by Lee Jackson
Claire shook her head slowly with an air of having to believe the ridiculous. “The secret’s safe with me.” She took a deep breath. “They say that laugher is the best medicine. That’s been true tonight.” She gazed at Jeremy propped against the wall. “I couldn’t bear for anything bad to happen to you, little brother.”
Jeremy smiled. “I love you, sis. What’s that little thing you always say? ‘Things will get better. You’ll see.’”
Claire sighed. “Thank you for that, but seeing sunny days ahead is becoming ever more difficult.”
41
February 28, 1941
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
On seeing the lady standing in front of his desk, Paul inhaled, quashing a gasp, and decided at the back of his mind that she could be described accurately in a single word: gorgeous. She was slender with short auburn curls, smooth skin, a frank smile over a slightly cleft chin, and large green eyes that drew him in inexorably.
She extended her hand. “I’m Cynthia. Little Bill is expecting me.”
Paul stared, like a child mesmerized by the wonder and joy of seeing cloud shapes. He caught himself, stood, and shook Cynthia’s hand. When he did, her warmth seemed to have shot a bolt of electricity up his arm. Embarrassed, he coughed. “Mr. Stephenson told me you’d be here.”
He gestured for her to precede him and escorted her through the door into Stephenson’s office.
“Cynthia,” Stephenson enthused. “How lovely to see you.” He came around his desk, hugged her, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “It’s been too long, but you’ve been traveling extensively. Great work you’ve been doing.” He indicated Paul. “I see you’ve met my aide.”
“Not formally,” she said, bestowing Paul with a brilliant smile, “but he was very courteous on my arrival.”
“He’s my right arm these days, or more correctly, he’s the left side of my brain. Facts, figures, analysis, memory—that sort of thing, and very capable.”
She turned to Paul. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mr.—”
“Paul Littlefield,” Stephenson responded. “He wears civilian clothes in this assignment, but he’s a captain in the British army.” He invited her to his sitting area with a wave of his hand. “I take it you received my message about what we have in mind.”
“I did, and I’m happy to help.” As she sat down, she glanced at Paul with an uncertain expression. He still stood near the door.
“You can speak freely,” Stephenson told Cynthia. “Paul is our living, breathing archive, so to speak, to know whatever goes on in case of adverse events.” He turned to Paul. “Please join us.”
“All right then,” Cynthia said when they were seated. “We’re all short on time, so I’ll get right to the heart of the matter. This is about the president’s proposed lend-lease proposal, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. He wants to lend or lease war materiel to Britain and its allies—essentially the Commonwealth countries—but Congress must approve the arrangement. Right now, the Neutrality Act mandates against it.
“Roosevelt uses the example of having a neighbor whose house is on fire. The homeowner runs to you for your hose. He doesn’t want to buy it. He just wants to use it to put out the fire and then return it. Obviously, Great Britain is the burning house and America is the neighbor with the hose. The president thinks the US should be able to provide war supplies on the same basis. The British are not asking us to fight or to sell them anything. Just lend them what we have to handle their emergency.”
Cynthia shrugged and alternated her eyes between Stephenson and Paul. “That sounds reasonable. What’s the issue?”
“Some in Congress worry that if the bill becomes law, America would be strengthening one side of the hostilities and thus inviting the other to declare war against the US. A lot of the public feels that way too. Americans remember the ravages, casualties, and wounded of the Great War. They don’t want a repeat.
“Other people see that Hitler is not going to back off, that he’s allied with Italy and Japan, and they think war is inevitable. Japan gobbled up much of China and other Pacific countries the same way the führer did in Europe. Supporters of the bill think that if the US joins the fighting, passing the bill would give us and our would-be allies a head start. But there’s a key senator who opposes it. He’s influential enough to stop it.”
“Senator Arthur Vandenberg. And you want me to change his mind.”
“Exactly. Have you read his dossier?”
“I have, and I’ll be introduced to him tomorrow evening at a cocktail party. It’s all arranged.”
“Magnificent. Do you have any questions?”
Cynthia smiled primly. “No. I understand the job.” She stood, the men followed suit, and she leaned over to hug Stephenson again. “Working with you is always a pleasure.”
Paul escorted her out of the suite and then returned to Stephenson’s office. “That was a remarkably short conversation given the expected result. Is she a lobbyist?”
Stephenson smiled blandly. “I hadn’t thought of her in that term, but it seems to apply.”
“Can she do it? Senator Vandenberg is one of the most powerful senators and known to be a solid isolationist.”
The sides of Stephenson’s mouth turned up in one of his inscrutable smiles. “If she can’t, the senator probably cannot be persuaded by anyone.”
“Can you tell me anything more, sir? I’m an analyst. I can’t witness unusual goings-on without attempting to understand them. The implications of her success would be huge and give my country a fighting chance. As things are right now, the bombing of our cities continues and we’re losing our shirts in North Africa. We could use some good news and the only thing that could be better than passing the Lend-Lease Bill would be for the United States to enter directly into the war.”
Stephenson returned to his desk and sat down. “I quite agree with you.” He studied Paul’s face. “Then you see that achieving critical results sometimes requires unusual persuasion techniques.”
