Mr.Churchill's Secretary(97)
“I’m sorry,” she said finally, sitting up and taking large gulps of air.
“Not to worry,” he said, taking a large linen handkerchief from his pocket and passing it to her. “Clean. On my honor.”
“Thank you,” she said, dabbing her eyes and then blowing her nose with a good, loud honk. “Thank you very much.” Then, “So now what?”
Archer spread his hands helplessly and shook his head. “I wish I knew.”
Maggie raised her chin. “How far are we from Saint Paul’s?”
THIRTY-ONE
THE VAN PULLED up a few blocks from the cathedral, and the men jumped out. There was a barricade manned by bobbies in uniform. “So sorry,” they solemnly informed the milling, muttering crowd. “So terribly sorry. Everything’s closed. Come back tomorrow. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
The agents sprinted to the barricade and jumped over.
“What the—?” the bobby yelled. He had red cheeks, a double chin, and bulging, buggy eyes.
One turned around. “MI-Five!”
“Right,” the cop muttered. “Here to save the bloody day.” He saw the crowd’s reaction to the agents and said, “Gas leak! Not to worry! It’s all under control.”
Maggie tried to follow.
“Oh, no, you don’t, miss,” the bobby said, suddenly joined by another. “It’s off-limits; you can’t go in there.”
“But I’m with them!”
The officer took in her bruised face, dirty hands, and ripped and burned sweater, and slowly shook his head. “Right, miss,” he said, trying not to laugh. “Sure, you’re a secret agent.” He elbowed his friend, laughing. “Looks like we have our very own Mata Hari here.”
“She’s with us,” Archer shouted from the stairs.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” he said, begrudgingly letting Maggie by.
Together, Archer and Maggie sprinted up into the cathedral, down the endless nave, and down to the crypt, dark and dank as a dragon’s lair. Breathless, they met up with Frain, Edmund, Snodgrass, and the other agents in the gloom.
“Miss Hope, this is highly—” Frain began.
“It’s not safe, Margaret. Get out,” her father continued.
Archer ignored them. “There’s no key, sir.” He said to Frain, “No actual key, at least. Not like his other bombs.”
As the other agents groaned, one exclaimed, “Damn!”
Maggie thought for a moment. “No actual key … no literal key,” she said, as though to herself. She turned to her father. “What does the bomb look like?”
“Do you think,” he began, “even absent father that I was, that I would ever allow you to—”
“I’ll take you,” Archer said. Frain nodded his approval and followed them into the heart of the crypt, where the bomb softly ticked like a beating heart.
Maggie and Archer circled the bomb, taking its measure—all of the dynamite wrapped in different-colored wires. “What’s this?” Maggie said, pointing to the gold watch.
“Timer,” one of the agents on the bomb squad said curtly.
“But why a pocket watch? Is there any significance?”
He shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
“And look,” Maggie continued. “The wires.”
“What about them?” Frain asked.
As though in a dream, Maggie recalled her last conversation with Claire. “The white in the center is supposed to signify peace between the two.” It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t quite place it.
Frain grimaced. “You say one needs to be cut?” he asked the head of the bomb squad, who nodded.
“Cutting one will shut down the whole system. But it’s impossible to know, from the configuration, which one it is.”
What is it? Maggie thought, trying to remember. Something about the Irish flag …
“Five minutes, Mr. Frain,” said an agent, over the ticking.
Maggie furrowed her brow. Something about green …
“Sir! She’s gonna blow!”
“Yes, yes.” Frain waved at him impatiently. “Go ahead, get out. Get all the men out, including Professor Hope.”
Maggie and Archer looked at each other and then at Frain. “No, we’ve come too far now,” she said. Archer nodded.
As the other agents exited, pulling Edmund with them, Maggie, Archer, and Frain stared back down at the wiring.
“I doubt that he would ever let the green wire be cut,” Maggie began, knowing what it symbolized, what it had meant to Claire.
“So then it’s white or orange—fifty-fifty chance.”
“Cutting orange is like cutting the Protestants,” Archer mused.