by Lyn Cote
“Hey, thanks,” Ted complained softly from under-neath her.
Bette ignored him and rotated the lamp on the nightstand. “Ah,” she breathed.
“Ah?” The bed jerked. “Ow!” Ted exclaimed with pain in a hollow whisper. “That ‘ah’ better mean something. I just bumped my head.”
“It’s in the lampshade,” Bette murmured.
Ted was standing beside her within seconds. “What’s in the lampshade?”
“Do you see how the lamp by the draperies casts different shadows?” She gestured toward the floral print lamps.
“Not really. What are you . . .” He fell silent.
She opened her purse and from a small red-silk pouch took out tweezers. Then she bent the lamp over. The lampshade was in two layers: an inner celluloid layer that was stiff and smooth and a pleated fabric outer layer. The shade was topped by frayed, starched lace. She slipped the tweezers into a gap between the two lines of lace and drew out a rolled slip of paper. Suddenly her heart pounded.
“You little sweetheart,” Ted cooed. “What did you find?” He bent to the nightstand, unrolled the paper, and spread it out under the lamp.
She leaned close to his shoulder and looked at it, too. The letters didn’t make any sense. “Is it in code?”
“Yeah.” He kissed the paper. “Gotcha.”
She’d tried not to remember what this was like—so exhilarating, so exciting. The police had missed it. She had found it. “Will you be able to read it?”
“At Headquarters they’ll decode it.” He looked over and beamed at her. “How did you notice it?”
Trying to appear modest, Bette nodded toward the lampshade. “This one didn’t give out as much light and when I looked closer, I noticed that some of the folds were darker. I bet the police searched the room in the daylight. They might not have turned on the lamps. Even if they did, it probably wouldn’t have been as obvious in daylight.”
Tilting the lamp toward her, she dipped the tweezers in again and pulled out another page. She did this three more times, finding three more pages. She then moved to the other lamp and rescued one more page. “They should have put the same number in each shade. I might have overlooked them then.”
“I doubt it.” Ted took the pages from her. He looked down at the five sheets of hotel stationery in his hand and then tossed the papers onto the rumpled bed. “You never miss a trick. You’re unbelievable.” Without warning, he pulled her to him and kissed her.
The shock of Ted’s lips meeting hers took her breath away. Then he wrapped her in an embrace that pressed her against him with an intimacy she’d never experienced. She gasped for air and Ted plunged them into a second kiss. Curt had never kissed her like this—as if life and death were bound up in one kiss. She’d thought she’d been awake before this. But now she was fully alive, fully aware of every inch of the man pressed against her. I should pull away.
She tried to protest, but Ted’s kisses rushed over her like breakers on a high sea. She felt as if she were being sucked into the tide. She kissed him back—urgent, demanding, surprising herself. She clung to his broad shoulders, digging her fingers into his wool suit jacket. His every move and touch heightened her senses. Then he nudged her back and she felt him lower her onto the bed.
Feeling the mattress give under her weight splashed through her like plunging into ice water. “No.” She jerked her head away.
She gasped for air even as he started another kiss. Her conscience reared up. “No.” She pushed against him. “No.”
“That’s three no’s.” He had the nerve to chuckle. “A lesser man might take it that you don’t like his kisses.” Looking down at her, he gave her a slow smile filled with sensual promise. “But you do like my kisses, don’t you, Bette?” He traced her chin with his index finger.
Her face flamed, but she refused to give in to embarrassment over her lack of control, refused to let Ted intimidate her. “You are very good at it,” she said coolly and straightened up away from him. She was pleased to see that he hadn’t expected this from her. “But I am an engaged woman.”
“Yes, but just how engaged are you, Miss Bette Leigh?”
Two days after helping Ted find the hidden pages, Bette strolled nonchalantly into the elegant lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel as if she were here for pleasure—not for a mysterious appointment. She’d received an early call from Ted and had agreed to meet a third party here today at 2:00 p.m. Any third party that Ted knew must be involved in espionage some way. Could it be Mr. Hoover and Ted hadn’t wanted to say that over the phone? This meeting could turn her life upside down again. The possibility thrilled her. And perplexed her. Yet she hadn’t been able to refuse.
