Mr.Churchill's Secretary(82)

“Why do you care so much about me?” Maggie snapped. “It’s not like you know me. It’s not as though you’ve ever acted like a father before this.”

“Margaret!” Edmund whispered. “This is not the time.”

“Ah, family reunion  s,” Pierce said, his eye on the poker that was slowly but surely heating up. “But I’m afraid she already knows too much. Besides, she probably has quite a few tidbits of information worth hearing.”

“She could identify us,” Roger said, worried.

“So I’ll have to die,” Maggie said slowly to Leticia, whose eyes widened in sudden understanding. “That will make you murderers.” She gave Leticia a hard look, sensing a moment’s hesitation. “Are you sure you can live with yourself—as a murderer?”

“Not before she can tell us when the Americans will join the war.” Roger looked her in the eyes. “Surely, as Mr. Churchill’s secretary, you must have typed innumerable missives to President Roosevelt and filed any number from him. Is America joining in the fight or not? And when? What are they bringing to the table?”

The truth was that she had typed what felt like hundreds of letters from Mr. Churchill to President Roosevelt. And seen a number of his responses. The United States was sending food and arms, as well as planes, submarines, and ships. Although there was no official commitment from the United States yet, it was very close to entering the war.

But they don’t need to know that.

“Mr. Churchill and President Roosevelt have limited contact,” Maggie said, turning back to Roger. “And when they do communicate, it’s by scrambled telephone line. In private. I don’t know anything else,” she lied.

Maggie had a sudden and fierce longing to see Aunt Edith. Don’t let the bastards get you down, she used to say. As she felt the horror of the situation closing in on her, she clung to Edith’s words.

“That’s too bad,” Pierce said. “All right, Professor Hope, now let’s try you. Where are you boys in relation to code breaking? What do you know?”

Edmund blinked hard, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “We haven’t gotten very far,” he said in a conciliatory voice. “As you must know by now, we’re receiving German decrypts. We only have one key. Takes too long to decode—and so not much practical use, I’m afraid.…”

What he wasn’t saying, what he couldn’t say, was that the key to British intelligence was something the Germans had never counted on. Bletchley didn’t use human beings. At least, not in the way the Germans expected. It was using Alan Turing’s calculating machines, based on the work of the Polish cryptographer Marian Rejewski. Nazi ciphers were slowly but surely being broken by these British machines—hundreds and thousands of times faster than any human could possibly do it. Although they were still at the very beginning and had a long way yet to go, espionage was entering a new age.

“Really?” Pierce said. “Somehow I doubt either one of you is telling the truth.” He gave the fire one last stab with the poker. “Here’s the way this is going to work. Do you see this poker? It’s nice and hot now. Well, I’m going to burn your daughter with it until one of you tells me what I need to know. She’s a pretty thing—too bad she won’t be when I get through with her.”

He walked toward Maggie with the red-tipped poker. She fought in her restraints, but Roger held her arms down. The poker came at her face, and she could feel the heat it was giving off. Her heart felt as though it would explode.

The poker touched her hair, and she could hear the sizzle and then smell the stink of burning.

“You bastard,” Edmund rasped between clenched teeth.

“It’s all right,” Maggie managed to get out. “Done worse with my curling iron.”

Leticia gave a chortle, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Once again, Maggie locked eyes with her.

Pierce heated the poker again and then touched it to the wooden kitchen table. There was a hiss and a wisp of smoke. From the corner of her eye, Maggie could see Leticia jump. From the panic in her eyes, Maggie could see that Leticia had never expected things to get this out of hand.

“Mr. Pierce,” Leticia began, “surely you don’t need to—”

“Shut. Up.”

The words struck Leticia like a slap in the face. She cowered and seemed to shrink a few inches.

Pierce started toward Maggie with the poker again. This time, he touched it to the shoulder of her cardigan, which smoked and smoldered before burning out. The smell of scorched cotton filled the room, and she could see Leticia’s nostrils flare.