited. I never understood why you two didn’t just have at it.”

  “I … She … We …” Then, “No, no, I’m not going.”

  David took a moment to examine his fingernails. “So dreadfully sorry to bring this up, John, but I outrank you now. And if the Boss wants you to go fetch Miss Hope, you’re going. It’s your duty to God and King. And Prime Minister.”

  John muttered something.

  “What was that? Didn’t quite hear.”

  “Nothing,” John grumbled. “I’ll return with our Girl Friday.”

  “Good, because I’ve already made your train reservations. Merciful Minerva! You’ll need to hurry if you want to make it to Euston on time!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Maggie was with the others in the main conference room at Arisaig House when Germany formally declared war against the United States, with Reich Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop delivering a diplomatic note to the American Chargé d’Affaires in Berlin.

  Now Hitler was addressing the Reichstag. “… After years of negotiating with the deceiver Roosevelt, the Japanese government finally had its fill of being treated in such a humiliating way. All of us, the German people and, I believe, all other decent people around the world as well, regard this with deep appreciation …”

  “Turn the blighter off!” Charlie called from across the table.

  But they listened to the full version of the Führer’s rant before breaking for cups of tea. Maggie saw Satoshi and went to him. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a bit peaked.”

  “Do you remember my telling you that my parents live in Berkeley? Well, I’m worried about them.”

  “But your father’s a physics professor … And you’re here, helping train British agents. Obviously …”

  “But it’s not obvious to the U.S. government. All the Japanese in America have been ordered to pack a single bag and be ready for transport at any time in the next few months. My family, and everyone that I love back home, is being sent to internment camps.”

  “Internment camps?” Maggie blinked. Internment camps—in the United States?

  Satoshi sighed. “That’s what we hear.”

  “Where?”

  “Rumor has it they’re building in the southwest.”

  “Is there any evidence of any Fifth Column activity?”

  He started. “Well, certainly not in my family.”

  “No, of course not,” Maggie said. “I’m truly, truly sorry.”

  When Maggie returned to her cottage, she saw a dark figure on the steps to her flat. Above, the stars burned blue.

  “Sarah?” she called. “Did you forget your key?”

  But the figure was a man. It was John Sterling.

  Maggie had imagined him so many times it took her a few blinks to realize it was actually him, not a daydream.

  He held out his hand, revealing something that glinted in the moonlight. “You left these at my flat.”

  “You came all the way to Scotland to return my earrings?” she said, trying to ignore the shock of longing she felt at the sight of him. That he was wearing his RAF coat and hat certainly wasn’t helping matters.

  How had she described him to Charlie? Tall, dark, and damaged, she remembered. His eyes were still a dark and unreadable brown, his hair curly, his tie slightly askew, and his shoulders hunched from tension. But he was still John.

  “Also, to give you a message from Mr. Churchill.”

  Maggie pulled out the extracted bullet from her coat pocket and held it out for him to see in the moonlight. “Those earrings will go nicely with my ‘Berlin souvenir.’ I’m thinking of having it made into a necklace.”

  “Glad you finally had it taken out,” John said as he gave her the earrings. Their fingers touched, then Maggie pocketed the earrings.

  “So, this is business?” she asked briskly.

  “Special delivery from Number Ten.” He took an envelope from his breast pocket. “By courier.”

  Maggie opened the envelope, slipping out the thick card. She caught a whiff of cigar smoke.

  I need Hope.

  Come back to London.

  This is an order.

  Please.

  WSC

  Maggie put it in her coat pocket, with the bullet and the earrings, without comment.

  “What he didn’t put into writing,” John continued, “is that he’s going to be traveling to Washington, to meet with President Roosevelt.”

  Maggie shrugged, trying not to show how touched she was. “Good for the P.M. He has what he’s wanted for so long.”

  “And he wants you to go with him. With us.”

  “So—you’re going to America, too.” A flicker of a smile played on Maggie’s lips. John in Washington, out of his element. Oh, I would love to see that.

  “Yes, and David, as well.”

  “And why does Mr. Churchill want me?”

  “Well, ostensibly, he needs a secretary—”

  Maggie threw up her hands. “Oh, for heaven’s sake …”

  “He has a number of reasons, including your being an agent, and your being an American ‘diplomatic adviser,’ too, but really … He wants you back. All of us do.”

