There has to be some mistake. “Mr. Burns, I can assure you—”
“My mind is made up, Miss Hope. I’ve spoken to Mr. Frain, and he’s asked that you return to London. He’ll inform you of your new position when you arrive.”
“New position?” Maggie was bewildered.
“Probably reading through mail for possible codes, that sort of thing. Desk work.” Burns struggled to let her down gently. “But it’s all important work, Miss Hope. There are no small jobs. After all—”
Maggie bit her lip to hide her disappointment. After everything she’d been through, she was, once again, going to end up behind a typewriter, fighting with no more than the stack of papers in her inbox? No, no, no—she was not.
“—there’s a war on,” Maggie finished for him. “But you can’t afford to waste me behind a desk. I speak perfect French and German. I’m smart, smarter than you, most likely, and I—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Hope,” Burns said. “But when you’re over there, there’s not a lot we can do to keep you safe. And if something happens—and Lord knows it will—we need to know you can take care of yourself. I’m not convinced you’re up to it. And so I can’t, in good conscience, recommend you.”
“But, Mr. Burns—”
“I have a daughter your age, Miss Hope. I wouldn’t even consider dropping her behind enemy lines at all, let alone if I thought she might not survive.”
Maggie saw he was sincere, if narrow-minded. “Thank you, Mr. Burns,” she said, relenting, at least for the moment. She might have lost the battle, but she wasn’t ready to concede the war. “However, I must tell you I will take this up with Mr. Frain.” Surely Peter Frain, head of MI-5, who personally recruited her, would see the folly of Burns’s decision and set things straight.
“Of course, Miss Hope. Good luck to you.”
Mr. Burns watched her as she left, a pale and serious-looking girl with reddish hair, pretty when she smiled. He’d come to admire her grit, even if her performance hadn’t been up to par, and wished he had better news for her. Although the news he had would most likely keep her alive. Very few of the British spies dropped in France or Germany survived more than three months, if that. And no women had been dropped yet.
“Oh, well,” he muttered as he packed up her file. “Frain will find something for her.”
Abwehr was the German counterpart to MI-5 and MI-6, located at 76/78 Tirpitzufer, Berlin, in an imposing neoclassical building topped with huge black-and-red Nazi flags, snapping smartly in a cold wind under a brilliant blue sky. The Nazi spy organization had three main branches: die Zentrale, or the Central Division; Abwehr I, II, and III, which dealt with foreign intelligence collection, sabotage, and counterintelligence, respectively; and the Foreign Branch, or Amtsgruppe Ausland, responsible for the evaluation of captured documents. The Foreign Branch was run under the direction of Luca von Plettenberg.
Claus Becker answered to von Plettenberg and was in charge of information received from Britain, specifically. He was a short man, round, in his early forties, with an agreeable face and an infectious smile. A native Berliner, he’d worked as a grocery store clerk before joining the Nazi party in 1925, after reading Hitler’s Mein Kampf. He’d worked his way up through the SS before transferring to Abwehr in 1938. He was a bachelor, living in a spacious apartment in Mitte, and had a sweet-tempered miniature greyhound named Wolfgang, who went everywhere with him on a thin black leather leash. People at the Foreign Branch knew to be affectionate to Wolfgang if they wanted to keep their jobs.
Becker was sitting behind his desk in his office, facing two junior agents. Torsten Ritter and Franz Krause were both young, short, and swimming in their too-big gray uniforms—nothing like the robust blond men from the propaganda posters boasting Aryan supremacy. Still, they were smart, they were blue-eyed, and they were Nazis. The office was large, as was Becker’s mahogany claw-foot desk, over which hung a large official portrait of Hitler by Heinrich Knirr. The two junior agents sat on low black leather chairs, facing Becker.
“Come, Wolfie!” Becker called to his small greyhound, who ran to him, tail wagging, and licked his hands. “Sit!” he commanded. The slender gray dog went to his vermilion velvet pillow under Becker’s desk and settled down with nary a whimper.
Becker turned his attention to the junior agents. “And?”
Ritter began, “We have word our agent in Bletchley has managed to obtain an actual decrypt from their so-called Enigma machine.”