Princess Elizabeth's Spy(95)

“So we have two choices. Wait at the station, or—”

Maggie was already off, leaning into the wind as she made her way to the beach.

“—or we look for them ourselves,” Hugh finished. “Right, then. Off we go.”


They picked their way over stones and pebbles on the shore in the semidarkness. The white-tipped waves were crashing in, creating a low roar. The light from Hugh’s flashlight was ineffective against the crushing darkness. Only a waning moon overhead provided any useful light.

“There!” Maggie shouted, over the din of the waves. She pointed to a small shack on the beach.


The shack was made of planks and covered in tar paper. The edges of the door were illuminated. Maggie and Hugh approached cautiously. He held the gun as Maggie rapped at the door. There was no answer. She pushed at the door. It swung open easily.

The stench hit them first—the overwhelming odor of stale smoke, sweat, and alcohol. The room was bare, except for a bulb and an old, stained mattress in the corner. On the mattress, a man was lying on his back, snoring loudly, a ratty wool blanket pulled over his legs and a half-empty bottle of gin clutched to his chest.

Trying not to inhale through her nose, Maggie went over to him. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, kneeling down and giving him a firm shake. “Sir?”

“Wha—?” he said, opening his eyes. He was unshaven and unkempt, with thinning gray hair and a weather-beaten face. His plaid flannel shirt had yellow stains under the arms.

“We’re looking for some people, sir,” Hugh began. “Not from around here. They might be in a cottage or shack close to the beach? Have you seen anyone?”

“Go ’way. Wanna sleep.”

“Sir!” Maggie said. Which was not at all the word she wanted to use.

No response.

No, no, no—we’ve come too far to be stymied by a drunk. She wanted to slap him, but instead grabbed the gin bottle from his lax hands. “I will take this gin and pour it all over the floor if you don’t answer our questions.”

“Bitch!” he slurred, trying to reach for the bottle with dirty hands with broken fingernails.

Maggie tipped the bottle and let a few drops of liquid trickle out. She had to admit that while it was technically illegal to dispose of his property, it was probably the fastest way to get him to talk. It was also grimly satisfying.

“Al’ righ’,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows. “Give i’ back!”

“Not until you tell us what you know.” Maggie held on to the bottle and kept it out of reach.

“There’s a girl. Pretty,” he slurred. “Pretty. French. Pretty French girl.”

Maggie started. “Audrey?” she said to Hugh, who nodded.

“Where?” Hugh said. “Where have you seen her?”

“Pretty girl,” he repeated. He tried to sit up and then dropped back down. “Comes to the cottage sometimes.”

“What cottage?” Maggie asked. “Where is it?”

“Downna beach,” he said, pointing, then turning back over. “Givver a kiss for me.…” he managed before beginning to snore again.

Maggie set the bottle down as she and Hugh looked at each other. It could be any French girl. Or it could be Audrey. “Come on,” she said at the door, bracing to run through cold wind again. “Let’s go ‘downna beach’!”


A new shift had just started at the Submarine Tracking Room. “Sir,” a young officer said to Donald Kirk, sitting behind his desk in his office. Kirk was looking over various memos. One was an alert, issued from the War Office, saying a man and a woman, plus a kidnapped girl, were on the run and might be trying to leave the country by boat. The next was a memo from Beeston Regis Y-station, saying that they had intercepted a radio communiqué between a location somewhere near shore and a Nazi U-boat. Martin Leaper, head of the Y-station, said that the transmission on the British side came from somewhere near Grimsby. The man had no idea what he’d stumbled on.

The two memos in hand, he rose, and with the help of his silver-tipped cane, made his way to the main room and the North Atlantic map table. The junior officers were repositioning various pushpins to reflect recent movement.

Kirk stared down at U-246. It hadn’t seemed to have moved much. He jabbed the point of his cane at it. “U-two-forty-six!” he called to the heavyset middle-aged man moving the pins.

The man snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”

“Is that her current position?”

The man, beginning to sweat, checked his list of coordinates. “No, sir.”

“Where is she now, then?”