“They’re waiting for Mr. Pierce. Not you.”
“Don’t really think they give a damn about Pierce, long as they get what they want. Which is why I’m going to be flying one of them in the Airco to Berlin myself.”
“You haven’t flown in years,” Leticia protested.
“Just like riding a bicycle.” He shook his head. “Never thought I’d be flying in another war.”
“Roger! You can’t just take one and leave the other one here. And what about me? What am I supposed to do?”
“It’s fine,” he said reassuringly, moving toward her. “Everything’s fine.”
Her mouth made a perfect round O of surprise before she slumped to the floor beside Pierce.
Roger turned back to Maggie and Edmund. “Now, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Claire was being held in one of the underground conference rooms of the War Rooms, seated on a gray metal folding chair with her arms handcuffed behind her back and her feet tied to the chair’s legs. The only other furniture in the room was a battered wooden table and another folding chair. The room was lit from above by a naked fluorescent bulb. The air, silent except for the rumble of air-conditioning, was still and stale.
She started when she heard the click of the lock and then the scrape of the door in front of her. Then she saw the man enter, carrying a black leather briefcase.
“Miss Kelly,” he said, setting down his briefcase. “I am Peter Frain, Director General of MI-Five.”
She trained her eyes on the table in front of her.
Frain removed his Anthony Eden hat with its upturned brim and his trench coat. He sat down opposite her, then unlocked his briefcase and pulled out a file.
“I want to call the American embassy,” she said, finally. “I’m a U.S. citizen. I have rights.”
“Sarah Sanderson had rights, too.” He called through the open door, “Bring her in.”
Two police officers wheeled in a metal gurney. On top was a large black zippered bag. They wheeled it next to Claire and then unzipped it, revealing a face. Inside, there was a woman, a beautiful woman. Dead. Her eyes were closed. She looked pale and peaceful.
Claire looked away, her eyes shining with tears. “You sick, sick bastard,” she whispered finally.
He motioned the men to take the body away. “We didn’t kill her, Miss Kelly,” he said. “You did.”
“No! It wasn’t me!” Claire swallowed. “Besides, there’s … collateral damage … in any war.” Even to Claire, the words sounded weak.
“ ‘Collateral damage’ named Sarah Sanderson.”
Claire slumped in her chair. “I’m not even supposed to be alive,” she said.
“Yes,” Frain said. “We gathered that the plan was to assassinate the Prime Minister, then kill yourself. However, it didn’t quite pan out that way, did it?”
Claire was silent. A vein throbbed in her temple.
“I highly doubt that you could kill yourself, let alone another human being. Why else would John Sterling still be alive? Any assassin worth the name would have taken him out immediately. Your only chance to survive now is to tell us everything you know.”
Once again, Claire was silent.
Frain opened the manila folder on the desk and began to read from the pages inside. “Let’s see—Claire Paige Kelly. Born July second, 1916, in Richmond, Virginia. Father is Francis Xavier Kelly, linguist. Mother is Imelda Mary Donovan Kelly. Educated at Miss Porter’s School and Wellesley College. Came to London in ’thirty-eight to work for Joseph Kennedy, U.S. Ambassador to England. Principal interests, though, are boys and booze. When war broke out and Ambassador Kennedy returned to the States, applied for the Women’s Auxiliary. Recommended by Ambassador Kennedy. Interviewed March fifth. Accepted. Cleared. Started work the following week. So far, so good?” He raised one eyebrow. “Care to add anything?”
Claire said nothing.
“Not exactly a rigorous process of selection. But then again, you’re a U.S. citizen, and there’s a war on. And you do come from a rather rich American family and have a reference from the Ambassador.”
Frain looked back down at his notes. “Summers in the family home, located just outside Belfast. That wasn’t enough to be a red flag initially, but when you applied for the position as the Prime Minister’s secretary, we thought it was worth investigating. Ultimately, along with your U.S. passport, it was enough to keep you from the position.”
Claire didn’t move, but the color drained from her face.
“We discovered you were an avid churchgoer, Miss Kelly. Especially during off-hours. A Catholic church.”