The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (25 page)

His bushy eyebrows raised. “You have?”

“Yes, in July 1940. It should be on record.” Sarah shot Maggie a look. “So, what exactly
do
you do for the war effort, Maggie?”

Maggie gave a sly grin. “Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that.”

“Your cat missed you,” Mr. Burns remarked as they climbed into his jeep. “And he was quite vocal about it. Mr. Fraser was not pleased. Neither was Riska.”

It was cold and damp, the omnipresent damp that seeped into bones. The kind of cold only a hot bath and hours by the fire would dispel.

And so once they were back in her little apartment, Maggie lit a fire and ran Sarah a bath. While Sarah was in the W.C., she went through the icebox. Arisaig House’s cook, Mrs. MacLean, had left a pot of stew that Maggie put on the stove to reheat. The aroma of the rich stew filled the room as the flickering fire warmed it.

However, K was nowhere to be found.

“K? K?” Maggie called. “Mr. K?”

She found him on her bed. He gazed at her, rose, stretched, and began to speak. If it had been English, it would have been profanity of the worst sort.
“Meeeeeeeeeeh!”
he chided.
“Meh! Meh! Meeeeeeeeh!”
And then turned his back on her, wrapping his tail around his body.

“I think you’re in a bit of hot water there, Maggie,” Sarah said, fresh from the bath, wearing one of Maggie’s flannel dressing gowns, her hair in a towel. “He seems a bit put out.”

Maggie was disappointed and tried not to show it. “Well, let’s get you settled. Would you like a cup of tea? Dinner?”

“Something to eat would be lovely, thank you. It smells marvelous.”

“That’s good—if you’re hungry, that means you’re feeling better.”

Sarah curled up in the worn armchair by the fire as Maggie banged and clattered in the tiny kitchen, ladling out bowls of venison stew. “Just glad it’s not mutton,” Maggie muttered, thinking of the sheep being poisoned with anthrax and repressing a shudder.

“Sorry?” Sarah called.

“Oh, nothing—No wine, I’m afraid, but I do have some of Mr. Fraser’s cider put away, would you like a glass of that?”

“Yes, please.”

When Maggie came out with Sarah’s half-pint of cider, she found K on her friend’s lap, purring and rubbing his cheek against her.

“Well, I see someone’s making friends,” Maggie said, setting the glass down. She tried not to be jealous.

K ignored Maggie, instead getting up on his hind legs and using his front paws to knead at Sarah’s bosom.

“You know, K,” Sarah said, smiling down at him, “I’m usually treated to cocktails and dinner before I let any taxi tigers make moves like this.”

“Shall I remove him?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, no,” Sarah said, petting his silky head. “Yes, you are a fine and handsome old thing,” she said to the cat, rubbing under his chin. “But it’s amazing what you can get away with. If any human tried this without so much as a by-your-leave, I’d have cut his hand off, just so you know.”

The women began to eat their stew. Sarah finally had a chance to look around her and take in Maggie’s living quarters. “Oh, Maggie, this is charming.”

“And wait until you see the views tomorrow morning—mountains, the shore, and even a bit of the loch. When you’re a bit stronger we’ll take a walk down to the shore—it’s absolutely beautiful. And until then, you will be a princess in a tower, with plenty of tea, healthy food, books to read …”

“So, is this handsome fellow the only man in your life?” Sarah teased, stroking K.

“Yes, he is,” Maggie said, setting down a small bowl of stew on the floor. K eyed it, then begrudgingly wandered over to Maggie. After a brief standoff, he rubbed his furry face against her legs. “That’s my K,” Maggie said, scratching behind his ears. He butted his head into her leg, hard. All was forgiven.

She scooped K up and went back to sit near Sarah. “Cats and knitting,” Maggie said. “That seems to be my lot in life right now.”

“Socks come in pairs,” Sarah said.

“Well, people don’t. Or at least they don’t have to. My life was
just too complicated in London. But now it’s simple—I work, I have a cat, I knit. I am Diana, the Virgin Huntress.”

“But Diana’s celibate!” Sarah cried, in mock horror.

“Believe me, I know.”

“That’s awful.” Sarah dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and took a sip of cider. “Honestly, with two men in love with you, I don’t see why you had to choose at all, Mags. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase
ménage à trois
?”