Paul stared at Stephenson, doe-eyed, as an uneasy feeling crept over him. “I don’t think I follow you.”
“On the contrary, I think you understand perfectly. A blind man could have seen your reaction to Cynthia. Don’t be embarrassed. She has the same effect on most men, and I doubt that the good senator will be an exception. She’s beautiful, she’s confident, she’s—magic. And she knows what she’s doing.
“Men first notice her beauty. Then they’re drawn to her intellect and charm, and that’s no accident. And then…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Paul stifled an involuntary laugh. “Are you saying that—”
“I’m not saying anything in particular, except that she works for love of country. We pay her little more than living expense.
“I told her what we wanted, and she accepted the assignment. But you’re free to let the carnal side of your mind wander. As I recall from the Old Testament, Joshua’s spies gained intelligence on Jericho through a member of the world’s oldest profession. No mention was made about how they interacted, only that they did.”
“Is that an inuendo?”
“I drew a parallel. Joshua was outgunned and used the assets available to him. Britain is doing the same thing. From a moral point of view, we would seem to have the high ground since Joshua attacked and Britain defends.”
Paul let out a deep breath. “Are we saying the ends justify the means?”
“I can see how someone could construe things that way. We’re in a struggle for survival, though. When your very life is at stake, you do what you must do, lashing in all directions. Would you make the argument that Britain is not so imperiled?”
Paul shook his head. “Not at all. I witnessed the Battle of Britain from two command bunkers. I was there and saw Churchill’s face when the RAF had committed all our reserves, and we were hours from defeat. I experienced the night bombing and nearly lost my sister that first night. Jeremy’s been shot down
twice that I know of. Lance is a POW, and the Wehrmacht occupies my parents’ home, Sark Island.”
“I know,” Stephenson said softly. “I’m sorry. Please keep those things in mind as we do our work here. They will help keep things in perspective.”
“When do you expect that we’ll know how successful she’s been?”
“The senate will vote soon, but meanwhile, we have work to do on the intelligence operation you dislike so much.”
“Which one was that?” Even as he asked the question, Paul knew the answer and felt tenson rise.
“I can tell from the look on your face that you know which one—as you described it, the action to manipulate US public opinion.”
Paul closed his eyes and shook his head. “Is that one necessary?”
“We think it is. A necessary strike for national survival.”
42
March 1, 1941
Bletchley Park, England
“Please, sit down, Claire.” Commander Denniston gestured to the seat before his desk. “Thank you for coming. I have news for you, although you might already know about it.”
“Concerning Jeannie Rousseau? I know she is safely out of Dinard, although I must tell you that her departure caused no small amount of angst. She’s been gone nearly six weeks, and the coders there are still grumbling about it.” She laughed.
“I thought you could use some good news.” Denniston’s face grew somber. “I heard about your friend, Pilot Officer Keough, the one you called ‘Shorty.’ I’m sorry. I know you had become close with some of our eagles.”
Claire sniffed. “My brother, Jeremy, flew with them.”
“Well, they certainly are some of ‘The Few’ to whom we owe an insurmountable debt. Your brother too.” He let a moment pass, and then asked, “Have you heard anything unusual pertaining to Bulgaria?”
Claire furrowed her brow. “As a matter of fact, we have, sir, and I’m sure your analysis group will be receiving the translated messages soon if they haven’t seen them already. Furious messages are coming out between Berlin and all the major commands. Hitler is angry because King Boris has not yet signed the Tripartite Treaty. He was supposed to have done that eight days ago. There’s talk now that the May 15 launch of Operation Barbarossa into the Soviet Union might have to be delayed.”
Denniston leaned back with a satisfied smile. “Then let’s hope for more delays.”
Claire watched him as he appeared lost in thought, then he sat forward. “Let’s talk about you,” he said. “We’d like to offer that promotion into the analysis group now.”
Claire fidgeted in her chair.
“Is something wrong?”
“I’ve thought a lot about it and what I should do if offered the promotion again.” She looked up anxiously. “And I’m honored to be asked.”
As she spoke, Claire’s mind ran through her last encounter with the commander, when she had repeatedly interrupted him and all but accused him and Prime Minister Churchill of being heartless. She also recalled what the commander had said about seeing a broader picture that might be even more difficult to deal with emotionally than what she learned about the war from decoding German messages.
“Then what’s the problem. Are you worried about the bigger picture being even more bleak?”
Claire shook her head. “No, sir. It’s not that. It’s—Well, I seem to be in a unique position of not only understanding the Morse code, but also the German language, so I get the meaning of messages. As a result, I detect nuances in them that might escape me if I had already been in the analysis section. I don’t know all the ramifications of saving the Boulier network or realizing the impact that Jeannie Rosseau had, but whatever they are, I would have missed the opportunities to bring them to light. So, I’m left wondering if my greatest contribution wouldn’t be to stay right where I am. Of course, I’ll do my utmost in either position.”
