Mr.Churchill's Secretary(91)

“Again, Miss Hope,” Frain said, “I apologize profusely. But you need to look like you’ve been injured in a car accident.”

“And you couldn’t have hit her?” Maggie said, rubbing her face.

“Now, remember,” Frain said, “our agents have covered the surrounding area.” He took out a pistol and loaded it, then handed it to Claire. “Take this gun,” he instructed. “This has to look as convincing as possible.”

Slowly, with disbelief in her eyes, Claire accepted the pistol. She looked at Maggie. Then she looked at Frain.

“You know you won’t use it,” Frain said calmly. “Because you know you’re surrounded by agents. And because of Mr. Murphy.” He looked at Maggie. “Are you ready?”

Maggie raised one eyebrow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Maggie and Claire didn’t speak as they made their way to McCormack’s apartment. The building was remarkably nondescript, with red-brown bricks and lined by dusty shrubs.

At the door, Claire grabbed Maggie’s good arm. Her other was in her coat pocket, clutching the butt of the pistol for reassurance. “What if McCormack doesn’t believe us?” she said.

Maggie removed Claire’s hand from her arm. “First of all, don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Second, it’s our job to make him believe us. And you’re the expert at that, aren’t you?”

Claire had the grace to drop her eyes and look slightly ashamed of herself.

It almost made Maggie feel better. Almost.

Claire knocked at the door.

No response.

She knocked again, louder this time.

No response.

She put her ear up to the door. “I can hear his wireless,” she said. She knocked for a third time. “Look, we know you’re in there,” she called. “Open the door.”

Slowly, the door opened and they saw a slight man, hair gray at the temples, wearing a white button-down shirt, brown cardigan, and corduroy trousers. His face had a mild, sheeplike quality beneath heavy black spectacles. In the background, they could hear the BBC broadcast “… as people were evacuating the accident site. We have no word about the number of fatalities and injured, but reports are that more than a hundred people were affected …”

“Who are you?” he asked, eyes darting from Claire’s face to Maggie’s.

“Claire Kelly,” she responded.

The name sounds so strange from her, Maggie thought.

“Who?”

“Claire Kelly. I’m a friend. I know Michael Murphy. He’s been compromised.”

McCormack’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally, closing the door.

Claire stopped it with her hand. “I need to speak to Devlin.”

“I don’t know anyone named Devlin.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Go away,” McCormack said. “Before I call the police.”

Claire took a step forward into the apartment. “You won’t call the police. And we both know why.”

McCormack tensed for a moment. “What do you want?”

“I have a hostage,” she said, indicating the gun in her coat pocket, pointed at Maggie. “Someone Devlin will want. Her name is Margaret Hope. She works with Churchill at Number Ten. Now, please, let me in before someone sees me.”

McCormack stepped aside and let the two girls in. The flat was neat and tidy. Stacks of student papers covered the rickety wooden kitchen table next to a mug of steaming tea and a plate of half-eaten toast and jam. A pair of vivid green budgies preened in an antique Victorian birdcage near the window.

He closed the door. “How did you find me?”

“Michael. Michael Murphy.”

“I don’t know any Michael Murphy.”

“He knows you.” Claire took a breath. “Michael and I were working together. I was supposed to take out Churchill. But I was arrested. They were transporting me to a holding cell, and there was a car accident. Everyone was killed or injured. I managed to get a gun and then decided to take this one as a hostage. She’s Churchill’s secretary—too valuable to kill—at least without pumping her for information first.”

McCormack’s forehead creased with thought. “The accident I heard about on the wireless.” He said abruptly, “Don’t move.”

He went to the telephone, picked up the heavy receiver, and dialed some numbers.

“This is McCormack. A woman named Claire Kelly is at my flat.”

There was a short silence. “She claims a man named Michael Murphy told her.”

Another silence. “She has an asset. Someone who works for Churchill.”