Mr. Churchill's Secretary (32 page)

“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.”

We’ll need it
, Maggie thought. Her arm still throbbed. To take her mind off it, she thought of the upcoming day’s schedule and when the P.M. would take a meeting with the rest of the cabinet. Then she turned to John, looking at his profile in the light from the windows. He caught her glance and smiled.

Snodgrass entered the room, followed by Frain, who closed the heavy door behind him. But not before Nelson padded in, leaping gracefully onto a side chair and settling in, purring loudly.

“Professor Hope,” Snodgrass began, gesturing at the man in the somber suit, “this is Peter Frain, head of MI-Five. Mr. Frain, why don’t you bring everyone up to speed?”

“Thank you, Mr. Snodgrass.” He looked at the assembled group. “Let’s not waste time with the Official Secrets Acts you’ve signed, yes? Since the beginning of the war, MI-Five has been tracing the actions of various individuals we believe dangerous to England. We were aware of Malcolm Pierce as a homegrown Fascist, and one of the leaders of the so-called Saturday Club. As you well know,” he said, with a nod to Edmund and Maggie, “he turned out to be much more dangerous. Albrecht von Leyen was a sleeper agent for Abwehr. His goal was to kidnap Professor Edmund Hope, who was about to uncover one of
their
sleeper agents. Thanks to those here, that plan was thwarted.”

“What happened to him?” Maggie asked. “And Roger and Leticia?”

“Malcolm Pierce and Roger Barron have been taken into custody, where they will be debriefed,” he said. “Leticia Barron is dead.”

“But what
happened
,” she pressed, remembering how Leticia had ended up saving their lives.

“The police called a disposal team, which took her body to a crematorium in North London,” Frain said. “However, the official story is that the Barrons were called away to assist a sick aunt in Edinburgh.”

Disposal team. Crematorium. All right, then
. Maggie was silent.

Frain said, “But that’s not all that happened.”

John looked at Maggie with concern.

“Yesterday, there was an attempt to assassinate the Prime Minister.” Snodgrass, David, and John looked on impassively. But Edmund started and Maggie gasped.

Frain held up one hand. “The assassination was thwarted, thanks to the quick action on the part of Richard Snodgrass and John Sterling. The perpetrator was one Claire Kelly, also known as Paige Kelly—”

Paige?

“—a colleague of Malcolm Pierce and also the IRA.”

“Maggie,” John said. “I’m so sorry.”

Paige?

“Miss Hope, it pains me to have to tell you this, but you need to know that in order to carry off the assassination, Miss Kelly disguised herself as you to gain entrance to the War Rooms. You also must know that to secure her cover, she and her companion, an IRA agent by the name of Michael Murphy, killed a young woman named Sarah Sanderson, who’d discovered Claire in her disguise as she was leaving.”

The room was stunned and silent—apparently, not even Snodgrass and John had known this detail.

Paige?

And Sarah?

“Sarah,” Maggie managed finally.
“Sarah?”

Edmund patted Maggie’s hand awkwardly. Still, it was a comfort.

John looked pale as well.

“I wish that were all,” Frain said.

“You mean there’s more?” Maggie said bitterly. Surely there was a limit to how much one could take. Nelson jumped down from the chair, then wound himself around her ankle. She absently reached down to pet him.

“I’m afraid so.” He looked at the group. “The attempted assassination of Mr. Churchill and the attempted kidnapping of Professor Hope were part of their plot. We’ve thwarted both those plans. However, there’s still one more we need to defuse.”

“Operation Paul,” Maggie said.

“Yes,” Frain replied.

Maggie processed his new information as a way to distract herself from the other revelations—Paige was alive and Sarah was not. Paige was a traitor named Claire. Sarah was dead. Paige—or Claire—was alive. It was somehow easier to think about Paul.

Whoever he was.

Frain entered Claire Kelly’s interrogation room once again. It looked the same, only Claire was more distraught and disheveled. Her lipstick had worn off, leaving a red stain, and she had dark, bruiselike shadows underneath her eyes.

“Can I please get something to eat?” Claire said in a weak voice.

