Mr. Churchill's Secretary

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Above him, mothers prayed for their sons in the military, widows prayed for their dead husbands, and even a few atheists clasped hands and looked heavenward in hope. None of these people were in Murphy’s thoughts as he set the timer on his bomb.

  In the darkness, the gold pocket watch began a slow ticking countdown.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “ROGER!” LETICIA HISSED, still holding the heavy skillet that had taken down Malcolm Pierce.

  Roger’s eyes bulged as he took in Pierce’s prone form. “Christ, woman! Are you daft? What did you do that for?”

  “I didn’t sign on for murder! Pierce said Hitler would bring order and stability.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not torture in my kitchen!”

  The dogs barked in the background, excited by the noise, their claws scraping on the locked kitchen door.

  “But you believe in the cause?”

  “Y-yes,” she answered. “I’m just not keen on the idea of burning people with hot pokers.” She clicked her tongue. “Not at all seemly.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Roger said. “Going ahead anyway.”

  Maggie and Edmund exchanged a look. Pierce’s gun was on the floor. If there was some way one of them could get to it, they’d at least have a chance.

  “Roger!” she said. “You’ll do no such thing!”

  “I don’t think you understand. In for a penny, in for a pound, what? These two people can identify us. And people in Berlin are waiting for a prisoner to be delivered.”

  “They’re waiting for Mr. Pierce. Not you.”

  “Don’t really think they give a damn about Pierce, long as they get what they want. Which is why I’m going to be flying one of them in the Airco to Berlin myself.”

  “You haven’t flown in years,” Leticia protested.

  “Just like riding a bicycle.” He shook his head. “Never thought I’d be flying in another war.”

  “Roger! You can’t just take one and leave the other one here. And what about me? What am I supposed to do?”

  “It’s fine,” he said reassuringly, moving toward her. “Everything’s fine.”

  Her mouth made a perfect round O of surprise before she slumped to the floor beside Pierce.

  Roger turned back to Maggie and Edmund. “Now, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  Claire was being held in one of the underground conference rooms of the War Rooms, seated on a gray metal folding chair with her arms handcuffed behind her back and her feet tied to the chair’s legs. The only other furniture in the room was a battered wooden table and another folding chair. The room was lit from above by a naked fluorescent bulb. The air, silent except for the rumble of air-conditioning, was still and stale.

  She started when she heard the click of the lock and then the scrape of the door in front of her. Then she saw the man enter, carrying a black leather briefcase.

  “Miss Kelly,” he said, setting down his briefcase. “I am Peter Frain, Director General of MI-Five.”

  She trained her eyes on the table in front of her.

  Frain removed his Anthony Eden hat with its upturned brim and his trench coat. He sat down opposite her, then unlocked his briefcase and pulled out a file.

  “I want to call the American embassy,” she said, finally. “I’m a U.S. citizen. I have rights.”

  “Sarah Sanderson had rights, too.” He called through the open door, “Bring her in.”

  Two police officers wheeled in a metal gurney. On top was a large black zippered bag. They wheeled it next to Claire and then unzipped it, revealing a face. Inside, there was a woman, a beautiful woman. Dead. Her eyes were closed. She looked pale and peaceful.

  Claire looked away, her eyes shining with tears. “You sick, sick bastard,” she whispered finally.

  He motioned the men to take the body away. “We didn’t kill her, Miss Kelly,” he said. “You did.”

  “No! It wasn’t me!” Claire swallowed. “Besides, there’s … collateral damage … in any war.” Even to Claire, the words sounded weak.

  “ ‘Collateral damage’ named Sarah Sanderson.”

  Claire slumped in her chair. “I’m not even supposed to be alive,” she said.

  “Yes,” Frain said. “We gathered that the plan was to assassinate the Prime Minister, then kill yourself. However, it didn’t quite pan out that way, did it?”

  Claire was silent. A vein throbbed in her temple.

  “I highly doubt that you could kill yourself, let alone another human being. Why else would John Sterling still be alive? Any assassin worth the name would have taken him out immediately. Your only chance to survive now is to tell us everything you know.”

