His Majesty's Hope(2)
Maggie and Phil looked at each other.
From behind Thornley came a loud, high-pitched nasal voice: “Because the only safe enemy is a dead enemy.”
“Oh, Colonel Gubbins—we didn’t know you were there,” Thornley said, as Gubbins stepped out of the shadows.
“There is nothing more deadly than an angry Nazi—remember that—you’re not killing a person, you’re killing a Nazi. A Kraut. A Jerry.”
Colonel Colin McVean Gubbins was Head of Training and Operations at Beaulieu—a haunted-looking man with dark, recessed eyes, thick eyebrows, and wispy mustache. “Only sixty percent of agents dropped behind enemy lines survive, Miss Hope. You’re the first woman to be dropped into Germany—The first woman to be dropped behind enemy lines in this war, period. Lord only knows what your odds are. We’re taking an ungodly risk. And we want you to be prepared.”
Maggie’s frustration cooled. This wasn’t about her—it was about the mission succeeding. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re going in to deliver a radio part to a resistance group in Berlin, and also to plant a bug at a high-ranking Abwehr officer’s home. For whatever reason, the Prime Minister has asked for you for this mission specifically. And if you take out a Nazi or two in the process, so be it. This is no time to be squeamish or sentimental. Do you understand?”
The P.M. asked for me specifically for this mission! Maggie glowed with pride but tried to damp it down so Gubbins wouldn’t notice. “I do, sir.”
“With your fluency in German, and the skills you’ve been working on, you just might pull it off,” he said. “But it’s dangerous work and that’s why you can leave nothing—and no one—to chance.”
“Yes, sir.” Maggie had dreamed about becoming a spy sent on a foreign mission. She’d dreamed of it working as a typist to Prime Minister Winston Churchill and she dreamed about it while she was acting as a maths tutor to the Princess Elizabeth. Now, finally, was her chance.
“Let’s try it again,” Gubbins said. “And this time, Miss Hope, I want you to finish the Nazi off. Kill the damned Kraut.”
It was ungodly hot and humid, even though it was still early morning. The skies were dark and swollen with bloated clouds. Above the buildings soared the baroque verdigris roof of the Berliner Dom, its golden cross pointing heavenward like an accusing finger.
Elise Hess navigated the narrow cobblestone side streets of Berlin-Mitte in order to avoid the parade on Unter den Linden, fast approaching the Brandenburg Gate.
The Nazis had reason to celebrate. Not only had they already seized Holland, Belgium, and France, but now German troops had invaded Russia, destroying Russia’s 16th and 20th Armies in the “Smolensk pocket” and triumphing at Roslavl, near Smolensk. The German military seemed invincible. Despite the Atlantic Charter with the United States, Britain’s defeat was clearly only a matter of time.
Elise could hear the steady beating drums of the Hitler Youth and the coarse clamor of the crowd in the distance, singing the Horst Wessel Song. She could see the scarlet banners with their white circles and black hakenkreuz—broken crosses—which the Volk had hung from their windows. Papering the limestone walls were tattered posters of Adolf Hitler in medieval armor, on horseback like a Teutonic knight, captioned Dem Führer die Treue: Be True to the Führer. Trash, cigarette butts, and broken glass from the rally the night before lined the gutters, and the air stank of stale beer and urine.
The ground was marked with chalk squares for the children’s hopping game Heaven and Hell. Boys and girls were playing, throwing a small stone, then hopping on the chalked squares, trying to make it from one end to the other and back again. The boys were well scrubbed, the girls had intricate braids. All had round, rosy cheeks.
As one, they spied a small boy with a clubfoot, walking with a crutch, twisted ankle dragging behind him. He hobbled as close to the wall as he could, trying not to be noticed. But like a pack, the group set on him, herding him away from the wall. They formed a circle around him, holding hands, as the boy’s eyes darted, trying to find a way to escape. One of the older boys started singing a familiar nursery rhyme:
Fox, you’ve stolen the goose
Give it back!
Give it back!
Or the hunter will get you
With his gun,
Or the hunter will get you
With his gun.
The other children joined in:
His big, long gun,
Takes a little shot at you,
Takes a little shot at you,
So, you’re tinged with red
And then you’re dead.
So, you’re tinged with red
And then you’re dead.