The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(34)

Maggie sensed he was a decent fellow, just doing his job. “Is she … all right?”

“As all right as anyone can be in a situation like this, Miss.” He looked at the black-and-white clock on the cement wall: According to the black Roman numerals, it was three in the morning. “Miss Sanderson’s being taken to a cell now, where she can get some sleep, while we question the other dancer. Why don’t you go and get some rest, too? Come back in the morning. Maybe there will be more information then.”

“I’ll stay,” Maggie said resolutely, not wanting to leave her friend.

In an even gentler voice, Officer Craig said, “I’m afraid you can’t, Miss. I must insist you leave. It’s policy—no overnight guests.”

Reluctantly, Maggie returned to the Caledonian Hotel, rows of chimneys black against the starry indigo sky. Up in her tiny room, she tugged off her coat and gloves, unpinned her hat, kicked off her shoes, then threw herself on the bed. In her mind’s eye, images spun—Estelle as the Sylph, Mildred as the witch, making her poisonous brew … Estelle’s collapse … Sarah’s face as the officer called her name … The little Jewish girl in the Berlin train station, asking for water … Gottlieb killing himself before the Gestapo could get to him … The young German train attendant, her bullet piercing his chest …

The Black Dog bared his fangs and circled.

“No!” Maggie called out aloud, knowing she sounded foolish, but well past the point of caring. “Sarah’s going to be fine. I will do everything I can to see to that, you hear me? Now, go! Off with you! That’s right, shoo!”

This time, the Black Dog backed down—and Maggie fell into a restless sleep.





Chapter Eight


It was morning, and still Clara seemed to be in a catatonic state. She’d been moved to a cage in Dr. Carroll’s office. Behind the bars, she lay on a metal bed with a thin mattress, her wrists and ankles bound with leather restraints. Her glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling.

“The emergence of the Agna Frei personality seems to have been spontaneous,” said Dr. Carroll to Peter Frain. “Frau Hess is able to slip into a spontaneous hypnotic trance that’s deep enough to allow age regression. But with hypnosis, we can also induce the emergence of Agna.”

“We’ll see,” Frain said skeptically.

Dr. Carroll sat on a chair positioned next to the bed. Frain remained in the door frame, neither in nor out of the room, hat in hand, coat over his arm. Behind him lurked the two omnipresent guards.

“I want you to close your eyes and relax,” Dr. Carroll said in a soothing voice. Clara’s eyes closed. “You are going into a deep sleep. I want you to relax the muscles in your forehead, in your cheeks, around your mouth. I want you to relax your eyes …”

On and on, Dr. Carroll spoke, until Clara’s breathing became deep and regular.

When he was finished, she woke.

She immediately began to cry. “My Oma is sick! They told me she was on holiday, but really she’s in hospital.”

“Agna?” Dr. Carroll wanted to make sure who it was.

“Yes?” The voice was thin and childish.

“How do you know your Oma is sick?”

“I heard Mutti talking to the doctor on the telephone when she thought I was outside, playing.”

“Is Mutti with you now?”

“No, I’m alone in the house.” Clara struggled against her restraints, then quieted. “I’m always alone.”

“Do you know where your mother is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know where Mutti goes.” Then, “She doesn’t love me, you know.”

“Why do you think she doesn’t love you?”

“She says I make her nervous. She doesn’t like it when I’m around.” Clara’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I try to be good,” she insisted. “I try hard. So hard.”

“You try hard, yes,” the doctor said, making notes in Clara’s chart.

“My Oma loves me, though. I can tell. She doesn’t mind my being around. Even if I spill something, or break something.”

“What does your mother do if you spill or break something?”

Clara’s gaze blurred. “I’m a doll!” she said, giggling. It was as if someone had changed the wireless station.

“You’re a doll? What kind of doll?”

“A doll—like the one my Oma made me. She’s beautiful, with a painted china face and real silk for her dress.”

“What’s her name?”

“Clara.”

The doctor looked to Frain, who gestured for him to continue. “Clara is your doll?”