The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(13)
“Meh,” he said finally, then dropped back down to all fours and rubbed against her, beginning to purr. Something was communicated between them; she had passed his test. Although no words had been spoken, Maggie knew, as clear as she knew her name or the day of the week, that she and this animal belonged together. Or at least he had chosen her, for whatever reason, and she was powerless to say no.
“Bold as brass, that one,” Dr. McNeil said. “Looks like he’s decided on you. Whether you fancy him or no. What are you going to do, then?”
“I’ll take him,” Maggie said, scooping him up in her arms without hesitation. “My little Schrödinger.”
“Don’t know his name, lass.” The cat settled in, purring. Then he opened his mouth and hissed at Dr. McNeil.
“I just meant—” Maggie wasn’t up to explaining the paradox of Schrödinger’s cat. “Never mind.”
“Suit yourself, Miss,” the vet said as Maggie turned to leave, cat in her arms. “But don’t think he’ll be catching any mice for you.”
“Come on,” she whispered to the cat, unbuttoning her coat and slipping him inside, where he clung to her. “We’re going home.”
As the door closed behind her, Dr. McNeil reached for the telephone. “Put me through to the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries. It’s urgent—someone found another dead one.”
Chapter Four
In his office in the Intelligence Section of the War Department, Colonel Bratton sat at his desk, going over Purple decrypts. His forehead was sweating; the top button of his shirt was open and his tie askew. He mopped his grim face with his handkerchief and reread the papers in front of him.
His secretary showed in Lieutenant Commander Kramer.
“Are you all right?” Kramer said, taking in the shorter man’s disarray.
Bratton didn’t look up. “I’ve been reading these intercepts over and over again. Things are looking bad. Ambassadors Nomura and Kurusu recently asked their government to extend the deadline suspending negotiations between Japan and the United States.”
Kramer sat down opposite Bratton, his long legs at angles, a pull in his sock exposed. “Yes, I know. We all know.”
“But according to this latest decrypt, Tokyo wants to conclude negotiations, and I quote, ‘no later than November twenty-ninth.’ After which ‘things are automatically going to happen.’ ”
He looked up at Kramer, who met his gaze. “Yes, we’ve all read it,” the Lieutenant said.
Bratton was undeterred. “But look at this intelligence report from the British—five Japanese troop transports with naval escort were sighted off China’s coast, near Formosa, heading south.”
“That must be a mistake.” Kramer crossed his legs. “You know we’ve been monitoring the Japanese fleet. And most of their ships are in home waters.”
Bratton shook his head. “We have intelligence that the Japanese are on the move,” he said, standing and walking to the map. “One of their expeditionary forces is embarking in Shanghai on as many as forty or fifty ships.” He pointed at the map. “And a number of ships have left Japan and are sailing toward the Pescadores. And now a cruiser division, a destroyer squadron, and a number of aircraft carriers have been spotted in the harbor of Samah on Hainan Island. Everything we have indicates that Admiral Yamamoto’s forces are set to sail in a matter of days. If not hours.”
The pieces came together and clicked in Bratton’s brain. “I bet you they’re going to attack us.” His voice rising in both pitch and intensity, he finally spoke his worst fears aloud: “I bet that Japan is going to attack the United States of America—most likely on a Sunday, when the fleet is in. This Sunday is November thirtieth.”
Bratton’s eyes met Kramer’s in an unwavering gaze. “The goddamn Japs are going to attack us on Sunday, the thirtieth of November!”
Prime Minister Winston Churchill had seen the film That Hamilton Woman so many times that he would often unconsciously mouth the words along with the actors on-screen. On this night, it was playing at the library at Chequers, set up as a makeshift movie theater. All of the oil paintings had been rolled up and put away for safekeeping, leaving the ornate gold frames empty, like blank eyes. The film viewing was after a long and rich dinner, with bottles of wine and spirits, and a few of the guests and staff had settled in, preparing for a nap. But Churchill, a wine stain on the lapel of his velvet siren suit (which the staff referred to, behind his back, as his “rompers”), was on the edge of his seat.