Mr.Churchill's Secretary(86)

The ropes fell away, and Maggie was free. She rubbed her wrists, trying to get the circulation back, then slowly lifted her arm to look at the wound on her shoulder. Gingerly, she tried to raise the fabric of the blouse and sweater away from the charred flesh—bad idea. She winced and set her teeth.

Roger pressed the gun into her temple and grabbed her elbow, forcing her to her feet. “Now, don’t get any ideas, my dear,” he said.

He took the gun from Maggie’s head and pointed it at Edmund.

He cocked the gun and, distracted by Edmund, relaxed his hold on Maggie’s arm.

She knew this was her only chance.

“Goodbye, Professor Hope,” he said.

As he did, Maggie used her last ounce of energy to spin around and dive for Pierce’s gun, still on the kitchen floor.

In a single move, she grabbed it and pointed it at Roger. It was bigger and heavier than she expected, and her shoulder throbbed in protest, but it fit into the soft palm of her hand with surprising ease.

“I believe we have what’s called a stalemate, Miss Hope,” Roger said, looking at her with an expression of genuine surprise.

Suddenly the door behind him burst open. There stood Snodgrass, flanked by David and John.

“Ah, Miss Hope,” Snodgrass said. “I see you have things well in hand. However, I hope you don’t mind a little backup.”

Roger realized he was outnumbered.

“Please drop your weapon, sir,” Snodgrass said in a neutral tone. Maggie had never thought she’d be so glad to see his stringy hair and sloping shoulders in her life. Not to mention John and David.

“Blast it all!” Roger said.

“I must insist,” Snodgrass said.

Roger could see that he was out of options. Slowly, he knelt down and placed the gun on the floor. With his right hand, Snodgrass kept the gun on Roger. With the left, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them to David, who caught them in one hand. “Will you do the honors, Mr. Greene?”

David went over to Roger and cuffed his hands behind his back, none too gently.

“You too, Miss Hope,” Snodgrass said. Maggie lowered her arm.

John strode to Maggie. “Are you all right?” he said, offering his hand.

She took it. It was large and warm and comforting. Of course he figured it out. Of course he came. She stood up and handed the gun over to Snodgrass, who clicked on the safety. “Fine, thank you. Although it’s been”—she looked over to Edmund and gave a wry smile—“quite the evening.”

“And night,” John said. “What were you thinking? Gallivanting all over the countryside? Making people worry …?”

“And you,” David said to Edmund, pointing his finger. “Aren’t you supposed to be crazy?”

Edmund shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

“Once MI-Five picks this one up,” Snodgrass said, indicating Roger, “we’ll have plenty of time to chat.”





TWENTY-SEVEN





PETER FAIN DROPPED his cigarette to the floor, grinding it beneath his heel. “I want you to tell me who’s still out there.”

Claire pressed her lips together and looked off into space.

“We know the only reason you’re even considering helping us is because of Mr. Murphy,” Frain continued. “But believe me, it’s not too late for us to change our minds about how we treat him.”

Claire looked at him and blinked. Good, he thought, let her chew on that.

“There were a few men I heard Michael talking about,” she ventured finally. “But I don’t know where they are or how to get in contact with them.”

Frain rose to his feet and walked around the table until he was behind Claire. “Who’s Eammon Devlin?” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. He already knew who Eammon Devlin was—one of London’s biggest and most successful underground figures. Devlin provided “protection,” ran several brothels, and since the start of the war, maintained a thriving black-market business specializing in sugar, cigarettes, petrol, and stockings. He was always suspected of IRA ties, but so far they’d been impossible to prove.

“I heard Michael speak of him a few times, but I never met him. He’s one of the higher-ups; that’s all I know.”

Frain straightened up. “That’s not good enough.”

“It’s going to have to be.”

Without warning, Frain tipped her chair over. Claire, with her arms and legs still cuffed, hit the cement floor with a resounding bang. Claire screamed in shock and agony.

A guard appeared at the door. “Everything all right, Mr. Frain?”

“Perfectly fine, thank you,” Frain said, bending over Claire’s form on the floor. Her face twitched in alarm and pain.