His Majesty's Hope(22)

“I’m so sorry,” Elise repeated to Herr Paulus, thinking of the little blond girl with the teddy bear who’d been on the gray bus. Hadamar? Why on earth had Gretel been sent to Hadamar? Elise gave her condolences to Gretel’s mother as well and left, taking the S-Bahn to Charité. Something was wrong.

And she was determined to look at Gretel’s files.


Despite the war, football continued in Britain.

Under a gunpowder-gray sky, Chelsea, in royal blue uniforms, took the grassy green field, representing West London. They were facing off against Sunderland, in red, white, and black.

Peter Frain, head of MI-5, might have looked as though he’d be more at home at the ballet or opera, but he was a lifelong Chelsea fan. The crowd, mostly Londoners, was busy booing Sunderland star footballer Horatio “Raich” Carter, who’d joined the Sunderland Fire Service. Although most of the prominent professional players left in the leagues had already volunteered for or been drafted to the armed forces, the fire service was a reserved occupation, and some thought it was a tactic to avoid military service. As a result, Carter was often jeered by the opposing team’s fans.

Far, far up in the stands, well away from the crowd, Frain and his younger protégé, Hugh Thompson, booed Carter along with the crowd. As the game commenced, Frain lit a cigarette. “Did you see Maggie Hope before she left?” he asked, squinting.

“Briefly,” Hugh replied. “She’d just returned from training. And she was assigned immediately.”

Frain smoked impassively, until one of the Chelsea midfielders lost control of the ball, allowing one of the Sunderland players to move it toward Chelsea’s goal. “Damn it! Come on, boys!”

Hugh had worked with Frain for several years, ever since Winston Churchill had appointed Frain to the post, and had never seen him in any context that was not professional. He was somewhat amused by his boss’s demeanor at the game.

“You and she did well with the Windsor situation,” Frain remarked.

“Thank you, sir,” Hugh replied. He was proud of his work with Maggie at Windsor Castle. They had indeed worked well together—saving the Princess Elizabeth from being kidnapped by Nazis and carried off to Germany. And the experience had made them grow closer.

But that had been months ago. He’d been officially promoted, but still—nothing really had changed. He was itching for another big assignment. And more work to help him keep his mind off things. When he and Maggie had worked the Windsor case, they’d discovered that Maggie’s mother had been a German Sektion agent, one who’d killed Hugh’s father, an MI-5 operative, among others. Hugh didn’t hold what he’d learned against Maggie; after all, she’d never known her mother. Still, he was having a hard time grappling with the truth about his father’s murder, battling insomnia and lack of appetite.

“You know Robertson.”

“Of course.” Lieutenant Colonel T. A. Robertson was the MI-5 agent in charge of finding and turning over German spies captured in Britain.

“Robertson works with a chap named John Cecil Masterman, who’s the chairman of the Twenty Committee. Do you know about the Twenty Committee?”

“No, sir. At least, only rumors.”

“The Twenty Committee is known by the Roman numerals XX—Operation Double Cross, you see.” Frain rolled his eyes. “Masterman thinks he’s quite clever. It’s an anti-espionage operation. Nazi agents in Britain who are captured by Robertson are used to broadcast disinformation to their Nazi controllers. I want you to meet with him.”

“Sir?”

“Tomorrow. Eight A.M., at Tower Bridge.”

Hugh felt a prickle of excitement on the back of his neck. He’d been so depressed for so long. But the Twenty Committee was real, and he’d be part of it. “Meet with John Cecil Masterman tomorrow. I understand, sir.” He beamed.

“Wipe that idiotic grin off your face,” Frain muttered, before turning his attention back to the game. “Oh, Chelsea, you’re breaking my heart,” he yelled. “Get the damned ball!”


It was late morning and Patient No. 1564, also known as Herr Mystery, opened his eyes for the first time since his latest surgery.

He took in his surroundings: the whitewashed ceilings, the gray walls, the glossy wainscoting. He looked up and down lines of narrow beds inhabited by wounded men. Some were sleeping; some were conversing quietly. A few moaned in pain. The air was pungent with the scents of rubbing alcohol and bleach. High windows admitted shafts of yellow sunlight.

Still groggy from pain medication, he didn’t remember where he was—and then, all at once, he did. Terror twisted at his guts. He tried to move and pain washed over him. A groan escaped from his parched lips; he didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.