“Just how engaged are you?” Ted’s outrageous question from two nights ago echoed in her mind. She’d slapped his face and pushed him away—horrified at her behavior. She’d let Ted push her down on a bed and kiss her, not once, but repeatedly. And recalling this, her treacherous lips tingled, mocking her.
What was she going to do about Ted? She didn’t think he was the kind of man to take no for an answer. Or even three no’s. But Curt seemed similarly stubborn. Men. Hadn’t she been ready a few months before to put all this FBI work aside and become Mrs. Curtis Sinclair? Then Curt had overruled her, insisting they wait again. If Curt had married me, I wouldn’t have been with Ted. Something quite true but that did nothing to absolve her. Now a similarly bossy phone call from Curt this morning had left her trembling with an inexplicable anger. It seemed that Curt wanted it both ways, too.
She strode through the luxurious lobby to the stairway and then up the steps. She’d dressed with care and wore a new black dress and purple hat with a black veil that covered her face, tying back at the rear of the hat. Ted had told her she was to report to a room on the second floor. In minutes, she stood before the door and knocked on it three times. A middle-aged man opened the door. His gaze flashed over her as though photographing her with his eyes. “Miss Browning?” he voiced his password.
She nodded and replied with her password, “Yes, I’m Miss Bette Browning.”
He stepped back and waved her inside.
She entered, her nerves thrumming with unaccountable anger and nervous anticipation. Inside the luxurious room, Ted waited in the background. She halted in surprise. He merely nodded his greeting as if seeing her awoke nothing in him.
Saying his name with a note of polite inquiry, she ignored the way she reacted to seeing him again. Her senses had gone crazy and that didn’t please her. Angry or not, she was still engaged to Curt. “I didn’t expect to see Ted today,” she said lightly over her shoulder to the stranger. She was glad she’d dressed up. Today, she didn’t look like a woman with whom a man could take liberties.
The stranger smiled at her. “I know. That’s why you were given passwords to verify our identities at this meeting. But I was just about to leave my office when Ted appeared so I asked him to come along with me today.”
Ted just happened to turn up at your office? I don’t think it was just a coincidence. But Bette kept this unspoken. Had he come to taunt her? Or kiss her again? He was no better than Curt. She wouldn’t be manipulated by either of them. But Ted’s presence continued to swirl her emotions in directions she didn’t want to pursue. Why did things keep happening that complicated her life more and more?
“Please let me introduce myself.” The stranger offered her his hand. “I’m Bill Stephenson, head of British Intelligence in the US.”
She shook hands, studying him surreptitiously. Mr. Stephenson wasn’t as tall as she was and had an indeterminate appearance. He was the kind of person people would pass by without a thought. “British Intelligence—I don’t understand. You don’t sound English.”
He chuckled. “I’m Canadian. Come over here and sit down at the window. What I’m going to tell you now is very secret. Very few people have been trusted with this information.”
Bette stiffened as the importance of this meeting hit home. Her e
arlier hasty conversation with Curt paled in this context. As did Ted’s kisses. What could British Intelligence possibly want with her?
Motioning for her to take a seat, Mr. Stephenson sat in a brown leather chair beside a desk. Bette seated herself opposite him in a matching chair and Ted pulled over a straight chair, completing their tight circle. “First of all,” Mr. Stephenson said, beaming at her, “I’d like to thank you for your excellent work in finding those pages in Joseph Lopez’s hotel room. Ted said it only took you a few minutes to find them.”
“Joseph Lopez?” she asked, concealing how this praise made her feel inside—buoyant.
“Yes, that’s the name of the victim of the traffic accident,” Stephenson said.
“The man Ted was tailing?” She allowed herself a glance at Ted, but then looked quickly away. This wasn’t the time or place to give any thought of her foolish attraction to Ted.