“Hmm.” Denniston leaned back in his chair and regarded Claire through narrowed eyes. “You make a good point. I hadn’t thought of that.” He rapped his fingers on his desk as he pondered. “How about this: you stay officially where you are, but we bring you in to the analysis group for consultation either when you spot something interesting or when we have a situation where we think your insights could help? You’ll have open access to me—” He smirked. “Which you’ve already created.”
Claire turned red. “Sorry, sir.”
Denniston waved away the apology. “We’ll up your status and salary to where it would have been had you taken the promotion as offered.” His brow wrinkled as another thought surfaced. “You might shift some of your work to monitor Berlin, too. With Operation Sea Lion now permanently cancelled, Dinard will become less significant.”
“It already has, sir. The speed barges along the French coast have been stored and much of the materiel, including tanks, fighters, and bombers, is shifting east.”
“I’ve seen reports to that effect. They’re moving in support of Operation Barbarossa, I should think.” The commander shifted in his chair. “Well, what’s your answer? Is my proposed arrangement with you suitable?”
“That would be lovely, sir,” Claire enthused. “Thank you. I hope I don’t disappoint you.”
Denniston chuckled. “Disappointing me is the one thing I’m quite sure is outside of your capacity,” he said. “And please try to go easy when you’re scolding me. I bruise easily.” He stood up from his desk. “Come along, then. We’ll make this official and I’ll introduce you into the group. You know everyone already, I’m sure, but they need to hear from me how we intend to work this.”
Despite the sad events that had blighted her life and that of everyone touched by the war, Claire sensed elation welling up inside her as she greeted her new co-workers.
They greeted her jovially. “We’ve heard of you. Jolly good work. Glad to have you.”
“If you need help with that little boy, we’ll be happy to jump in. Give you a break.”
“I heard you were caught near the docks that first night of bombing on the city. How did you ever get out?”
“Hey,” one petite girl with big eyes called to her, “are those brothers of yours still single?”
For the first time in recent memory, Claire went home feeling content. She had put thoughts of her parents and siblings into a mental safe place where she kept them until moments when she was free to think of them without the war intruding, and when she could select among wonderful memories about them to relive. She had placed Shorty with loving care into that same place, comforted that good memories of him would reside with those she loved.
The afternoon was bright, the weather beautiful, and after descending from the bus that brought her to Stony Stratford, she relished the walk home among the scents of new wildflowers and a gentle breeze that touched her face.
Turning into the gravel driveway leading to her front door, she saw a government car, the same type that Paul and Jeremy had sometimes used to visit her. Anticipation quickened her step, and then accompanying anxiety settled her back down.
When she was halfway up the garden path at the top of the driveway, the front door opened, and Timmy ran out. “Gigi,” he called happily in his little boy voice, throwing his arms around her knees. “Jermy here. He’s here. Jermy.” He jumped up and down with excitement and pointed to the house.
Behind Timmy, the nanny followed. When Claire saw her face, her heart pushed against her throat. “What’s wrong?”
The nanny shook her head sadly and pointed. “He’s in the back garden.”
Claire hurried through the house and peered out the window overlooking the garden. Jeremy sat alone with his elbows propped on his knees, staring at the ground. An unwelcome flash of memory crossed Claire’s mind. She had sat on that same bench and sobbed after saying goodbye to Paul when he left on his secret assignment.
Gingerly, she opened the back door and stepped out, closing it behind her. “What is it, Jeremy?” she asked as she approached him.
&nb
sp; He looked up, and although no tears ran down his face, his eyes were red, and he bore a haunted look.
Claire gasped. “It’s not Amélie, is it?”
Jeremy shook his head and stood.
Claire breathed a sigh of relief and wrapped her arms around her brother. “What is it, then? Has something happened to Mum or Dad or to one of our brothers?”
Once again, Jeremy shook his head. “It’s Amélie’s father,” he said slowly. “Ferrand. He was killed in an operation in the north of France rescuing a spy for the French Resistance from the German headquarters in Dinard.”
Claire stared at her brother in horror but said nothing. She buried her head against his arm and bit her lip to hold back her own tears.
Late that night, alone in her room, Claire lay face down on her bed, weeping into her pillow. Then she raised herself up onto her elbows and beat the mattress in fury. “This damned war,” she railed in the darkness. “How can anyone know if you’re helping or hurting.” She rolled onto her back, sat up, pivoted, and dropped her feet to the floor. Holding her face in her hands, she wept quietly. “I sent the rescue team that saved Jeannie. And I sent Amélie’s father to his death.”
What must Jeremy be feeling? Ferrand saved his life. She wondered how Jeremy managed to get up day after day, and now night after night, to fly into the sky utterly exhausted, knowing this mission could be his last, as had happened to Shorty. Or how Paul could live isolated from his family and friends and carry on with whatever he was doing. Tears ran again as she imagined Lance in a dark cell guarded by German soldiers.
Rising from her bed, she stumbled in the dark to a small desk and turned on a lamp. A letter from her mother and father had arrived the day before, and she picked it up and read it again. It was not long, but she read and re-read a particular passage.
“This war is not pleasant for anyone. The ersatz tea is as bad now as when we first tasted it. We take comfort in knowing we raised a daughter and three sons of strong character who face challenges with courage and wisdom, and we look for the day when we shall be together again.”
