The guard left, closing the door softly behind him.
“Let’s try this again,” he said mildly. “Tell me about Eammon Devlin.”
“I already told you!” Claire moaned.
“You said you never met him.”
“I haven’t.”
Frain brought the chair, with Claire in it, to its upright position once again. “Unless you tell me the whole truth right now, that deal to save your lover is off the table. And he’ll hang for treason.”
“But you said—”
“Do you think the Prime Minister will really honor that agreement? For the duo who tried to kill him? Michael Murphy—and you—will be executed for war crimes. But first you’ll go to prison while you wait for your trial. And let me tell you, I know a little something about prison in wartime. These murderers and rapists—they’re all criminals, but they’re British criminals. Get that? And we’ll let it be known exactly what you’re in for.”
Frain knelt down in front of the girl, pupils large and black in his gray eyes. “And know this: I’ll give you about two weeks before you attempt suicide. Six weeks until you succeed. Mr. Murphy may hold out a little longer, but not before he’s suffered … unspeakable acts.”
Frain let the words sink in. Then he rose to his feet and turned, as though to leave the room.
“Wait!”
Frain stopped but didn’t look at her.
“Eammon Devlin is the man we reported to. We took our orders from him—but he never contacted us directly. Or at least he never contacted me directly. I received my orders through Michael.”
Frain turned around slowly. “What about the bomb at Saint Paul’s?”
“Michael is the one who smuggled the pieces in, and he assembled it. But Devlin designed and built it. He’s an engineer originally—he knows how it works. And he’s the only one who can stop it.”
“Where is he?”
She blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Miss Kelly, must I remind you—”
Claire met his eyes. “I wish to God that I did. But I don’t. I don’t know!”
Back at No. 10, the mood was tense. It was morning, and a baleful red sun illuminated the horizon through pearly gray clouds. They didn’t have much time left. Less than four hours, to be precise.
Edmund, David, John, and Maggie were sitting at one end of the large, dark-wood rectangular table in the Cabinet Room, on William Kent red damask chairs with ornate gilded frames. The room was light and airy, with ecru walls and wainscoting the color of clotted cream. The grandfather clock ticked loudly, while in the distance, Big Ben chimed the hour with a slow and steady gong. There was a small vase of purple heather on the ornate white-marble fireplace mantel. The attached note read, “To the Prime Minister. For luck.”
We’ll need it, Maggie thought. Her arm still throbbed. To take her mind off it, she thought of the upcoming day’s schedule and when the P.M. would take a meeting with the rest of the cabinet. Then she turned to John, looking at his profile in the light from the windows. He caught her glance and smiled.
Snodgrass entered the room, followed by Frain, who closed the heavy door behind him. But not before Nelson padded in, leaping gracefully onto a side chair and settling in, purring loudly.
“Professor Hope,” Snodgrass began, gesturing at the man in the somber suit, “this is Peter Frain, head of MI-Five. Mr. Frain, why don’t you bring everyone up to speed?”
“Thank you, Mr. Snodgrass.” He looked at the assembled group. “Let’s not waste time with the Official Secrets Acts you’ve signed, yes? Since the beginning of the war, MI-Five has been tracing the actions of various individuals we believe dangerous to England. We were aware of Malcolm Pierce as a homegrown Fascist, and one of the leaders of the so-called Saturday Club. As you well know,” he said, with a nod to Edmund and Maggie, “he turned out to be much more dangerous. Albrecht von Leyen was a sleeper agent for Abwehr. His goal was to kidnap Professor Edmund Hope, who was about to uncover one of their sleeper agents. Thanks to those here, that plan was thwarted.”
“What happened to him?” Maggie asked. “And Roger and Leticia?”
“Malcolm Pierce and Roger Barron have been taken into custody, where they will be debriefed,” he said. “Leticia Barron is dead.”
“But what happened,” she pressed, remembering how Leticia had ended up saving their lives.
“The police called a disposal team, which took her body to a crematorium in North London,” Frain said. “However, the official story is that the Barrons were called away to assist a sick aunt in Edinburgh.”