“Yes. We have the key to the Abwehr code and we used it to decipher those pages. Believe me there was a lot packed into those five small sheets.” His smile widened.
“I’m glad.” She felt herself warming with more pleasure. She’d done it. Not Ted. Not the man.
“Not as glad as Prime Minister Churchill, President Roosevelt, and Mr. Hoover were.”
“They know . . . ?” She blushed and lowered her eyes, self-consciously. This was almost too much to take in.
“You shouldn’t act surprised, Bette,” Ted inserted. “Mr. Stephenson knows that you started your career in espionage by blowing the whistle on a Nazi operation to blackmail War Department officials.”
She looked at her black gloved hands folded in her lap and said nothing. But she wished Curt Sinclair were here, listening to Ted tell the head of British Intelligence what she was capable of. Then Curt might not think she was just sitting around compliant and unimportant—less important than everyone else and what they would think of him. She finally admitted to herself that, at heart, Curt’s decision to postpone their wedding had insulted her.
“Really? Quite impressive, Miss.” Mr. Stephenson looked at her keenly as though weighing and measuring her. “Quite.” He cleared his throat. “After FDR’s reelection this month, Winston Churchill asked your president to help us set up an espionage center here in the US.”
“Why here?” she asked.
“The German blitz is bombing London nightly.”
“I know.” The radio broadcasts from London were difficult to listen to. The scream and whistle of bombs and then the thunderous explosions—shattering, horrible.
“Well, now come more secrets: the British and US governments must be prepared for anything, especially sabotage. One week after the US election, bomb blasts rocked three East Coast war production plants. The blasts occurred at ten minute intervals—at 8:00 a.m., 8:10, and 8:20. There can be no doubt that these were the work of Nazi saboteurs.”
Bette wondered why she had not read about these in the newspapers. Was the government keeping this quiet?
“And if England falls,” Mr. Stephenson continued, his tone darkening, “we must be ready to continue the fight over here. I’ve been in conference with Mr. Hoover and we see eye to eye and intend to stand shoulder to shoulder.”
“What can I do to help?” Bette couldn’t stop herself.
The Canadian grinned at her. “I have a proposition to put before you. You see, we think you would be an asset in a certain operation of ours. Interested in hearing about it?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Yes, she might as well serve England. Curt had called wanting her to marry him right after boot camp. Just because now he decides he misses me. Well, Curt had made his decision and now she would make hers. I want to be in on this. I want to do what I can, show what I’m capable of.
“What I’m going to reveal to you involves a violation of international law, but we feel that Nazi Germany is a special threat to the free world. And we think we are justified in using every means possible to defeat them. They are willing to do anything to defeat us.”
“I am willing to do whatever it takes to defeat them,” Bette’s voice found itself and came out firm and true. She lifted her chin.
“Excellent.” Mr. Stephenson patted her gloved hands in a fatherly way. “British Intelligence has set up a mail center on our island of Bermuda. There, we go through all the correspondence from the US and Canada on its way by ship to Germany, Italy, Spain, and any country under Nazi control. Our special fears right now concern more possible industrial sabotage in America. England can’t afford to have the industrial power of our ally, the US, hampered in any way.” The man’s voice hardened.
Bette had read the papers. She knew that England stood alone against Hitler and desperately needed all the military materials the US could give.
“And it won’t be hampered if we can help it,” he continued. “On Bermuda, we even go through diplomatic correspondence which, of course, violates international law. Now, we want to know if you would be interested in working for us as well as the FBI—because we share all information gleaned—on Bermuda.”
“Bermuda?” She repeated. Spying? On a tropical island? The two seemed incompatible. “What would I be doing exactly?”
“You would be taught how to open and then reseal mail so cleverly that no one can detect the tampering,” Mr. Stephenson said. “You would learn codes, ways of making invisible ink visible, and much more. Over here in North America, neither Canada nor the US has had a need for many agents in the past so we are scrambling to gather good people to do the work. Your aptitude for noticing things that others don’t makes you an excellent candidate for this assignment. Does it interest you?”
