CHAPTER 5
“So, this is your Enfield Mark II service revolver. And as the bods at the Royal Small Arms Factory might say, it’s been improved. You will see it’s lighter, only a thirty-eight caliber, but a nippy little piece of tackle.” MacFarlane lifted the revolver, sighted a target, and fired, the bullet tearing through the center of the bull’s-eye. He held out the weapon to Maisie. “Go on, your turn.”
Maisie looked at the revolver and reached for the wooden grip. “Oh, it’s heavier than I thought.”
MacFarlane laughed. “Lassie, it’s a wee feather compared to anything I was brandishing in the war! Now then, this is what they call a short-range weapon, so don’t be looking down the street and thinking you can take down a man who’s fifty yards away. But she’s a nifty little thing—you don’t have to put a lot of effort into firing, and it’s an easy reload. First of all, though, let’s get this bit over and done with, and we’ll go through it again. Then you’ll be in the hands of Strupper—that’s him over there, watching. He’s our weapons man. He’ll be in charge of making you what they call a crack shot. By the time he’s finished with you, you could make a few bob as a sniper.”
“Why am I not starting with Mr. Strupper?”
“Because I wanted to see the whites of your eyes when you used a revolver for the first time, Maisie. Now then, off you go—aim and do your best.”
Maisie was sure MacFarlane would not have missed the whites of her eyes from quite a distance, though she did her best to keep her arm steady and her attention on the target. She had always considered reason to be the most powerful weapon in any arsenal, along with compassion, empathy, and a desire to see into the heart of another person. And as a nurse she had seen the terrible wounds inflicted by guns of any stripe, so she’d never wanted to handle one. But something had changed in her too. She recognized the need to be armed, should she need to use such a weapon to protect Leon Donat. Bringing him back to England would be akin to carrying a very valuable piece of china in her hands. He had to be delivered to Brian Huntley without damage.
She looked at the target, squinted just a little, and held up the revolver. She felt the weight in her hand as she cast her line of sight along the barrel, leveling it with the bull’s-eye. Fearing movement in her hand as she discharged the weapon, she felt herself tighten the muscles in her shoulder. She pulled back on the trigger, fighting the urge to close her eyes. The report ricocheted from ear to ear, filling her mind, and she almost dropped the gun.
“Well, that’s a surprise, your ladyship.”
“Robbie—I’ve told you about that. No titles.”
“I should call you ‘her snipership.’”
Maisie looked in the direction of the target.
“Good shot, Maisie. A perfect bull’s-eye. Now let’s get the expert in to make sure it wasn’t beginner’s luck. And this afternoon we’ll up the ante.”
“What do you mean?”
“How to get rid of the unwanted individual when you don’t have a gun.”
“And how will I do that?”
“Oh, the pen in your handbag is a start.”
Maisie looked at the ground and felt her head swim. At that moment she wished someone else could have taken on the guise of Leon Donat’s daughter.
The grand country house where Robert MacFarlane had left Maisie in the hands of a man known only to her as “Mr. Strupper” was, she surmised, somewhere in the Cotswolds. MacFarlane had apologized for the need to blindfold her about an hour into their journey—the “blindfold” having been a pair of darkglasses with opaque lenses—so she could only guess at the location. She would be in situ for one week, and would leave directly from the mansion for Victoria Station, where she would board the express train, bound for Munich via ferry across the English Channel.
It was during the journey that Maisie decided to tell MacFarlane about John Otterburn. She recounted their conversation at the newly decorated flat in Primrose Hill.
MacFarlane pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Lass, there are certain people—your Mr. Otterburn being one of them—who are, as I am sure you know, ‘untouchable.’ They have too much value because they know too much, can do too much, and have made themselves indispensable. The canny Canadian is involved in ways you would not even be able to imagine when it comes to protecting these British Isles.” MacFarlane shook his head and sighed. “When we do business with men such as Mr. Otterburn, we shake hands with the devil we know. And what we know is that he has access to information we would rather he did not have.” He looked at Maisie. “So he told you only that he knew you were off to Munich.”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t have a reason for letting you know.”
“No.”
“He didn’t want you to look up an old friend, did he?”
Maisie shook her head.
“I daresay he’s just interested. By all accounts he wasn’t fond of Leon Donat. Not at all—Donat was the tortoise to Otterburn’s hare when it came to a very big order for machine tools, from a company down Brazil way. About ten years ago, I think it was. Otterburn thought he had it in the bag—all that flash he has, he thought he’d won the day over Donat. But no, they preferred to do business with the man who appeared more solid.”
“I see,” said Maisie.
“But there’s respect there, one for the other—always is among enemies when they’re strong. And these men with their businesses have enemies all over the place. Donat has them in Germany, as Huntley told you in the briefing. You see, Maisie, you and I, we’re not of this world of commerce, but I can tell you one thing—there are more captains of industry than officers on the battlefield willing to kill a man. And people like Leon Donat—quiet, methodical, thoughtful, yet very, very clever—they will always have as many against them as for them. But as we know, Donat’s people were always for him.” He blew out his cheeks. “Anyway, at least Otterburn is on our side, Maisie.”
