Journey to Munich (5 page)

Maisie drew breath and, almost fearing the sound of her own voice, met the pressure of Lorraine's grasp. This was her moment too, to voice words she had kept inside since the loss of her husband.

“James made the decision to fly, Lorraine. James knew what was at stake, and he broke a promise. That is the truth I live with, that my husband and child died in a moment of hubris, of—what did you call it? Self-interest? Yes. James loved to fly, and there it was, on the day he died, one more opportunity to be borne up into the clouds by a very fast aircraft, a chance to show everyone on the ground that he was still the fearless wartime aviator. More than anything, there was the desire to do his duty to his country, even though at that moment the duty could have been postponed until another day. Now he is gone, it serves neither his memory nor that of the unborn child I cherished—and indeed my life, which has to be lived—to bear ill will toward the hus
band I loved. That is the truth as I have come to understand it—that everything came to pass as it should, and I must remember and hold in my heart the gifts our courtship and marriage brought me. If I do not move toward light, Lorraine, I will go in the opposite direction, and I cannot do that again.” Maisie pulled her hand back and regarded her hostess. “And I almost slipped.”

She paused. “Elaine is in the dark place of regret. I will do my best to bring her home, but there are no guarantees. Now then—we have work to do. Another cup of coffee would go down a treat, and I have more questions for you. Her father says she has not been in contact, but I would imagine she has communicated with you, without her father's knowledge. Am I right?”

Lorraine pressed a button behind the sofa, summoning the butler. “Yes, there has been a communiqué—a letter sent via an old school friend. That does not mean I know exactly where she is, but I do know roughly where she has taken on some sort of flat with one or two other girls.”

“Good. That's a start. And I think it's time to stop calling her a girl. She is a woman with responsibility to her child, her husband, and her parents. It's time she grew up.”

The butler entered, and Lorraine asked him to bring some freshly warmed milk. As he was leaving, she added, “Oh, and please tell Nanny to bring the little man down in about half an hour. I am sure Miss Dobbs would love to meet him.”

B
y the time Maisie left the Otterburn home, she was anxious to visit her father. She made her way to Charing Cross, where she placed a call from a telephone kiosk to Priscilla's home, leaving a message with the housekeeper to the effect that she would not be in town until
Sunday evening, and Mrs. Partridge should not worry—she would be with her father and stepmother. Exiting the kiosk, she joined the queue at the ticket office and paid her fare to Chelstone Station, a branch-line halt requiring a change of trains in Tonbridge. That she had not brought a case with clothing did not concern her. There was still an unpacked trunk at her father's home; it would be taken to the Dower House as soon as she was ready to resume residence. Though her tenants had left, she had not yet felt secure enough to live in the house on her own once more.

A cold rain was falling by the time the train pulled up to the buffers. Doors opened and slammed shut, and a snaking line of passengers made their way toward the exit, some taking their time, making sure they had their belongings, others rushing, knocking shoulders as they passed, tickets held out ready to submit to the collector. Soon the train was taking on passengers for the next journey, and though Maisie was not exposed to the elements as she waited to board, it felt as if the damp air had seeped into her clothing and was forming a film across her skin. She shivered and pulled her collar up around her neck. A guard opened the door for her, and touched his cap as she thanked him. Soon she was in the warmth of a first-class carriage, seated on heavy deep red velvet upholstery, a small cast-iron stove pumping out heat to keep the South Eastern Railway's better-heeled passengers in relative comfort. She pulled a small notebook from her new black document case and began to make notes.

According to Lorraine Otterburn, her daughter had fallen pregnant and given birth to a boy just over two months before she left the country. She had been living with her husband at the family's estate in Northamptonshire. Maisie imagined the spirited Elaine languishing in a cold mansion with many rooms and no heat. Elaine was a colorful person, filled with spirit and energy—she must have felt crushed.
Granted, her father had indulged her, but he had also given her a purpose—she was an accomplished aviatrix, and he had drawn her into his covert work on behalf of the British government. Admittedly, he had his reasons—keeping such work in the family as far as he could meant keeping plans close to home. She wondered to what extent he trusted James, who was not family, though Otterburn had obviously pegged him as loyal to his country, a man who understood aviation and who knew what it was to be at war. Maisie suspected that perhaps Elaine had felt less than able to be a mother, not suited to play country wife to a tweedy peer-of-the-realm landowner. Opening fêtes and judging flower arrangements at the county show would not have gone down well with a woman used to finding parties wherever she was in the world. So she had left her child and her husband and absconded from a place she must have considered a prison.

She must miss her little man, thought Maisie, though she wondered if she were not attributing her own imagined feelings to a woman who was quite different. And why had she not just taken the boy with her to her parents' house? It was clear they adored the child, and without doubt John Otterburn would have thrown a protective fence around his daughter. Then it occurred to her that in London, their paths would cross. Perhaps Elaine would also have found a meeting difficult in the extreme. But was such fear enough to push the younger woman so far away?

