The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(22)

The trainees dispersed.

Burns sat down next to Maggie.

“Shooting triggered a bad memory,” he stated. It was not a question.

“Yes,” Maggie managed.

“Happens to all of us,” he said gruffly, pulling out a cambric handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handing it to her. She accepted it and wiped at her eyes, then blew her nose.

“That message you received, Miss Hope—what was it for?”

“What?”

“The telephone message you received yesterday morning.”

“It—” Maggie concentrated on her breathing. “It was a message from my friend Sarah. She’s performing with the Vic-Wells Ballet in Edinburgh. She wants me to come and see her perform.”

“And you binned it and didn’t get back to her. Not even to say that you weren’t coming.”

“Yes,” Maggie whispered.

“Why?”

She turned her eyes up to his. “You know why.”

“And that’s why I’m ordering you to go.”

“Sir?”

“Go to Edinburgh. Spend some time with your friend. Take the weekend.”

“No, no—I couldn’t possibly …”

“It’s an order, Miss Hope.”

“I can’t—”

He patted her hand awkwardly. “I repeat, it’s an order, Miss Hope. You’re going to Edinburgh. No arguing.”

“But—” Maggie gave a faint smile and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

It looked as if she was going to Edinburgh—Black Dog or no Black Dog.


During the training exercises, K had found a place on a stone wall in the weak winter sun, and kept watch through slit eyes. When Maggie and Mr. Burns left Traigh House, K leapt from the wall and trotted after them.

But then the wind had picked up, and the cat became distracted, chasing after a papery brown leaf. “K! Mr. K! Naughty kitty!” Maggie shouted, her voice blown away.

“I’ll leave you to your chase,” Mr. Burns said, tipping his hat. “Enjoy the ballet.”

“Thank you, sir,” Maggie said as she began running after the tabby.

K had turned and trotted off over the dead grass to a path in the surrounding forest, which led down to the rocky shore. Maggie scrambled after him. “Wait, come back here!” she called, her voice lost in the blustery weather. Cats are not like dogs, she had to remind herself, more used to Churchill’s dog Rufus and Princess Elizabeth’s menagerie of corgis. Even Nelson, the P.M.’s cat, would at least pretend to listen every once in a while.

K darted over the moss-covered stones, tail low, as if on the trail of something. He slunk under a rusty metal gate, which Maggie then had to climb, wire biting into her hands.

Stupid cat, she thought as she pushed loose hair out of her eyes. Why did I ever think I could take care of an animal? She trailed him through thorny underbrush, then found herself on the rocks of a different cove, on the property next to Arisaig House. The beach was stonier, harder to walk on. K jumped up onto a boulder and sat, watching.

There were men on the shore, leading a line of docile sheep down a worn path, then loading them into a waiting boat. Some of the sheep were white, or cream, or gray; some had black patches. Each had two notches cut into one ear and a red dot on its rump. Maggie could hear their baas carried off in the wind.

K jumped down, then walked back to Maggie, pawing her knee, wanting to be lifted. Absently, still watching the men, she bent and scooped him up into her arms. He purred and settled himself on her shoulder, like a pirate’s parrot. “And what do you suppose we have here?” she muttered as the boats drifted farther and farther from the shore, toward a small island, whose name she didn’t know. “Maybe they’re taking them to another island to graze?”

“Meh.”

“Yes, meh indeed,” Maggie replied, scratching him under the chin. “But now I need to pack for Edinburgh.”


When her next meal was brought in, Clara was found unconscious and she was rushed to the Tower of London’s infirmary. There Dr. Clive Carroll, a fifty-something man with gray-blond hair and narrow shoulders, was called to examine her. By the time Dr. Carroll had finished, Peter Frain, Director of MI-5, was on the telephone.

Carroll sat down behind his wooden desk to take the call.

“What do you think it is?” Frain asked without preamble. “What’s wrong with Hess?”

The doctor fidgeted with the coiled telephone cord. “Physically, Frau Hess is fine, Mr. Frain. Robust health. Good muscle tone, strong pulse, normal blood pressure, even breathing …”

“So, what the devil’s wrong with her?”

Dr. Carroll pushed up horn-rimmed glasses. “Well, she is—in a word—catatonic.”