Maggie choked. “Sarah!” Then, “Do
you
have someone special?”

“Not really. There was for a while, but …” Sarah rose and went to her bag, returning with a silver case of clove cigarettes and a lighter.

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “With your cough?”

“Oh bother, you’re probably right. This being an invalid is a rather trying role.”

“You must miss performing. Will you rejoin the ballet when you’re well?”

Sarah shrugged. “Maybe. I was feeling frustrated already. Now I think …”

“What?”

“I’d like to do something to help the war effort. I’m not sure. Remember how back in London, I was torn about doing something so frivolous while there’s a war on?”

Maggie remembered that day in Regent’s Park well. “I do. And I also remember what I said then—that we need beauty and art—a reminder of all that’s worth fighting for.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s enough for me now,” Sarah said. “Paris has been invaded … My grandmother was shot.
Shot
. I’m not sure I can just dance anymore. I want to
do
something.”

Maggie chose her words carefully. “Whatever you decide to do,
you know you’ll always have my wholehearted support … Your French is very good, you know.”

“How do you know?”

“When you were angry, at the hospital, you spoke perfect Parisian French.”

“Merci beaucoup. Je parle Français depuis toujours.”

“I have an idea,” Maggie said.

“What?”

“Tomorrow I’ll go and have a little chat with Mr. Burns.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t say. But if you’re serious about helping the war effort, and you speak perfect French, I think that perhaps they can find you a little something.”

In the darkness of night in the Pacific Ocean, 230 miles north of the Hawaiian Islands, all 183 Japanese planes were in their final positions on the aircraft carriers. The midget submarines had already been launched. And now the pilots were waiting, nerves strained, for their next order.

Admiral Yamamoto spoke to them by broadcast, played over the ships’ loudspeakers. “You have just heard the Imperial Proclamation from the Emperor. The success of this mission depends on the element of surprise. If and when we achieve it, the code words
Tora! Tora! Tora!
will be sent out.

“Now that the time of battle draws near, I will not burden you with the usual pep talk. Instead, I shall hoist the famous Z flag, beneath which Commander in Chief Togo led his fleet to victory in the historic battle against the Russians.”

Throughout the Japanese fleet, men cheered, all their training and courage leading up to this moment. Privately, Yamamoto still
had questions. Once the microphone had been turned off, he said to his aide, “There’s still one issue to be resolved—when to declare war officially. Our Emperor demands that war be declared before commencement of hostilities, as mandated by Article One of the Third Hague Convention, which we promised to uphold.”

“Sir,” the young man said, handing over a sheaf of papers, “Section Chief Toshikazu Kasc has written a diplomatic note for Ambassador Nomura to hand to Secretary Hull, prior to the launching of military operations. It is a declaration of war—but without immediately alerting the United States and losing the surprise element of the attack.”

Yamamoto accepted the document, the
saigo no tsukoku
or “Final Notification,” and read it through. There was no mention of Pearl Harbor or any immediate outbreak of hostilities. Still, the meaning seemed clear.

“Please take a message,” Yamamoto said, “and send it to the Emperor and General Tōjō—that the Final Notification is adequate. And hostilities
must
not start until after it is delivered. It must be presented in Washington at precisely one
P.M.
, exactly thirty minutes before the attack is to begin. This is crucial.”

“Yes, sir.”

The aide departed, and Yamamoto was left alone. His eyes went to the small kamidana altar on his credenza. “It’s a gamble,” he muttered. “I only hope it isn’t a terrible mistake.”

As Yamamoto prayed, the first wave of Zero planes launched from the Japanese task force’s aircraft carriers in the darkness, flying off through the fog and clouds, en route to Pearl Harbor.

The next morning, Sarah still felt weak. But after tea and porridge, she began to do barre exercises holding on to the windowsill—a few demi-pliés and tendus, slowly building back her strength.

Maggie watched from the armchair, shoes off, feet tucked under her, hot cup of tea in hand. The blackout curtains were open and it was a glorious day in Arisaig, the sky a warm blue velvet. The windows were cracked open, and the air smelled clean and fresh after the previous night’s rain. “Spring is coming,” she said, sniffing. “I know it’s winter, but you can smell it, can’t you? Or at least the promise of spring.”

