Mr.Churchill's Secretary(68)

All right, Maggie thought as she waited, pulling out the newspaper clipping and the codebook for company. Around her she could hear the low rumble of conversation, the clink of silver and china, and the wireless playing “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”

She took a deep breath and then released it, letting her mind go still. What was it she needed to see? No, wait, maybe if she didn’t try to look so closely …

Nothing.

Oh, hell, she thought crossly, pushing it aside.

As she walked the gravel paths of St. James’s Park in the cool fall air, passing the lake and plots of dying victory gardens, ducks and geese honked overhead as if in warning. Claire adjusted her hat and arranged the waves of newly red hair to conceal as much of her face as possible. She flipped up the collar of her coat against the bracing breeze and steeled herself as she reached the sandbagged Whitehall and the government buildings, making her way to the Treasury—and the entrance to the War Rooms.

This is it, she thought. This is really it.

Head down and eyes lowered, she passed by the two marines standing duty and presented her identity cards. One looked at her papers and motioned her along. The other spent considerable time looking them over.

Claire took a deep breath and forced her face to relax. Finally, he handed her back her papers. “Thank you,” she said as he opened a large metal door, which gave a terrific creak as it swung open. She went down a narrow spiral staircase into the bowels of the building.

Michael Murphy and Malcolm Pierce were engaged in an intense conversation in the shadows of the Black Horse pub. Pierce looked at his watch. “Must have happened by now.”

“Claire’s a good agent. She won’t let us down. And she’ll get herself out, too. That’s part of the plan.” Murphy twisted his Claddagh ring, then motioned to the waitress for another round. “Besides, it’s not as if Churchill’s office would send out a press release to the BBC. They’d keep it quiet. We won’t know for days, most likely. Weeks, even.”

“You’re right,” Pierce said, quieting for a moment as the bartender put down two more pints in front of them. “Although most likely your girl’s a goner, isn’t she?” he continued in a low voice. “Poor thing; such a looker, too. You’d think they’d use an ugly girl for that kind of mission.”

“Your goal is Germany’s winning the war,” Murphy said, shrugging. “Ours is a united Ireland. Claire knew what she was up against.”

“You’d blow up the Pope if you thought it would help, wouldn’t you?” Pierce gave an admiring whistle through his teeth.

“Look, I’ve set off a few bombs in my day—Tube stations, women, kiddies.… The higher-ups thought it was bad publicity, ultimately. And the bigwigs put a stop to it.” He shook his head. “Shame. We were just getting started, really shaking them up.”

“That’s why, when we had this opportunity with Claire—and Maggie Hope—”

“Speaking of Miss Hope, what ever happened to her?” Pierce asked suddenly.

“She’s away—some sort of trip, Claire said. Seemed like the perfect timing.”

“Perfect, until she comes back.”

Murphy swigged the rest of his beer. “What—you’re saying we need to …?”

“My friend—” He paused delicately. “I would take care of the situation.”

Murphy got to his feet and stood for a moment and thought. Why should that bitch Maggie Hope get to live when Claire, love of his life Claire, probably wouldn’t? He’d take care of Maggie. But first things first.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, putting a few coins down on the table for the beer. “I’ve got an appointment with our friend Paul.”

“Very well, then,” Pierce said. “We’ll each be on our separate ways.” With our separate memories of the same woman, he thought.

“Go n-éirí an t-ádh leat,” Murphy said.

“Good luck to you, too.”

Just as the waitress brought more hot water for the tea, something clicked.

There. There it is. It’s code, Morse code.

But it doesn’t translate.

“Want anything else, love?” the waitress asked. “We have strawberry cobbler—not bad, even if we don’t have enough sugar.…”

“No,” Maggie said, not even looking up. “Thanks, though.”

Maggie set her jaw in frustration.

It just doesn’t translate.

Maybe … Maybe it’s super-enciphered? One code within another? Scrambled once, then again? All right, let’s try that.…