  Once again, Claire was silent.

  Frain opened the manila folder on the desk and began to read from the pages inside. “Let’s see—Claire Paige Kelly. Born July second, 1916, in Richmond, Virginia. Father is Francis Xavier Kelly, linguist. Mother is Imelda Mary Donovan Kelly. Educated at Miss Porter’s School and Wellesley College. Came to London in ’thirty-eight to work for Joseph Kennedy, U.S. Ambassador to England. Principal interests, though, are boys and booze. When war broke out and Ambassador Kennedy returned to the States, applied for the Women’s Auxiliary. Recommended by Ambassador Kennedy. Interviewed March fifth. Accepted. Cleared. Started work the following week. So far, so good?” He raised one eyebrow. “Care to add anything?”

  Claire said nothing.

  “Not exactly a rigorous process of selection. But then again, you’re a U.S. citizen, and there’s a war on. And you do come from a rather rich American family and have a reference from the Ambassador.”

  Frain looked back down at his notes. “Summers in the family home, located just outside Belfast. That wasn’t enough to be a red flag initially, but when you applied for the position as the Prime Minister’s secretary, we thought it was worth investigating. Ultimately, along with your U.S. passport, it was enough to keep you from the position.”

  Claire didn’t move, but the color drained from her face.

  “We discovered you were an avid churchgoer, Miss Kelly. Especially during off-hours. A Catholic church.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “At first we thought it was just an affair with a priest. But of course, it was more complicated than that.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “And I want the lion to lie down with the lamb,” Frain said. “But neither of us is going to get what we want, are we? Especially Diana Snyder.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Claire.

  “Ah, I see you remember. We have a witness placing a Michael Murphy at the scene of the crime, but you were there, too, weren’t you?”

  Claire said nothing, but a muscle beneath her eye started to twitch.

  “That’s your—what do you call it in the States? Fifth Amendment right, I suppose. We don’t have that here. And besides, you and I both know you might as well have murdered her, that poor young girl. You lured her in somehow, set it up for Murphy. You’re just as guilty as if you stabbed her yourself.”

  Claire bit her lip, hard, to keep from crying out.

  “You tried for the job with the P.M.—what a coup that would have been! But alas, you had too many red flags attached to your personnel file already.”

  Frain looked at her. “But that didn’t stop you from suggesting an old college friend, a Miss Margaret Hope, for the job, did it? And you anticipated that as Miss Hope’s best friend and flatmate, you’d get important information from her.”

  Claire still said nothing.

  “Meanwhile, Miss Kelly, we were also monitoring the Saturday Club. When you got involved with them, we started to dig a bit deeper. At first we thought that perhaps Miss Hope was in on the plot as well. But then we realized that the parish priest you met at odd hours was actually Michael Murphy. We were able to connect you with both the IRA and Abwehr.”

  Claire looked up. “I want a deal,” she spat.

  “You’re going to hang unless you convince me ot
herwise.”

  Frain pulled a cigarette from a monogrammed silver case, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

  “What about the life of Michael Murphy?” he asked conversationally. “Is he also ‘collateral damage’? Like Diana and Sarah?”

  “Michael?” Claire blinked. “You have Michael?”

  “As I said, we’ve been tailing you and Mr. Murphy for some time now. Our men have already taken him into custody.”

  “Michael won’t negotiate,” Claire said flatly.

  “Probably not. Which is why, in order to save him, you’ll have to.”

  When Claire blinked, Frain knew he’d read her correctly. She wouldn’t talk to save herself, but she could be convinced to protect her lover.

  “What are you offering?”

  “We are prepared to offer you this—your life and Mr. Murphy’s. In exchange for information.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “You tried to assassinate the Prime Minister of England, and you failed, Miss Kelly. Failed. Now tell us what we want to know and we’ll let you and your Mick boyfriend live.”