Surrounded by mature Leylandi cypresses, and fields and forest beyond, the house had originally been built in the early 1600s, with a later addition in the mid-eighteenth century. At the back, overlooking the manicured lawns, it had the hallmarks of a Tudor palace, with beamed construction and candy-cane chimneys. Maisie thought the front of the mansion would have been at home in Georgian Bath—she imagined Jane Austen taking a turn around the fountain that divided the carriage sweep. But it was now the twentieth century, and it was clear the building no longer accommodated a well-to-do landowner, or a clergyman with an enviable personal income over and above a church stipend. Each day she saw a few men and women coming and going, some toward various outbuildings, others—mostly women—scurrying along corridors clutching folders, or writing notes as they went. No one stopped to converse with her, and if they greeted her, it was in German. Every teacher—from Strupper to the man who told her exactly how she could use her pen as a weapon—now spoke to her in German. She took her meals in her well-appointed rooms, the maid announcing her entrance with “Guten Tag, Fräulein Donat. Ich bin hier mit dem Essen—hoffen wir, dass Sie hungrig sind!” Good day, Miss Donat. I’m here with your food—I hope you’re hungry! Or perhaps “Guten Abend, Fräulein Donat. Es war so kalt heute, so habe ich einige heiße Suppe für Sie.” Good evening, Miss Donat. It has been so cold today, so I have some hot soup for you. In general the conversation amounted to a comment on the weather, and a desire to know whether Maisie—or Fräulein Donat, as she was now known—was hungry, because Cook had made something special for her. At first Maisie offered a halting “Thank you” in German, but necessity forced her to dredge her memory’s depths for the language she had learned almost twenty years earlier, and even then it was only enough to get her through the basics of polite conversation. In one week she was not expected to demonstrate fluency, but she needed to be able to offer pleasantries—and to grasp the essence of any conversations taking place around her.
On the morning of Maisie’s penultimate day at the manor house she found
a note pushed under her bedroom door, informing her that she should proceed to the conference room following her lesson with Mr. Strupper, which was planned for the hour just after lunch. There was no indication of whom she would be meeting, or if preparation was required.
With a high-pitched whine still ringing in her ears, Maisie made her way down from the shooting range to the conference room. She had been to the room only once before, on her first day. It was here that she received her schedule for the week and instructions regarding how her immersion in the unknown territory of what she considered to be diplomatic risk-taking would proceed. The walls were lined in dark wood, with some panels bearing a coat of arms and others carved to depict hunting scenes and vine fruit. Rich velvet curtains draped leaded windows, and a heavy iron chandelier hung over the table. As she entered the room, two things struck her: the smell of lavender and beeswax, as if copious amounts of the polish were used every day on the long table and sturdy chairs, and a woman standing by the window, looking out across the gardens. The woman turned as Maisie closed the door behind her.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Maisie.
Dr. Francesca Thomas stepped toward Maisie. “Dear me, we’re failing you if you’ve managed to forget to speak in German at the first shock of the day!”
Maisie had met Francesca Thomas several years earlier, during her first assignment for Huntley. MacFarlane was still with Special Branch at the time, but it was to him that she reported on her work at a college in Cambridge, where there was a suspicion that subversive activities against the Crown were taking place. Maisie had taken on an academic appointment in an undercover capacity. In time she realized that Dr. Francesca Thomas was also working in a clandestine role, but for the Belgian government. Later Maisie learned that Thomas was a woman of great bravery, having been a member of La Dame Blanche—a resistance network of mainly women engaged in intelligence activities, including surveillance and sabotage against their German occupiers. It was Thomas who had warned Maisie that having worked on behalf of the British Secret Service, she would never be free.
Thomas reached out and placed her hands on Maisie’s shoulders, as if to inspect her. “You’ve weathered some storms, Maisie.”
“No more than you, Dr. Thomas.”
“Francesca, please. And in a break with the formality established since your arrival, you will not be required to converse in German during this meeting.”
“Just as I was getting used to it,” said Maisie.
Thomas smiled as she pulled out a chair at the head of the table and held out her hand to indicate that Maisie should sit next to her. Opening a file on the table in front of her, she explained her presence at the manor house.
“You are now aware that not only do I work on behalf of my own country, but also Britain—in the interests of Belgium, you understand. Mr. Huntley thought it would be a good idea for me to have some involvement in preparing you for your assignment.” Thomas took a deep breath. “I think he believes another woman’s perspective might help you feel more at ease.”
Maisie had opened her mouth to inform Thomas that she felt quite at ease when the other woman raised her hand.
“And anyone who says she is perfectly all right as she prepares for such an expedition is, my dear, not facing the truth of the matter. There’s no need to feel you must put me at ease—a healthy dose of doubt may well keep you safe. Now, to work. We’re going to look at Leon Donat.”
“I’ve already been briefed on Mr. Donat—I’ve read his dossier a dozen times. In fact, I can tell you what he might have for dinner on a day like today.”
