“Who is she?”
Clara stared at Dr. Carroll. “She’s a weak, pathetic little girl—that’s who she is.”
“And you—are you strong?”
“Of course I am. I’m a survivor. I’m the one who survived.”
“Survived what?”
“Survived who,” Clara corrected. “My mother, of course. And Agna was weak. I had to step in.”
“And she let you?”
“I told you—she’s weak. And when bad things happen, I step in.”
“How do you ‘step in’?”
“She gets a stomachache—terrible stomach pains.”
“Do you feel bad about her pain?”
“No, why should I?”
“Do you like Agna?”
“Not particularly. But she serves a purpose.”
“And what’s that?”
“I get to come out sometimes.” She curled a strand of hair around a finger. “I’m stuck with her, I suppose.”
“What do you do when she’s here?”
“It’s boring,” Clara Schwartz said. “Dark. I don’t like it.”
“Do you think it’s right for you to take over her body the way you do?”
An eye roll. “She needs me. When she’s weak, she needs me to step in. She wouldn’t have survived without me.”
“Is Agna ever strong?”
“No, that’s what I keep trying to tell you—that’s why I’m here. With me, there’s no tears, no whining, no hiding. No backing down.”
“Do you ever cry?”
“Never.”
“But Agna cried when you weren’t around?”
Again, Clara looked out the window. The view was of the White Tower. “She was weak. She was lonely. She was pathetic. She wanted”—Clara Schwartz’s eyes drifted to Dr. Carroll’s—“love.” She spat out the word with contempt.
“And what do you want?”
Clara stared at him as if he were dim-witted. “To survive, of course.
“I must survive.”
David Greene, sheaf of papers in hand, went to find the Prime Minister. It was just before cocktail hour at Chequers, and the P.M. had typists taking dictation and private secretaries drafting speeches, as he paced the floors like a mighty lion, mind bursting with ideas, impatient and prone to the occasional roar.
Tonight, however, Winston Churchill was uncharacteristically subdued. There were violet shadows under his eyes. He was in the wood-paneled Hawtree Room, sitting in a leather armchair pulled up to the fireplace, the only warm place in the big, drafty room. Nelson, the cat, was in his lap and he was stroking him, watching the orange-blue flames dance behind the andirons.
“Prime Minister?” David murmured, not wishing to disturb the older man’s reverie, but knowing the papers must be delivered. “Sir?”
Churchill started, then looked up in irritation. “What? What do you have there, Mr. Greene?”
“A number of things, sir. Would you like me to leave them with you—?”
“Read them!”
David cleared his throat. “A decrypt from Bletchley regarding Rommel and the Afrika Corps.”
“I’ll look at it later. What else?”
“Our navy has spotted five Japanese troop transports with naval escort off China’s coast, near Formosa, heading south.”
“Interesting. Send to President Roosevelt. What news of Popov, our playboy spy? The information he had on the Japs making a grid of Pearl Harbor?”
“Popov went to Washington and met with J. Edgar Hoover, sir. But he reports back that Hoover was unimpressed and nearly had him thrown out of the country.”
Churchill nodded, then motioned for David to continue. “Burns at SOE reports Operation Anthropod is proceeding. Jozef Gabčík and his new partner, Jan Kubiš, are working well together.” Operation Anthropod was the code name for the planned assassination of SS-Obergruppenführer and General der Polizei Reinhard Heydrich. “They’re still working on getting Kubiš’s identity papers in order.”
“Well, tell them to get a move on with the papers! When do they think they’ll be ready to go?”
“Plans are to get them to Prague between Christmas and the New Year, sir.”
“Where are they training now?”
“In Arisaig, sir. The same place Maggie Hope is working. And speaking of Miss Hope, sir,” David continued, “there’s also an update from Frain at MI-Five about Hess.”
“Our caged bird,” the P.M. said, nodding. He cocked an eyebrow. “Is she singing yet? Or is she still trying to negotiate peace?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Hess refuses to speak with anyone but Maggie, and Maggie refuses to meet with her.”