  Maggie and Edmund took in Leticia’s unmoving body on the floor next to Pierce’s. His gun was still on the floor next to him. Roger still had his pistol pointed at the two prisoners. The barrel moved unsteadily between Maggie and her father, as though he couldn’t figure out which one to shoot first.

  Maggie grimaced and tried not to cry out in pain as her arm continued to throb.

  Outside the kitchen, the dogs snarled and whined.

  “Quiet!” Roger shouted. The dogs gave a few low whines, but then whimpered and padded off.

  “Why don’t you undo these ties and we’ll have a nice chat,” Maggie gasped between waves of pain. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “And look how well that worked,” Roger said. He walked behind Maggie. She could smell his cologne—vetiver mixed with sweat and fear. He began working on the ropes around her hands. She bit her lip, refusing to show him how much it hurt her arm.

  “You’re taking me?” she managed. He’d put the gun down next to him, on the floor.

  “You’re smaller, female, easier to control,” Roger said as he worked. “And you probably had access to more high-level information than you’re letting on here. I’m sure the gestapo will have a number of techniques to get you to talk.”

  “And what about you?” Just keep him talking, she thought, keep him distracted, and maybe we have a prayer. “Your wife is dead, your contact is out cold. You’re going to start over with a new life in Berlin?”

  “Here I’m nothing—no one,” he said, working at the ropes around her wrists. Red and raw waves of pain shot down her arm like hot currents of electricity. “See this house? We used to have servants, horses, hunting parties. Now it’s gone, all gone. There’s nothing left for me here. In Berlin, I’ll be a hero.”

  The ropes fell away, and Maggie was free. She rubbed her wrists, trying to get the circulation back, then slowly lifted her arm to look at the wound on her shoulder. Gingerly, she tried to raise the fabric of the blouse and sweater away from the charred flesh—bad idea. She winced and set her teeth.

  Roger pressed the gun into her temple and grabbed her elbow, forcing her to her feet. “Now, don’t get any ideas, my dear,” he said.

  He took the gun from Maggie’s head and pointed it at Edmund.

  He cocked the gun and, distracted by Edmund, relaxed his hold on Maggie’s arm.

  She knew this was her only chance.

  “Goodbye, Professor Hope,” he said.

  As he did, Maggie used her last ounce of energy to spin around and dive for Pierce’s gun, still on the kitchen floor.

  In a single move, she grabbed it and pointed it at Roger. It was bigger and heavier than she expected, and her shoulder throbbed in protest, but it fit into the soft palm of her hand with surprising ease.

  “I believe we have what’s called a stalemate, Miss Hope,” Roger said, looking at her with an expression of genuine surprise.

  Suddenly the door behind him burst open. There stood Snodgrass, flanked by David and John.

  “Ah, Miss Hope,” Snodgrass said. “I see you have things well in hand. However, I hope you don’t mind a little backup.”

  Roger realized he was outnumbered.

  “Please drop your weapon, sir,” Snodgrass said in a neutral tone. Maggie had never thought she’d be so glad to see his stringy hair and sloping shoulders in her life. Not to mention John and David.

  “Blast it all!” Roger said.

  “I must insist,” Snodgrass said.

  Roger could see that he was out of options. Slowly, he knelt down and placed the gun on the floor. With his right hand, Snodgrass kept the gun on Roger. With the left, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them to David, who caught them in one hand. “Will you do the honors, Mr. Greene?”

  David went over to Roger and cuffed his hands behind his back, none too gently.

  “You too, Miss Hope,” Snodgrass said. Maggie lowered her arm.

  John strode to Maggie. “Are you all right?” he said, offering his hand.

  She took it. It was large and warm and comforting. Of course he figured it out. Of course he came. She stood up and handed the gun over to Snodgrass, who clicked on the safety. “Fine, thank you. Although it’s been”—she looked over to Edmund and gave a wry smile—“quite the evening.”

  “And night,” John said. “What were you thinking? Gallivanting all over the countryside? Making people worry …?”

  “And you,” David said to Edmund, pointing his finger. “Aren’t you supposed to be crazy?”

