“Heil Hitler!” the man said, giving the salute.
“Heil Hitler,” she managed to reply.
By six A.M., a few more people had arrived, some with suitcases, some with rucksacks, waiting with Maggie on the waxed wooden benches. At exactly five minutes past six, the black train pulled up on the track behind the station with a puff of steam and screech of brakes.
Once she boarded, it wasn’t hard to find a seat by herself. Maggie opened a copy of Berliner Morganpost she’d bought in the station and pretended to read, trying to calm herself.
She knew it was propaganda, but what she read was disturbing: 19 RAF AIRCRAFT SHOT DOWN OVER THE CHANNEL was the headline for one article. ENGLAND HAS LOST 12,432,000 TONS OF SHIPPING SINCE THE WAR STARTED, blared another. Maggie turned the page. GREEK FISHERMEN REPORT THAT ROYAL NAVY SAILORS SHOT AND KILLED SWIMMING AND HELPLESS GERMAN SAILORS. TWO SOVIET DIVISIONS AND 156 SOVIET TANKS DESTROYED IN TWO DAYS IN THE BATTLE OF DUBNO. She folded the paper up and looked out the window instead.
Maggie saw cows grazing in pastures lit by the golden light, interspersed with dark forests of ancient oaks. A man in uniform came by to punch her ticket. Her heart was pounding and her hands sweating inside her gloves; still, she feigned boredom, and the conductor didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.
By the time the police officer reached her, to check her identity card, she felt a little less shaky, and his perfunctory examination of her papers went without incident.
Maggie took out Mein Kampf and tried to make sense of it. She had read it a few years ago, at her late grandmother’s house in London, when Hitler had invaded Poland. It seemed like several lifetimes ago. “The result of all racial crossing is therefore in brief always the following,” Maggie read.
“(a) Lowering of the level of the higher race;
“(b) Physical and intellectual regression and hence the beginning of a slowly but surely progressing sickness.
“To bring about such a development is, then, nothing else but to sin against the will of the eternal creator. And as a sin this act is rewarded.”
Maggie ground her teeth and put the book away. The day was getting warmer, the sunshine through the glass heating the stale air. She turned to the crossword puzzle near the back of the paper—good practice for her German—and had nearly finished it when she heard the train’s whistle and the screech of the brakes, then felt the train slow down, and finally stop.
“Lehrter Bahnhof station!” a clipped voice over a loudspeaker announced. “We have arrived in Berlin!”
Hugh met with John Cecil Masterman. Not at his office, however.
Masterman had studied at the University of Freiburg and had the bad luck to be an exchange lecturer there in 1914, when the Great War had begun. He was interned as an “enemy alien” for four years in a prisoner-of-war camp in Ruhleben—which was why he hated to be indoors. And why he’d asked Hugh to meet him on the far side of Tower Bridge.
Hugh was there early, at a quarter to eight. It was a humid morning; gray skies above threatened rain. But in any weather, the scenery was spectacular—across the river Hugh could see the parapets on the great stone walls of the Tower of London, as well as the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the suspension bridge with its two Victorian Gothic towers and horizontal walkways.
And then there appeared Masterman, with his long sloping nose, thick brown hair, and propensity toward grim-humored smiles. He wore a black Anthony Eden hat on his head and carried a long umbrella under one arm. “You must be Hugh Thompson,” he said without preamble. “Let’s walk, shall we?”
Together, they began the trek over the bridge. They were alone, except for the sound of intermittent traffic and the rush of the wind. Below them flowed the murky Thames.
“I’m assuming Frain’s told you about us,” Masterman began.
“Yes, sir,” Hugh replied. “About how MI-Five has been capturing German agents and turning them to our side.”
“There haven’t been that many, but when we do pick them up, they’re taken to the London Cage or Camp 020 at Latchmere House. Then we see if we can turn them.” Masterman gave one of his dour smiles. “We even take their pay and put it toward the war effort.”
“What about those who won’t turn?” Hugh asked. He knew about one captured German spy in particular, Josef Jakobs, who had parachuted into Ramsey in Huntingdonshire in January. Jakobs had been picked up by the Home Guard, who found that he’d broken his ankle when he landed. When arrested, he was still wearing his flying suit and carrying forged papers, a radio, British pounds, and a German sausage.