Mr.Churchill's Secretary(73)
“As time went on, even that was taken away from him. By the time the war began, he’d already left LSE and was living in Cambridge, cared for by some of the old guard at Trinity.”
“If he’s so ill,” Maggie said slowly, “why is he here?”
“Your father may be mentally ill, but he’s still a genius. And we are in desperate need of geniuses at Bletchley—or Station X, as we call it. Established in ’thirty-nine by the Government Code and Cypher School to intercept—”
“Yes. Where you’re breaking German ciphers.”
Easton looked shocked.
“I work for the Prime Minister,” Maggie explained. “I know what’s going on at Bletchley.”
Easton took Maggie’s measure. Finally, he said, “Well, then you must know that we’ve recruited some of the most brilliant minds Britain has to offer. Alan Turing is here, of course. Has been from the beginning. But there are other remarkable people working here as well—mathematicians, cryptologists, Egyptologists, chess champions, crossword experts, polyglots—”
“And my father.”
“Yes, your father.”
“But he’s still …?”
“Mad as a hatter. But harmless, absolutely harmless. And brilliant. Can’t go into the particulars, of course, but there are some codes we never would have even touched if not for him. He’s doing hero’s work, you know.”
“I see.” She didn’t really, not yet. But what else was there to say?
“I know this is extraordinary news. But given the circumstances, and the fact that you’re working for the P.M., Snodgrass thought you should know.”
She blinked. “Snodgrass? He’s responsible for this?”
“Well, yes, of course,” Mr. Easton said. “Thinks quite highly of you, you know. Pulled a lot of strings for this meeting to happen.”
It was just too much to take in.
“I think I’ll take that cup of tea now, Mr. Easton.”
“Claire Paige Kelly,” Snodgrass said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
In a series of quick and fluid movements, Snodgrass crossed over to her, twisted one arm behind her back, and took the gun from her other hand.
She whimpered while he held on to her.
He nodded to John, who went for the telephone. “Yes, a situation. In the P.M.’s War Room office. Thank you.”
John turned to Snodgrass, impressed and relieved. “Sir? You—you know her?”
“Miss Kelly has been on the MI-Five watch list for some time, Mr. Sterling. She’s American, true, but has strong IRA connections. Let’s just say that we had more than enough reason to keep tabs on her.”
John slumped over and grabbed onto the back of a wooden chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Two marines in full dress uniforms walked quickly into the room and assessed the situation. Snodgrass nodded to them. “Take her to the cell,” he said. He turned back to John. “And spoil all the fun?” The marines deftly snapped steel handcuffs around Claire’s wrists and began to lead her away.
John looked back to the clipping. “Sir,” he said, bending down to retrieve it.
“John,” Claire whispered, her eyes welling with tears.
“No?” he said, rising up, clipping in hand. He turned to Snodgrass and handed it to him. “This advert contains code, sir. In the stitches. Decrypted, it says execute Operation Naval Person, Operation Paul, and Operation Hope. This … she …?” He gestured to Claire, who was now on her way out the door. “This attempted assassination was most likely Operation Naval Person.”
“Let me see that,” Snodgrass said. He scanned the advert. “You’re sure?” he said.
“Yes,” John replied. “Also, Maggie—Miss Hope—is at Bletchley. Asking questions. And starting to get answers.”
“I know,” Snodgrass replied. “We have it under control. For now.”
After the drive back and a desultory dinner, which neither one ate, Maggie and David went back to the hotel. In her room, David tried to fill the silence with chitchat as he lounged in a pistachio-green tufted chair. “Great Ganesh, did you see the way that desk clerk looked at us? Yes, we have two rooms, but you could just tell he thought there would be lots of”—he gave a significant pause—“sneaking back and forth during the night.”
“Well, you are in my room now,” Maggie said, lying on the eiderdown quilt, looking at the corner where the toile wallpaper met the ceiling, trying to process everything Mr. Easton had told her. “And you will have to sneak back.”
David slipped off his black-leather shoes and put his feet up on the bed. “Don’t suppose I could get a foot rub first?”