  Edmund shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

  “Once MI-Five picks this one up,” Snodgrass said, indicating Roger, “we’ll have plenty of time to chat.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  PETER FAIN DROPPED his cigarette to the floor, grinding it beneath his heel. “I want you to tell me who’s still out there.”

  Claire pressed her lips together and looked off into space.

  “We know the only reason you’re even considering helping us is because of Mr. Murphy,” Frain continued. “But believe me, it’s not too late for us to change our minds about how we treat him.”

  Claire looked at him and blinked. Good, he thought, let her chew on that.

  “There were a few men I heard Michael talking about,” she ventured finally. “But I don’t know where they are or how to get in contact with them.”

  Frain rose to his feet and walked around the table until he was behind Claire. “Who’s Eammon Devlin?” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. He already knew who Eammon Devlin was—one of London’s biggest and most successful underground figures. Devlin provided “protection,” ran several brothels, and since the start of the war, maintained a thriving black-market business specializing in sugar, cigarettes, petrol, and stockings. He was always suspected of IRA ties, but so far they’d been impossible to prove.

  “I heard Michael speak of him a few times, but I never met him. He’s one of the higher-ups; that’s all I know.”

  Frain straightened up. “That’s not good enough.”

  “It’s going to have to be.”

  Without warning, Frain tipped her chair over. Claire, with her arms and legs still cuffed, hit the cement floor with a resounding bang. Claire screamed in shock and agony.

  A guard appeared at the door. “Everything all right, Mr. Frain?”

  “Perfectly fine, thank you,” Frain said, bending over Claire’s form on the floor. Her face twitched in alarm and pain.

  The guard left, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Let’s try this again,” he said mildly. “Tell me about Eammon Devlin.”

  “I already told you!” Claire moaned.

  “You said you never met him.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Frain brought the chair, with Claire in it, to its upright position once again. “Unless you tell me the whole truth right now, that deal to save your lover
is off the table. And he’ll hang for treason.”

  “But you said—”

  “Do you think the Prime Minister will really honor that agreement? For the duo who tried to kill him? Michael Murphy—and you—will be executed for war crimes. But first you’ll go to prison while you wait for your trial. And let me tell you, I know a little something about prison in wartime. These murderers and rapists—they’re all criminals, but they’re British criminals. Get that? And we’ll let it be known exactly what you’re in for.”

  Frain knelt down in front of the girl, pupils large and black in his gray eyes. “And know this: I’ll give you about two weeks before you attempt suicide. Six weeks until you succeed. Mr. Murphy may hold out a little longer, but not before he’s suffered … unspeakable acts.”

  Frain let the words sink in. Then he rose to his feet and turned, as though to leave the room.

  “Wait!”

  Frain stopped but didn’t look at her.

  “Eammon Devlin is the man we reported to. We took our orders from him—but he never contacted us directly. Or at least he never contacted me directly. I received my orders through Michael.”

  Frain turned around slowly. “What about the bomb at Saint Paul’s?”

  “Michael is the one who smuggled the pieces in, and he assembled it. But Devlin designed and built it. He’s an engineer originally—he knows how it works. And he’s the only one who can stop it.”

  “Where is he?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know.”

  “Miss Kelly, must I remind you—”

  Claire met his eyes. “I wish to God that I did. But I don’t. I don’t know!”

  Back at No. 10, the mood was tense. It was morning, and a baleful red sun illuminated the horizon through pearly gray clouds. They didn’t have much time left. Less than four hours, to be precise.

  Edmund, David, John, and Maggie were sitting at one end of the large, dark-wood rectangular table in the Cabinet Room, on William Kent red damask chairs with ornate gilded frames. The room was light and airy, with ecru walls and wainscoting the color of clotted cream. The grandfather clock ticked loudly, while in the distance, Big Ben chimed the hour with a slow and steady gong. There was a small vase of purple heather on the ornate white-marble fireplace mantel. The attached note read, “To the Prime Minister. For luck.”