His Majesty's Hope(17)
In case she didn’t come back. She’d already made out her will, leaving her most precious possession, her slide rule, to David.
Afterward, Maggie was quizzed by another agent named Kim Philby, a dashing young Cambridge graduate, who was wearing a gray pin-striped suit with a deep red tie and red double-point pocket square. He was tough but thorough, and when she’d finished with him, she felt more secure with her cover. “Remember,” Philby admonished, “you are now Margareta Hoffman. Let your life here melt away. The more comfortable you are in Margareta’s skin, the safer you’ll be.”
Maggie nodded. She wasn’t at all against the idea of leaving Maggie Hope in England. Maggie had problems—a bluestocking aunt who’d lied about her father’s death while raising her, a father who’d kept his existence a secret until she uncovered it, and a mother who—well, Maggie was still wrestling with the ugly truth of that. John, the man whom she’d loved and turned away, was dead. And Hugh was … confusing. Margareta was free from all that.
Noreen swept back in. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.
Maggie raised one eyebrow but complied.
Noreen peered inside. “Well, I can see you’ve had good American dentistry, but on the Continent, fillings are gold, not silver. We’ll need to switch them out. I’ll make you an appointment for our dentist.”
“You’re going to change my fillings?”
Noreen nodded, walking to the telephone. “You only have two, so it shouldn’t be that bad.”
“We leave nothing to chance,” Philby added.
Just after noon, her fillings replaced with gold by an SOE dentist, Maggie returned to the office. Her teeth hurt. But the pain took her mind off her nerves.
In Noreen’s office, there were clothes on hangers on a hook behind the closed wooden door. “Go ahead, put them on,” Noreen told her. “They’re quite nice, actually.”
Maggie locked the door, then stripped down to nothing and first put on the underthings. At one time, she would have asked Noreen to leave, but her time at paramilitary camps had done away with modesty. The lingerie was German-made and quite luxurious, compared to what she usually wore. Next came a Jaeger suit and blouse, broken-in Rieker shoes with the soles rubbed in German soil, and an elegant leather handbag.
“Quite cosmopolitan,” Maggie commented.
“Forget bombs—letting that gorgeous bag go may quite literally kill me,” Noreen said.
“I promise to bring it back, safe and sound.”
“Inside, you’ll find a wallet with some Reichmarks, face powder, keys to your flat, Goethe’s Faust, and Hitler’s Mein Kampf. You’ll be given a suitcase with a few changes of clothes, your gown for the party, more undergarments, a nightgown, and toiletries, including German-brand sanitary towels, just in case.”
Noreen appraised Maggie’s face. “You don’t wear much makeup—that’s good. Nazi women don’t, just like they’re not supposed to smoke and drink—not that that stops them, of course.” She laughed. “Oh, all this luxury is wasted on you! You should see what we have picked out for the girls parachuting into France later this month—hideous dowdy things—no style at all. Smelly and scratchy. You’re very lucky.” Without missing a beat, she continued, “Nelson gave you the lipstick with the cyanide pill in it, yes? Let’s put that in there.”
Maggie transferred the gold tube with the false bottom from her bag to Margareta’s. She sniffed—the bag smelled of something both beautiful and disarming. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said. “What is it?”
“Jicky,” Noreen said. “There are benefits to conquering France—Jicky is Guerlain, of course. There’s a small bottle in your purse. And this is one of our best toys.” Noreen handed Maggie a red and white box of Milde Sorte cigarettes. Maggie turned it this way and that to see what it really was. “It’s a subminiature spy camera with a film cartridge, small enough to fit into a cigarette pack. Just in case you find anything useful.”
Noreen patted a chair. “Now, come, sit down. I’m going to teach you how to do your hair.” With deft fingers, she fashioned Maggie’s coppery tresses into an intricately braided updo, the latest in Germanic elegance.
“I feel like I should be dancing around a solstice bonfire,” Maggie said, turning her head back and forth and looking in the mirror of her compact. “I just hope I can replicate it.”
“You’ll have plenty of downtime with nothing to do, so you can practice.” Noreen scooped up Maggie’s clothes and folded them, then wrapped them in brown paper. “We’ll keep these safe for you,” she promised. “And it’s only four days. You’ll be back before you know it.”