His Majesty's Hope(105)
“And that’s the world we’re fighting for,” Frain argued. “But, for now, you must … turn your heart to stone. We don’t have time right now for guilt or empathy or compassion. You must set aside your moral compass—and do whatever it takes—to win.”
“ ‘Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster.’ ” Maggie stood and smoothed her skirt. “If I set aside my moral compass, doesn’t that mean we’ve already lost?” She blinked back hot tears. “Just as I’ve lost a sister. She thinks I’m a monster, you know. And then there’s Gottlieb—” Her voice broke. “Gottlieb is dead now. Because of me.”
“No.” Frain shook his head. “Gottlieb is dead because he was a German resistance fighter who, unfortunately, was caught.”
“He didn’t want me to stay. He didn’t want me to work for Oberg.”
“If you hadn’t worked for Oberg, you’d never have found the files that you were able to pass on to the resistance circle.”
“He’s dead,” Maggie insisted dully. “Just like that boy is dead.”
Frain leaned back, studying the tip of his cigarette. “We’re part of the same club now, Maggie. It’s the club no one realizes exists before they’re in it. And it’s the club no one with any sanity would want to be a part of. But now we’re in it. Together.”
“The murderers’ club. Yes, I’m a card-carrying member now. How absolutely wonderful for us. Is there a secret handshake? A certificate? A medal, perhaps?”
“You need some time. You need to heal.”
“I’m just so tired.” She slumped down on the bench. “Can’t you understand that? I’m tired—exhausted—in the very marrow of my bones.” Then, “That boy’s face haunts me.”
“I know,” he said. “I know. But we need you.”
She stabbed a finger at him. “You need my access to Clara.”
“We need you.”
“But I don’t need you. I’ve already spoken with Lord Nelson, and I’m going back to Arisaig, to the training camp. It was peaceful there. I can teach the new recruits. Get them into shape. Run along the Scottish coast. That’s all I can handle right now.”
“Of course. Run the beaches, get your head together. But I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t be. I’m serious.”
“Listen to me, Maggie Hope. I’m older than you. I’ve seen things you can’t even begin to imagine. I’ve done things that make me want to smash my head against a wall and howl. I know I have the reputation for being cold and calculating—ruthless, if you will. I follow my brain, not my heart—and certainly not my conscience. But one thing I’m sure of in this war is you.”
Maggie gave a harsh laugh. “Flattering words, Peter, and a few months ago, they would have done the trick. But I don’t want to be a ‘warrior’ anymore. So—no. Thank you.”
Frain rose and held out his hand. “And I don’t want to be this dashing and debonair. But we all have our crosses to bear.”
Maggie smiled, finally. She grasped his hand. It was strong and warm. She rose as well.
“Go to Scotland,” Frain said, clapping her on the back. “Whip those trainees into shape, get your head together. In a few months, I’ll give you a call and we’ll see where you are. Oh—and get that bullet removed.”
Maggie put her hand to her side instinctively. “How do you know about my bullet?”
Frain crushed his cigarette beneath the sole of his shoe. “I’m in Intelligence—it’s my job to know everything. And it’s damned stupid to keep that thing inside of you.”
“I’m quite fond of it now.”
“You’re plucky, Maggie—I’ll give you that.”
“Oh, Peter, please don’t call me plucky. I hate being called plucky. Plucky is for Pollyanna heroines who stomp their feet, and toss their hair, and put their hands on their hips. Even if I ever used to be like that, I’m far too damaged now.”
“Give it time.” He tipped his hat. She nodded. After a long, hard look at each other, they turned and walked in opposite directions.
Chapter Twenty-five
The christening supper was held at Chuck and Nigel’s flat. It was a simple affair—weak tea, Lord Woolton pie, and victory buns. There was a knock at the door. When Nigel went to open it, Maggie stood there.
“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, raising on tiptoe to kiss Nigel on the cheek. She took off her gloves and unpinned her hat, which he took. “And sorry I missed the ceremony.”