The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(5)

Maggie had only seen Sarah a few times since they’d parted ways in London the summer of the attempted bombing of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and missed her. If it was at all possible, she’d make it to Sarah’s performance. The trouble was the Black Dog. Would the Black Dog let her? Sometimes it was hard to know. He was always ready to strike, but would he go for her throat? She walked back to the entrance hall, Mr. Burns not far behind.

“Miss Hope?” Gwen asked from her seat at the reception desk.

Maggie blinked. “Yes, Twelve.”

“Are you—are you going to go to Edinburgh to see your friend dance in the ballet? Because that sounds so very exciting and glamorous—and, quite frankly, fun.”

Fun. What’s fun anymore? The Black Dog growled low in his throat and bared his teeth. But he didn’t strike.

“Miss Hope?” Mr. Burns said. “I’ll arrange for the time off, if you’d like to go.”

Maggie crumpled the message and threw it into the trash bin. “Thank you, but I won’t be needing it, Mr. Burns.”

She turned back to the girl. “Carry on, Twelve!”

Then she pivoted on her heel to make her way to the back garden and down to her trainees, whom she’d sent to run on the beach.

I can’t, Sarah, I just can’t do it, she thought. I’m sorry, so very sorry.

Take it up with the Black Dog.





Chapter Two


As the winter sun was rising in Arisaig, Scotland, it was setting over Kagoshima Bay in Japan—a deep inlet on the south coast of the island of Kyūshū, Japan’s southwesternmost island and the port for the city of Kagoshima. The bay was shallow and well protected, just like Pearl Harbor, which made it ideal for Admiral Yamamoto’s war games.

Isoroku Yamamoto was the newly appointed and highly decorated Admiral of the rengo kantai—the combined fleet of Japan’s Imperial Navy. He was in his midfifties, short and slim, with cropped graying hair cut so short that his skull showed white beneath the bristles. White gloves hid the loss of his two fingers at the Battle of Tsushima. The Admiral wasn’t what anyone would call handsome, but he had a certain wry charm, and when he smiled his face lit up.

Yamamoto excelled at all games of strategy, including poker, mah-jongg, and shogi—Japanese chess—and loved to gamble. He was also the man behind the questionnaire Dušan Popov’s Nazi handler wanted to take with him to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

But Yamamoto didn’t want to fight. And certainly not with the United States of America, earning him the nickname “the Reluctant Admiral.” He didn’t believe Japan should have withdrawn from the League of Nations or that Japan should have signed the Tripartite Pact with Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy.

But when the United States had placed an embargo on scrap metal shipments to Japan, closed the Panama Canal to Japanese shipping, and stopped oil and gasoline exports, relations between Japan and the U.S. grew ever more strained. Japan would have to either agree to Washington’s demands or use force to gain access to the resources it needed.

Yamamoto stood on the deck of his ship in the cold wind, his breath visible, watching the long-range fighter planes with red suns painted on their wings engage in a mock attack of the ships in port. He held binoculars and looked through, muttering, “Perfect.” As Yamamoto gazed at the Mitsubishi Zeros silhouetted against a leaden sky, the wind changed direction.

Behind him, an officer cleared his throat. “Here’s the latest intel, sir.” The young naval officer saluted, then handed him decrypts from Consul Nagai Kita in Pearl Harbor. “And Kita and Yoshikawa also sent these.”

The officer handed over a packet of postcards, which Yamamoto flipped through. Greetings from Pearl Harbor! read one. Aloha! exclaimed another. Wish you were here! Yamamoto’s lip twitched at the irony. All the postcards had glossy color photographs showing a clear aerial view of Pearl Harbor.

“I want every pilot to have one of these,” Yamamoto ordered, raising his voice to carry over the wind. “They should all have one taped to the dashboard of their planes.” He looked at the young man. “Tell Kita we’ll need more.”

The officer saluted, his cheeks flushed from the cold. “Yes, sir!”

Yamamoto looked through the binoculars again. “I wish the General Staff could see this,” he muttered.

“Sir?” The young officer hesitated, unsure whether to stay or go.

“They think that naval engagements are won by whoever has the most battleships. The war in Europe is being fought by the Luftwaffe against the RAF. Ships have nothing to do with it anymore.”

“They won’t have a chance against our pilots at Pearl Harbor, sir.”