Frain didn’t answer; instead, he pushed a photograph in front of her.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Claire looked at the photograph of a man with a receding hairline, beaky nose, and intense black eyes. “No.”

“He’s connected to Michael Murphy.”

“I don’t know him.”

“His name is Joseph McCormack. He’s a physics teacher at the London Oratory School.”

Claire looked up at Frain. “You know more about him than I do, then.”

“He’s also our only way to reach Eammon Devlin. And we can’t do that without your help.”

“Why should I help you? I’ve already gotten all I’m going to get for cooperating.”

Frain’s demeanor gentled. “That’s not necessarily true,” he said, sitting down at the desk and leaning in closer to Claire. “I know you love Michael. You’ve already shown me that today. But unless you help us get to Devlin, you’ll never see him again.”

Another knock at the door. “Come in,” Frain called.

A tall man in a black MI-5 uniform entered. “Our teams are in place, sir.”

“Thank you,” Frain said. “Have them stand by.”

The man nodded and left. Frain rose, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked down at the girl.

“I’m offering you your life, Claire. You and Mr. Murphy will be extradited to Ireland, where even non–IRA sympathizers will be much more lenient with you than we. This is what you told me you wanted. I’m offering you a life with Murphy, instead of hanging for treason. Right now the only question is—which do you want?”

Claire was silent.

Frain turned to leave.

Without looking at him, Claire said, “What do you need me to do?”

Frain turned around to face her. “Go to Joseph McCormack and tell him that you need to speak to Devlin.”

Claire snorted. “He won’t let me through his front door, let alone get near Devlin.”

“He will when you tell him that you’ve got a hostage who can help him.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “A hostage? Who?”

Frain permitted himself a small smile. “We’ll let you know when it’s time.”

M
AGGIE HAD A
plan.

“You want to do
what
?” John was pacing back and forth in the Cabinet Room while Maggie sat on one of the carved mahogany chairs, Nelson purring contentedly on her lap.

“The cover story goes like this,” she said. “MI-Five will transport”—it was hard to say the name, but she managed—“Claire to the detention center. The vehicle has an accident. During the ensuing chaos, she secures one of the weapons and takes me hostage. She’ll take me to McCormack. Then he’ll lead us to Devlin.”

David was trying to get the facts straight. “And when you get to Devlin—what? You ask nicely for the override key?”

“Yes,” Edmund interjected. “Please enlighten us on this point.”

“All of Devlin’s bombs in the past have had override keys,” Frain said. “That’s the way he designs them—this way, he keeps ultimate control over the bomb and it can’t be used against him. Miss Kelly will use Miss Hope as the pretext for getting inside and then will”—he cleared his throat—“ingratiate herself in order to find the key, which is always on his person. Now, about the mission—we’re going to handle this passively.”

John started. “What the hell does that mean?” Then, to Maggie, “Sorry.”

As though
swearing
would offend me at this point
, she thought.

“It means that we’ll have undercover MI-Five in every car, in every store, in every window, in the area. We’re not sending Miss Hope there alone.”

“No, she’s going with the woman who stole her identity, killed Sarah, and tried to assassinate the Prime Minister,” John said.

Snodgrass sniffed. “Yes, and what about Miss Kelly? You think she’ll be able to play her role convincingly?”

Frain shrugged. “Well, she’s managed to live here in London for most of the past three years while part of an IRA terrorist cell and remain undetected. She fooled her employers, her colleagues, and her friends. Yes, I think we can all rest easy that she’s an expert at deception.”

Maggie looked over at John. “Right now this is our best and only chance to find Devlin, get the key, and save Saint Paul’s.”

“How do we know she’ll play along?” John asked.

Frain folded his hands. “No matter how well we fabricate this story, Miss Hope will be in extreme and immediate danger. Which is why we’ll move in at the first sign of trouble.” He looked at Maggie. “Are you absolutely sure this is something you’re willing to do?”

Edmund touched her hand. “You don’t have to, Margaret,” he said in a low voice. “Everyone will understand if you don’t.”

“It’s dangerous, to be sure,” David added.

John simply looked at her, waiting.

My decision. It’s my decision
, Maggie thought. But all she could see was the lovely, graceful dome of St. Paul’s, which had already survived so much.