“Yes.” It sounded fascinating and being asked to do such work thrilled her to her toes.
Mr. Stephenson looked at her in surprise. “Just yes?”
“I told you she’s not a chatterbox,” Ted put in, sounding amused.
“Obviously not.” Mr. Stephenson chuckled. “When could you be ready to go to Bermuda?”
“I’d need to go home to Maryland, pack, and then I’d be ready.” Her mind already spun with excuses and explanations to give to her family and friends. And Curt.
“Excellent.” Mr. Stephenson rubbed his hands together. “I love American efficiency.” He rose, as did Ted. Bette stood also and accepted another firm handshake from Mr. Stephenson. “I’ll let Ted explain the minor details, but let me again thank you, Miss, for being willing to help us stop Hitler.”
“My pleasure.” Bette let Ted lead her to the door. Outside, she walked beside Ted, a bit stunned herself at her quick acceptance. Marrying Curt hadn’t even crossed her mind.
“So I guess,” Ted whispered in her ear, “you still want to be a spy.”
His tempting nearness was overshadowed by his words. This was the first time anyone had used the word spy in describing her. I’m a spy? Said like that it sounded preposterous. “Don’t be silly,” she scolded in an undertone as they started down the carpeted steps.
“Wonder what your English professor would have to say if he knew.”
Bette didn’t respond. But now she wondered the same thing. So many times she’d wished she could tell Curt about her real work. Well, the wedding wouldn’t be taking place right after boot camp like Curt had instructed her this morning—in the two-minute phone call the army had allowed him.
She’d write him her regrets. The wedding would have to be postponed until he was home from the draft—just as he’d insisted when he was drafted. He’d made that decision. And it would stand. Anyway, she’d have to stay in Bermuda long enough to make it worth the time and trouble taken to train her. Curt wasn’t the only one who could serve his country.
“Come on,” Ted taunted cheerfully. “Admit it. You’d rather be doing this than marrying your professor.”
Bette gave Ted a sidelong glance. He didn’t need to know the truth about her own confusion about her motivation and she’d best keep him off balance if possible. “Working in Bermuda will be a good
way to spend my time while Curt’s away. Curt and I plan to marry when he is done next year.”
“Want to bet?” Ted grinned, leaning close and trying to kiss her cheek.
She stepped out of his reach, strangely exhilarated by their sparring. “No,” she said with a sassy lilt. “Because I don’t want to take your money.” She hailed a taxi herself and left him laughing at the curb.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hamilton, Bermuda, October 1941
Bette stepped out of the flamingo-pink, colonial-style Princess Hotel, which was the British headquarters of the mail censorship operation. As always, the balmy breezes brushed past her face and ruffled the palm fronds high overhead and the sun shone warm on her shoulders. This year’s hurricane season, nearly over, had been calmer than usual. She wore a comfortable blue-cotton shirtwaist and sandals. No stockings or gloves, for this was paradise.
It was hard to think of autumn gold and red tingeing leaves at home. Maryland wasn’t all that far away. The Bermuda Islands were beyond Cape Hatteras, off the North Carolina coast. Picturing the red maples and golden oaks around Ivy Manor, she came to an abrupt halt when something—someone—else caught her attention.
“Ted?” She suddenly found she was having trouble drawing breath.
“In the flesh.” Dressed in a sharp gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie, he was a sight to behold. He’d been leaning against a palm tree down the drive. Now he straightened and sauntered over to her.
It had been nearly a year since she’d seen Ted, but the passage of time had done nothing to mute her marked reaction to him. She’d have to tread lightly. It wouldn’t do to let Ted know he still got to her. Would she never forget those stolen kisses in that New York hotel room?
“Here on business?” She turned her face just in time so that his welcoming kiss merely grazed her cheek. Her skin tingled at the touch of his lips.
