Mr.Churchill's Secretary(56)

There was a large black-and-white sign admonishing Quiet, please, propped up against a metal pipe. Next to it hung a gas mask. David’s desk, on the other side of the room, was a mess, covered with a paper proclaiming in large block-print letters, For the love of GOD and COUNTRY, do NOT TOUCH. A clock with a white face and black Roman numerals ticked off the seconds loudly, while a tiny metal fan recirculated the stale, warm air.

“Yes?” he said, his angular face breaking into a smile.

Maggie looked down at the scrap of newspaper in her hand, then back at John’s desk. He had a cubby with shelves marked The Prime Minister, Air Ministry, Secret, Most Secret, and The King.

She looked back down at the clipping in her hand, ink coming off on her fingers. A women’s fashion advertisement, no less. It’s preposterous, she thought. She could just picture Snodgrass’s reaction.

“Maggie?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just …”

“Yes?”

She turned back around and sighed. She trusted John—she did. He’d stuck up for her in front of Snodgrass, after all. She walked a few steps forward and handed him the newspaper clipping.

John’s eyebrows drew together. He had to remind himself to breathe naturally with her so close. “Are ladies’ skirts shorter this year?”

“No, no,” Maggie said impatiently. “Look at it. Really look.”

“I don’t—”

“Look!”

John did. “I see … I see a newspaper clipping. It’s a clipping of an advertisement for ladies’ fashion.” He looked closer. “I see … drawings of women in dresses and hats.”

“Ah!” Maggie said. “You’re getting closer now. Look more closely at those lines.”

John squinted. “The drawings are comprised of lines. Lines and crosshatching. And dots—”

“Yes!” Ding, ding, ding! A Kewpie doll for the private secretary!

John shrugged. “It looks like any other newspaper advert.”

“But—don’t you see? Dots and dashes.” Do I have to hit him over the head with it? “It could be code!”

John gave a heavy sigh. “Look, Maggie, I appreciate your enthusiasm, I do. And I know you’ve been taking notes for the Boss and Mr. Frain, so it’s no wonder you’ve got spies on your mind. But I think this is a bit of a reach.”

Maggie set her jaw. “I’ll have you know, steganography is the practice of writing code in plain sight. The word comes from the Greek for ‘concealed writing.’ The first recorded example of its use is Herodotus in 440 B.C., when Demaratus sent a warning about a proposed attack on Greece by writing it directly on the wooden back of a wax tablet before applying the beeswax.”

“Yes, but—”

“And Herodotus tells us about a warning about a Persian invasion of Greece tattooed on the head of a slave. The hair grew in so no one could see it—and then the Greeks got the message when they shaved the slave’s head.”

“Maggie, I—”

“There’s a grand historic tradition of messages hidden in ordinary places,” she said in clipped tones. “So you won’t mind if I have a go?”

“Suit yourself,” John said with an inscrutable look.

“I’ll need a Morse-code book.”

John got up, pulled one down from the shelf, and handed it to her.

She turned on her heel to leave.

“Maggie,” he called after her, gently, “why don’t you leave it here with me? I’ll take a look and then show it to Snodgrass.”

“No, no. I’ll keep it,” she shot back at him over her shoulder. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Maggie!” he called after her. She stopped and turned. “There’s a lecture tonight at LSE. Anthony Eden’s speaking. Tonight at seven. The Peacock Theatre on Portugal Street.”

“So?” Maggie said, still annoyed.

“Meet me there. We can talk.”





SIXTEEN





MAGGIE WAS LATE.

She ran through the cold mist for the Regent Street bus, getting to LSE after seven. John was waiting in the chilly, smoke-filled lobby, leaning against a magnolia-painted Ionic column, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

“Ah,” he said, his angular face softening for a moment. “There you are.” He looked tired and wan; his eyes had dark circles.

“Hello, John,” she said. Well, at least the lecture’s starting—we don’t have to talk anymore. “Then shall we go in?”

He gave a courtly bow. “After you.”

They found two seats together in the back of the crowded auditorium filled with chattering students who called to one another, smelling of smoke and wet wool, wrapped in their purple-and-yellow-striped school scarves. Maggie felt a sharp pang as she looked around at them all. This is where I might have studied, she thought. At least Aunt Edith would approve of the evening’s outing. And it’s where my father once taught, after all.