His Majesty's Hope(37)

“Most people of the world, throughout history, have believed in God.”

“Most people of the world, throughout history, also believed the earth was flat and the sun revolved around the earth,” Maggie countered.

Gottlieb smiled. “I believe in God. And in Jesus. And the saints.”

“And the Devil?” The air around them was still and strangely silent. Despite the heat of the day, Maggie shivered.

“The Devil,” Gottlieb said, considering. “Well, I used to think the Devil was purely theoretical. Now …”

“Now?”

“Now, let’s just say that I definitely believe that evil is a palpable force at work in the world.” Gottlieb cleared his throat. “By the way, the big party, the Fire and Ice Ball, is Saturday night.” As an older couple walked past them, he was quick to grab Maggie’s hand to bring it to his lips for a kiss. The couple smiled and walked on. “A birthday party. It’s in Grunewald. That’s where you’ll plant the microphone, in the study. You’ll be going as my girlfriend, of course.”

Clara Hess’s study, she thought.

My mother’s study.

“Can’t wait,” Maggie said.




Prime Minister Winston Churchill was laying bricks.

Cigar clenched between his teeth, straw boater hat on his head, clothes protected by a canvas jumpsuit, Prime Minister Winston Churchill stood in the afternoon sun at his home, Chartwell, spreading mortar with a trowel, then pressing red bricks, one by one, on top of the wall’s new layer. Above him, the sky was milky with clouds, threatening a possible storm. An inquisitive robin looked on from the lower branches of an apple tree.

Bricklaying was his prayer, his meditation, his salvation. As was painting. Still, he wasn’t so lost in his own thoughts that he couldn’t hear the footsteps behind him. “Frain!” he barked.

“Good afternoon, Prime Minister,” Frain responded.

“Hand me a brick.”

Frain did as he was told and handed Churchill a red clay brick from the pile on the grass.

“What news?”

“Sir, Masterman’s been working with Stefan Krueger, our double agent in the Tower—and has Hugh Thompson on the case now. Going well, but we still haven’t deciphered the latest code. Masterman says Thompson’s taking it to Bletchley—letting Edmund Hope have a crack at it.”

“Brick!” The P.M. scraped off excess mortar. “And, speaking of the Hope family, how’s my former secretary faring?”

“We have confirmation Miss Hope has made it to Berlin, sir, with radio crystals and microphone intact. She’s set to plant the microphone tomorrow night. Although I’m still not sure it was a good idea to send her, specifically.”

With his trowel, Churchill scooped another glob of mortar from the wheelbarrow. “Of course it’s a good idea, Frain,” he growled, the cigar still clenched in his teeth. “It’s my idea. Clara Hess is what you in the intelligence business call ‘a human asset with strategic importance.’ She’ll be vulnerable after her failure at Windsor. If we didn’t send Miss Hope on this particular mission, how on earth could Clara Hess figure out that our Maggie is her daughter? How else could we reel that woman in?”

“If Miss Hope ever finds out she’s being used as bait …”

“Miss Hope won’t. And even if she does, if it works, it’s worth it.”

“And you really think Clara will jump ship? She’s in a very high position in the Abwehr.”

“A high position, yes, but her time is up. One more failure and she’ll be out. And one thing I know about Clara Hess is that she’s a survivor. Like a cockroach.”

The two men heard footsteps and looked up. It was Clementine Churchill, the Prime Minister’s wife, wearing a flowered dress and wide-brimmed hat. “It’s time for lunch, gentlemen.”

“Mrs. Churchill,” Frain said, doffing his hat.

“Oh, not now, Clemmie—I’m just getting started.”

“Well, Cook has been at work all morning and will be cross if you’re not dressed and at the table for luncheon on time. Lord Beaverbrook and Mr. Attlee have already arrived.”

Mr. Churchill wiped his hands on his jumpsuit. “All right, my dear.”

“And are you talking about our Miss Hope?” Clemmie asked as the trio made its way back to the house.

“Why, you know I can’t tell you anything of that nature!” the P.M. grumbled.

“Winston, these are people and not chess pieces. I trust you and Mr. Frain remember that.”

“This is war, Clemmie. We do what we must. Miss Hope would be the first to agree.”