  “You want me back?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. I’m sorry for my behavior in London over the last summer, Maggie. I’m very sorry. Because I was in love with you—and I’m still in love with you. And I will spend every da
y of my life making it up to you. I love you. Please come back to London with me.”

  “I’m going to say this once, very slowly, and make it quite clear,” Maggie began. She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not pouting, and I’m not being coy. I thought you died. And I mourned your death. And because I eventually moved on, with another man, you decided to punish me. You, John Sterling, are a narrow-minded self-centered fool.”

  Maggie was on a roll now, angry words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out. “What’s the biggest predictor of future behavior? Past behavior. If I let you back into my life I am sure you would hurt me again. So, please—go away.”

  “Maggie—”

  Maggie held up a hand. “You may have come back today with all kinds of good intentions and pledges and promises, but I’m not interested.”

  John swallowed hard and was silent for a moment. “I thought if we could talk—well, I’m here and I’m ready to listen.”

  Maggie took one step up and got out her key. “Go to hell.”

  “Already been there, thanks.” John shook his head. “Well, regardless, I have explicit orders to bring you back to London with me.”

  Maggie traversed the remaining stairs, and used her key to open her door. “I’m not going anywhere with you—and you can quote me to Mr. Churchill.” She stepped over the threshold and turned. “And you—you can just … stick it up your jumper!”

  And then she slammed the door.

  “Well, you’re quite the mucky pup.” The woman’s voice was deep and throaty. She was bundled in an overcoat and scarf from head to toe, walking slowly but resolutely up the path to the gardener’s cottage with the aid of a cane.

  “Sarah!” John smiled. “David said you were here. So glad to see you up and around.”

  They embraced. “I’m alive,” Sarah said. “But you—you had us all terrified, what with that we-thought-you-were-dead prank,” she said as she pulled away. “Naughty, naughty boy,” she added, wagging her finger at him.

  John gave a wry smile. “Well, it wasn’t exactly a barrel of monkeys from my perspective, either.”

  “I know. You poor thing.” She glanced up at the closed door. “Maggie not ready to make nice?”

  “No would be an understatement.”

  “Well, I know just the thing—we’ll get you a room in town, you can wash up, and then we can have dinner together and catch up on old times.”

  John’s eyes went to the windows of Maggie’s flat.

  Sarah saw his look. “She’ll come around,” she promised. “She just needs a little time.” She linked her arm through John’s. “Come on, I know someone who can give us a ride.”

  Mr. Burns drove them to town, where John checked into a room at Arisaig Inn. After he’d gone up to the room, washed, shaved, and changed his shirt, he met Sarah downstairs at the inn’s dining room.

  It was small and modest, and a delicious smell of fried fish emanated from the kitchen. A number of older local men lined the bar, nursing beers. They eyed Sarah, still a beauty despite her recent illness, with unabashed curiosity. She placed their order at the bar, two bowls of cullen skink—a creamy smoked-fish stew—a plate of chips, and one pint and one half-pint of beer.

  Sarah was used to men—and women—staring at her. When she was done, she sat down at one of the tables and listened to the news broadcast on the wireless over the bar, as a group played darts, showing off for her. “Turn it off!” growled a man in the corner, pulling out an accordion. The man sitting next to him had a fiddle, and another a small drum. Without introduction, they began to play, and the man with the accordion began to sing:

  Duncan Gray cam’ here to woo,

  Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,

  On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,

  Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,

  Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh,

  Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,

  Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;

  Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

  As John entered, Sarah looked up at him and smiled. “This song could be written about you two.”

  John sat down next to her. “I’ll have you know I’m on an official mission from the Prime Minister, not here to pitch woo.”

  The dim light glinted off the rag marks left on the wooden table as the barkeep brought their cullen skink and beer.

  “Winnie said there will always be fish.” John pushed at it with his spoon. “Although he never specified what sort of fish.”

  Sarah took a spoonful, and then delicately removed a bone from her mouth, placing it on the plate. “It’s not Sunday roast at The Pompadour, but it’ll do.”

  At the table next to them, an older man was taking out his false teeth. “Lost ’em at Yprees,” he explained to Sarah. “I’m your Prince Charming—invite me to tea!”