Maggie sprang to her feet. “I must go to work now, but I’ll check in with you later. Be good.” She waggled a finger. “Naps. Lots of tea. And
no
clove cigarettes!”

The band at the Manoa Hotel was playing a cover of the Andrews Sisters’ “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” Admiral Kimmel, with his wife on his arm, walked into the “Ball for Britain.” The Manoa was known as the “First Lady of Waikiki”—a turn-of-the-century four-story Beaux-Arts building, right on the beach. The evening air smelled of jasmine.

They made their way through the hotel lobby, with high
Corinthian columns painted cream, and with huge vases of red anthurium and lazily turning overhead fans. They cut through to the back beachfront garden, where the party had already started. The courtyard was filled with chattering couples, clustered around ancient parasitic banyan trees with trunks the size of small cars, strung with fairy lights that glittered against the darkness. Torches burned around the perimeter, while candles shone in hurricane glasses. The ball was being held to raise money to send to support the British war effort.

Most of the men were in uniform and all the ladies were in bright-colored silk and satin gowns that glinted in the lights. Many of them had a flower, a plumeria or an orchid, in their hair. They wore the blooms Hawaiian-style—left for those taken and right for those looking. Kimmel and his wife, Dotty, found their table, and he pulled out her chair as she sat down. He took his seat.

“Those B-17s are coming in from California tomorrow, Admiral,” one of the young men in a naval uniform already seated at the table said.

Dotty smiled. “Now, Captain—can’t we have at least one night off from military talk?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Kimmel,” the young man said, offering his hand as the band segued into “Stardust.” “Would you care to dance?”

“Why, thank you, I would
love
to dance,” she replied, with a significant look in her husband’s direction. Kimmel grimaced and motioned to one of the waiters with a silver tray of drinks.

As they left for the dance floor, another sailor, a private, leaned in to speak with Kimmel. “They’ve arranged for Honolulu air to stay on all night, so that the signal can guide them in, sir.” He had carrot-colored hair and a galaxy of freckles across his nose.

Kimmel laughed, accepting a Mai Tai garnished with a slice of pineapple and a maraschino cherry from a waiter’s silver tray. “I
hope they like the ukulele—only music the damn station ever plays!”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be manning the Opana radar site tomorrow, sir.”

“What time does your shift start?”

“Oh-four-hundred, sir.”

Kimmel quirked a bushy white eyebrow. “Then shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Yes, sir!” he said, jumping to his feet and saluting. “Thank you, sir!”

Kimmel smiled. “What’s your name, son?”

“Private Daniel Mathis, sir!” he said, saluting again from sheer nerves.

“Well, Private Mathis—I wouldn’t say anything to your commanding officer if you had another drink before you left. Or a dance with a pretty girl.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Kimmel winked and downed his Mai Tai, motioning over the waiter for another. “It’s not as if it’s the end of the world.”

Maggie went to the main house first, for any messages and her schedule. “Here you go, Miss Hope,” Gwen Glyn-Jones said, handing her yet more messages from David.

“Thank you—” Maggie almost called her Twelve. “—Miss Glyn-Jones.”

“You know my name!” the girl cried. She smiled, a warm, wide smile.

“Of course I know your name,” Maggie said, feeling slightly ashamed of how she’d treated the trainees. “And I know I was a bit tough on you. But you’re going to face …” Maggie had no idea what Gwen would face, where she would be sent, what she’d be up against—but she knew it wouldn’t be easy.

“I just want you to survive,” Maggie finished. “When this is all over, I’d like to know you’ve come back to Blighty in one piece. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Miss Hope,” the girl said shyly.

Mr. Burns entered. “How’s your friend feeling? It’s Miss Sanderson, isn’t it?”

“She’s feeling a bit stronger this morning, thank you, Mr. Burns. By the way, I recently learned that not only does Sarah Sanderson have a beautiful French accent, but she’s well acquainted with Paris—spent several summers there. She’s recovering from an illness, but she’s a trained dancer. She’s strong and flexible.”

“Really?” Mr. Burns said. “Do you think she’d like to interview for The Firm?”

“I think she would. Can we set it up?”

“Of course. If she’s a dancer, she’ll do well with the physical requirements. Not like—” He looked askance at Maggie. “—some people. And how was Edinburgh? You look better.”

“I feel better, thank you.”