The ticket collector interrupted Maisie's thoughts.

“Change at Tonbridge, madam.”

Maisie thanked him and settled back into her seat.
Change at Tonbridge.
She smiled to herself, though it was an expression of irony, not one of amusement. So many times in the past, Tonbridge had seemed to mark the place where she had to change who she was, from the London woman to the girl coming home to her father and, earlier,
from the nurse who had seen so much to someone who told those who loved her, “Oh, don't worry about me, I'm all right.” Now she would be a daughter again—ready to assure her father and stepmother that she was doing very well indeed, was thinking of the future again. She would tell them about the flats she'd seen, and that she fully intended to return to Chelstone at every week's end, and for long periods over the summer.

O
n Saturday afternoon Maisie and her father pulled themselves away from a warm log fire to walk a favorite route through the village, then out along a country lane and across winter-sodden fields, close to the edge where the mud was shallow. On the other side of a stretch of land in the midst of being tilled, a farmer was encouraging his horses to pull harder against the traces, while the plowboy led the team around a corner to carve another row. They stopped to watch for a while, each with their own thoughts. Then father and daughter strolled on in silence for a few moments.

Finally Maisie spoke. “Dad, I want to explain how sorry I am that I stayed away so long, and why I didn't come home with you after being in hospital in Toronto.” Unsure of her words, she looked up again at the horses and the plow and the farmer pressing his body forward, as if to give more power to the task. “I know it's a while ago now, but I still can't really explain what happened to me after James died. I was paralyzed, in a way—there was nowhere I could get comfortable, and I couldn't face coming home. And then I went to Spain, and it seemed the best thing to do—to be of help to people was a way to banish the dreadful memories, and—”

Frankie stopped walking and laid a hand on her arm. “You've no need to start saying sorry to me. You were grieving, Maisie, and there's
no prescription for it, nor any right way to go about it. After your mother passed away, I was lost—and I think I forgot that you'd lost something too. And what did I do? I sent you off into service, because I didn't know what to do with myself or you. I'll tell you now, knowing you won't hold it against me, but it was more to do with me being at sea with myself than with thinking it would be good for you, though it's all turned out right for the best, hasn't it? I'm not going to rake over old pasture, but I've come to an age where I've seen people lose the people they love, and I've been through it myself. There's no proper way to go about what comes afterward. You just put one foot in front of the other and you get on with it the best you can. Trouble is, your best ain't always the best for those who want a say in the matter. But you've not done poorly by anyone, Maisie. You had to look after yourself, and now you're home. That's what matters. We're all coming through it in our way. Brenda and I set a lot of stock by James, and of course his mother and father loved him, but we all have our own way of going about these things, and no one can criticize anyone else for how they do it.”

“But Brenda said—”

“I was all right, Maisie. Just creaking a bit more about the knees and back, but I was all right. Brenda just wanted you home where she could take care of you, but I said to her, ‘She'll come home when she's good and ready—she won't let us down.' And you haven't. You're home.”

“Yes, I'm home, Dad.” She paused. “But I'll be away for about a week or so starting next Monday. Then I'll be back in England and not going anywhere for a long time.”

“Going on a little holiday, love?”

“Not a holiday, though it will be nice, I think—I've got to go to Paris to take care of some matters to do with Maurice's estate. Nothing too taxing.” She turned to her father and linked her arm through his.
“And when I get back, I'll be with Priscilla during the weekdays until I find my own flat, and here at week's end. I can't miss Brenda coming up to the Dower House to cook Sunday dinner, can I?”

Frankie nodded in the direction of the plow. “Taking his time getting that done, ain't he?”

“The soil's probably a lot deeper than he thought.”

“Should have left it for a finer day.”

Maisie stopped, her hand in the crook of her father's arm, and looked across the field toward the farmer, who now seemed to be having words with the plowboy. “Yes, I suppose he should.”

And as they walked on in silence, she thought about her return to London on Monday. There she would meet MacFarlane for a journey to another location—he had not revealed the proposed destination—where she would be plunged into intense preparation for what was to come. She knew that by the end of the following week she would be leaving the country with a gun in her hand, and she would know how to use it if it became necessary to protect herself or those in her charge. She would undergo a briefing and be tested time and again, and she would receive clearance to leave for Munich not only with her schoolgirl knowledge of the German language refreshed but with a deeper understanding of Leon Donat. She would know the city inside and out, her every step planned. Except, that is, for her diversion to a place known as Schwabing, which was apparently where many artists, actors, and writers lived. Elaine Otterburn had mentioned the area in a letter to her mother, and Lorraine believed she was living in the midst of the Bohemian enclave.

“S
o, 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.

T
he 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.”

S
urrounded 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.