The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(11)

She shot him a warning look. “First, don’t do that.”

He removed his arm.

“Second, don’t ever do that again.”

He had the grace to redden.

“And third—” She pushed back her sleeve to take a look at her watch. “—start running. Or you’ll be late.”

Charles stood on a mound of slippery seaweed and gave a crisp salute. “Yes, Ma’am!”


The trainees had assembled in a line on the beach, in the gray shadows of snowcapped mountains. “Well, it’s not exactly Waikiki, but it will do,” Maggie deadpanned. The dark skies began to weep sleet; several trainees shivered and brushed the icy water from their faces.

The weather reminded Maggie of a boy from Harvard she once dated. From Buffalo, New York, he’d sworn that, like the Eskimos, Buffalonians had hundreds of different words to describe snow—although that was after a fair amount of rum punch at a Porcellian Club party. Maggie wondered where he was now, and if he’d registered for the draft. Then she shook her head and focused on her trainees.

She stalked up and down the line of young men and women. “I see some of you didn’t bother to wear your hat. Always wear it! You lose ninety percent of body heat from your head!”

There were assorted mumbles of “Yes, Ma’am.”

“What? I didn’t hear you?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” they shouted.

“Now, there’s a boat in a boathouse on the shore not too far north. In teams of two, you will commandeer the boat and practice silent landings. Five and Seven—you’re up first!”

The pair saluted and began to make their way over the seaweed-draped stones. “The Nazis are after you!” Maggie called into the wind. “Hurry!”

“And what should the rest of us do, Miss Hope?” asked one of the sturdier women, older and often slower, but in many ways far more advanced than the younger trainees.

“We’re going to do relay races over the stones and then up and down those hills,” Maggie answered. “Remember—when you’re coming up or down a steep hill, bend your knees and angle your feet—you’ll have more traction that way. And you’ll need it in this slippery muck. Evens, you stay here, odd numbers, go!”

Half the trainees began scrambling over the rocky shore. One slipped and fell; when he pulled his foot out of the mud, there was a loud sucking sound. “Keep going!” Maggie yelled, saying a silent prayer for the poor nuns in Glasgow who did all of the trainees’ laundry. “And you—Nine—don’t wipe your nose—let it drip! You can wipe it off later—if and when you’ve outrun the Nazis!”

As the agents-in-training began climbing the rocky hills that led to the boathouse, the sleet turned to rain, falling in ever-heavier drops. The trainees knew better than to complain.

But Yvonne took a moment to muse to Gwen, “I wonder if you’d get wetter walking in the rain or running? If you walk, you’ll spend more time in the rain—but if you run, you’ll be hitting more raindrops from the side …”

Basic physics, Maggie thought, crossing her arms. They could see the trainees racing, skidding, and sliding down the muddy hill, making their way back.

Gwen answered, “You probably hit more raindrops when you’re running.”

Maggie bit her lip.

“Well, that makes sense,” Yvonne mused.

“Total wetness equals wetness per second times number of seconds spent in rain plus wetness per meter times meters traveled,” Maggie muttered.

“What was that? Ma’am?”

“In other words, it’s better to run in the rain—so get moving!”


When the second group sprinted off, Maggie took a few moments to look out over the roiling water. Then she spotted something by the shore, where the waves were crashing in. A gray seal? A large stone? Driftwood?

She walked closer. It was a sheep, or rather the carcass of a sheep—dead some time from the look of the body. Poor thing must have wandered away from the flock and fallen into the water … She examined the body more closely. She saw the clips in its ear, two notches, not one, and a dyed red dot on its rump, indicating it didn’t belong to the local farmer’s flock. Those sheep had just one ear notch and a blue stripe on the shoulders.

Maggie also noted that its body was encrusted with open, oozing black sores.



After the day’s training sessions were completed, Maggie shed her damp clothes, washed, changed into clean clothes, then walked in the dark over the deserted road to the village of Arisaig, to see the town veterinarian, Angus McNeil. It was still early evening, but overhead the winter-night sky was black and dripped rain.