  He was obviously a regular. “Come on, Prince Charming, Cook has some hot soup for you,” said the barkeep, and the man trotted off to the kitchen, teeth in hand.

  “Well, I do feel a bit better,” John said.

  “You look a great deal better, kitten. Cheers,” Sarah said as they clinked glasses. “Like Lazarus, you have risen from the dead.”

  His eyes darkened. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Of course. I won’t mention it again. But if you ever do want to talk—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me what brings you to Arisaig. And please don’t say the lovely beaches, because it’s a wee bit nippy for swimming.” She raised one eyebrow. “I’m guessing it has to do with a certain red-haired secretary?”

  “It’s official business, actually.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it these days?” Sarah said, sprinkling vinegar on her chips.

  “It’s true. David sent me.”

  “David sent you? I thought he worked for you?”

  “Not anymore. He was promoted while I was convalescing in Berlin. You’d think I would have been promoted—the fallen RAF hero. But no … Apparently, being dead does nothing for one’s career.”

  Sarah snorted.

  “And I must say, David took great satisfaction in sending me—ordering me—on this little mission. As they say, power corrupts—and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

  “I can see David enjoying his new influence.” Sarah touched a napkin to her lips. “But even if it’s official, you must have a fair amount of—how shall I phrase it—unfinished business to discuss with our mutual friend.”

  “I’m afraid that’s top secret as well.”

  “She’s only told me bits and pieces, but, really, John—I think you behaved like an arse.”

  John choked on a swallow of beer. “I—”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Johnny? Since, in another lifetime, we used to step out, I know certain things about you, and what you’re like as a beau. And you, my dear, have flaws.”

  “Really,” he said, mopping up vinegar with a chip.

  “Really,” she said. “For example, you and the fireplace poker.”

  “Oh. So she told you about that.” Then, “Well, I’d just returned from Berlin—”

  “She had just returned from Berlin!”

  “She was seeing another man!”

  “Because she thought you were dead!”

  Suddenly, they realized all eyes were on them. They dropped their voices.

  “Well, I may have mentioned before,” John said in a harsh whisper, “ ‘reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’ ”

  “Yes, but we didn’t know that. Maggie didn’t know that.”

  “Well, it certainly didn’t take her long to move on.”

  “She was gutted, absolutely gutted.”

  “I’m sure,” John said, finishing his beer.

  “Look,” Sarah continued in a low voice. “Her mother was a spy. Maggie was probably only conceived as part of some cover story. And when her mother went back to Germany, her father wasn’t enough of a man to st
ay and fight for her. She was raised by her spinster aunt, who seems perfectly nice, but not much of a maternal type, if you get my meaning.

  “And then when she finally finds her father—he’s still … off. And she finds her mother—and she’s a top-ranking Nazi.

  “She finds out that Churchill, a father figure to her, has been using her for her family connections. And you, the love of her life, she thinks you’re dead—another abandonment.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Sarah held up a chip. “Wait—I’m not done. And then you come back. And when you find out she did something human, you abandon her again.”

  John was silent.

  “She’s damaged,” Sarah said. “All she sees now is that love is mathematically improbable.”

  John sighed. “I wasn’t really angry with her. It wasn’t her at all. It was just … everything. The war, losing friends, being shot, being behind enemy lines for so long …”

  Sarah nodded. “And maybe, if you’re honest with yourself, it’s because the world moved on without you. We thought you’d died. Maggie moved on with another man. Mr. Churchill’s office moved on. David was promoted.” She wiped her hands on her napkin. “Perhaps, just perhaps, you’re angry because the earth didn’t stop rotating for you.”

  “Good God,” John exclaimed. “I think you’re right. That makes me rather awful, doesn’t it? When you put it like that.”

  “Yes, but you were angry. And hurt. And while the way you reacted wasn’t the most sensitive thing you might have done, it was—just like Maggie’s behavior—human.”

  “So now what do I do?”

  “You apologize.”

  “I did apologize.”

  “Well, you continue to apologize. And you say you’ll never do it again—and then you never do. And you’ll tell her you adore her and cherish her and you ask—you get down on your knees and beg if you need to—for another chance.”

  John nodded, taking it in. His lips curled in a smile. “And how’s your love life these days?”