As he sat, people began to file in, taking their seats or exchanging greetings. It was a small service; they all sat near the altar. A small boy and his mother slipped into the pew in front of him. The boy, who was about six or so, with soft golden curls, began to fidget. He was dressed in black, as was his mother, who was dabbing at her eyes with a cambric handkerchief.
Everyone stood as the pallbearers brought in the large black casket, with the union Jack draped over it and a wreath of crimson poppies. Andrew Wells’s casket.
They all sat down again as the silver-haired priest began his homily. “We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away—blessed be the name of the Lord.”
The boy began to kick the leg of his pew, his worn oxfords making a loud banging that reverberated through the church.
“Shhh, love—don’t do that,” she said, placing her hand on the boy’s leg.
The boy twisted in his seat and stared back at Hugh. “That’s my daddy, you know,” he said, pointing at the coffin.
Hugh looked up at the coffin, then back at the little boy. “Then you must be Ian Wells,” Hugh whispered back. “I knew your father. He was a hero.”
Without warning, the boy was out of his seat and lunging at Hugh, burying his face in his shoulder and wrapping his thin arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, and sobbing.
Hugh held him; the boy’s hair smelled warm and sweet. “My father died in the line of duty, too,” he whispered, patting the boy’s back. He could feel sharp shoulder blades through the boy’s jacket. “It was a long time ago. I was about your age, actually.”
The boy looked up at Hugh with wide hazel eyes, damp plump hands still on his shoulders. “Do you still miss him?”
“Every day,” Hugh answered. “It gets better—it does—but it never quite goes away.”
In the Amtsgruppe Ausland offices of Abwehr in Berlin, junior agents Torsten Ritter and Franz Krause were sitting in black leather chairs in a large empty conference room, radio on the long table in front of them, waiting. Outside, the sky was cerulean, with just a few high feathery cirrus clouds. Krause was tapping his fingers nervously.
“Do you really need to do that?” Ritter asked.
Krause stopped. “Sorry.”
“By the way, my mother said to tell your mother hello,” Ritter said.
Krause grimaced. “I try not to talk to my mother.”
“Well, I’ll tell mine that she says hello back. It’ll make her happy.”
They stopped speaking when the radio began to emit a series of short beeps. It was a radio message from their British contact, code-named Wōdanaz. The contact in Windsor tapped out code, slow and deliberate—his “fist,” or typing style, as individual as a fingerprint. Ritter scribbled it down, then, as per protocol, asked the operator to repeat the message. He checked it against what he’d written, then acknowledged the contact and signed off.
Ritter consulted the Morse code book to decipher the message.
“It says they smuggled out the decrypt from Bletchley,” Ritter read as he translated.
“Excellent!” Krause said. “We just secured our retirement—gold, girls, an endless supply of beer …”
“Wait. I’m not done.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “This isn’t good. Frijjō is dead. And the decrypt is missing.”
“Scheisse!” Krause pounded his table with his fist. “Fucking Becker’s going to have our heads.”
“Becker?” Ritter said. “He doesn’t even believe the British can break Enigma. This will just confirm what he already suspects.”
Krause laughed, a bitter laugh. “You should be scared of him. Don’t let his affection for little Wolfie charm you.”
“I’ll tell you who I am scared of.”
“Yeah, who’s that?”
“Commandant Hess.”
Krause’s smirk faded, as the name, and its significance, reverberated. “We’re not working on that operation, though.”
“Still, Operation Edelweiss had better go off without a hitch—because I’ve heard about what happens when Commandant Hess gets angry. Makes Becker look like a pussycat.”
Chapter Eleven
At the castle, Maggie was getting dressed for dinner. Although she would rather have stayed in her rooms to read the Turing, which she’d purchased at the bookshop, she resigned herself to getting through the meal.
She pulled out the gown she’d brought, held it up and looked at it. It was an angelic blue chiffon, with black satin edging and black roses on one shoulder. The last time she’d worn it, she’d been with John. He’d asked her to marry him, and she, angry that he’d joined the RAF, had turned him down. Looking at the dress, Maggie thought bitterly, I was a fool. And I still am. She closed her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. And I hope to God I’ll get a chance to make it up to him. She put it on, along with fur-lined boots and her coat.