“And that is?”
“Liver and bacon, mashed potato, gravy, and cabbage. Steamed apple pudding for afters, then some cheese and biscuits with a glass of port. He never takes a first course, and goes straight to the main.”
“Good work.” Thomas pulled out a collection of photographs from an envelope. “This is a little different.”
Francesca Thomas laid out five photographs of Leon Donat—some formal, at an event; some informal, probably taken at the family home. One by one, Thomas asked Maisie to study each photograph and point out aspects of Donat’s physiognomy she’d noticed, or the way he stood, folded his arms, or clasped the ring on the third finger of his left hand.
“Good. Now then, look at this photograph.”
Maisie picked up the print Thomas pushed toward her.
“What do you see?” asked Thomas.
Maisie studied every aspect of the man whose eyes seemed to stare back at her. “Well, I’ll be honest,” she said. “I’m not sure. Something’s different. Yes, the area around the nose, the folds here”—she ran her finger across her own skin, just below the left cheek—“all right, yes, he looks as if he’s had a tooth removed. He’s swollen.”
“Well done. He had been playing with the son of his manager at the factory in Hertfordshire, and had just been hit by a ball on the cheek. It was the factory summer picnic.” Thomas paused, and then pushed another photo toward Maisie. “What about this one?”
Maisie reached for the photograph and again focused on the features. “Here too he looks different. Perhaps a slightly changed haircut.”
“No. Wrong. Look again.”
Maisie squinted and shook her head. “The eyes look different. Perhaps it’s the angle—the way he’s looking at the camera.”
“No. Try again.”
Maisie tried to disguise a sigh. She was tired. The week had tested her mentally, physically, drained her spirit—and now Thomas seemed determined to whittle away any confidence she had left.
“The need for accurate observation could save your life, Maisie,” said Thomas.
“All right. Let’s just say it isn’t Leon Donat.”
Thomas smiled. “Doubt has many faces, Maisie. It can trip you up or be your friend. Good. You’re right. This is not Leon Donat. What about this one?”
“Yes, it’s him.”
“This?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“No.”
At last Thomas gathered the photographs and returned them to the envelope. Maisie had been tested on her recognition of Leon Donat until her eyes smarted and she felt herself fighting to keep them open.
“Now to the next thing on the agenda,” said Thomas.
Maisie looked at the clock set on the mantelpiece. “It says on my timetable that I have a safety briefing in five minutes. In the gymnasium.”
“Yes, that’s right. But your briefing is not in the gymnasium, it’s right here. With me.”
Maisie met Thomas’ eyes. She knew that beneath the scarf worn at her neck, the woman before her bore the scars of hand-to-hand combat. As a member of La Dame Blanche, she had sought to avenge the death of her husband, killing the man who had taken his life. She had been prepared to die in the attempt.
“I am going to teach you how to save your own life, Maisie. How to keep yourself safe.”
By the time the motor car arrived to collect Maisie for the journey to London, where she would lodge at a flat close to Victoria for just a few hours, the English language seemed almost alien to her, and she was tired to the bone. As soon as she was settled in the small flat, which was situated in the center of a nondescript mews just ten minutes’ walk from the station, MacFarlane knocked at her door. With him was a woman who was to fit Maisie with a shoulder-length wig of deep coppery brown hair. She also carried a small suitcase packed with clothing that fit Maisie, and which she would probably have chosen herself if Priscilla had not recently insisted that she buy nothing without her sartorial advice. The garments were plain, of fine quality, and in dark or muted shades—a heavy tweed coat, a navy skirt, a pale blue silk blouse, another matching jacket and dress costume in a deep burgundy wool barathea. There was nothing to attract attention. Soft leather shoes that were a perfect fit had been slipped into the case; and a heavier pair of walking shoes had been provided for travel purposes, and to stand up to the weather in Munich, expected to
be much colder than London. There would be no Prince Charming to slip a new slipper onto her foot and whisk her away to another life.
All travel documents provided were in the same name as on the passport MacFarlane handed to her, along with the papers she would be required to relinquish to the German authorities upon her arrival in Munich. There she would be issued with more documents to secure the release of Leon Donat—the man she would call “Papa”—from the prison in Dachau. She was now officially Edwina Donat.
“You’re on your way, Miss Donat.” MacFarlane nodded to the woman who had fitted Maisie’s wig and demonstrated how to secure and style hair that was so unlike her own. The woman put away the brushes and combs, the wigs that were not deemed satisfactory, and left the room with an almost silent step. Maisie realized that she might pass the woman in the street and never recognize her; she was an everywoman, with no significant features to mark her as memorable.
MacFarlane pressed his lips together as if to stop himself uttering words he might regret. “You know what to do—stick to the plan we’ve given you, and you should have no problems at all. You just go in, say everything we’ve told you to say, then collect Leon Donat and board the train, all in double-quick time. I know I can trust you not to linger to see the sights. We want you and Donat in Paris and then in not-so-sunny London post-bloody-haste.”
Journey to Munich Page 6
