The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(54)

Mark did as he was told.

Maggie watched as the soldiers pulled on white hoods, gas masks, gloves, and orange jumpsuits. They looked like something from H. G. Wells’s War of the Worlds, just as strange, and just as terrifying. In their protective garb, they grabbed at sheep, each carrying his to a row of pens. They looked like stockades in a line.

Then the soldiers ran to take cover. Maggie realized what was happening. “They’re setting off a bomb …” she said. “They’re seeing how far the effects will go. However many of the sheep die in the line—”

“—shows the circumference of the damage,” Mark concluded grimly.

“And we’re—”

“—downwind!”

They both scrambled and rushed down the hill to the coast.


An hour later, they climbed back up to ascertain the damage. Sheep carcasses were being pulled from the stocks and removed on stretchers by the men in gas masks. The ones still alive were released to graze, while one of the men made notes on a clipboard. “So, that’s how far the bomb carries,” Maggie whispered.

The soldiers dumped the dead sheep into what looked like an incinerator, and soon the air was filled with the putrid smell of burning wool and flesh. Maggie longed to bury her face in the grass to escape the stench, but she kept watching. Sarah’s life depended on it, she was certain.

The men washed off their gas masks, hoods, and jumpsuits in the water, then put them in a small shed. They made their way back to their boat.

“Come on!” Maggie said.

“Can’t we go back now?”

“They must keep their research notes here—they’re much safer than their offices on the shore. Come on—we’re going to have a look around.”

The sun was beginning to turn red as it dropped closer and closer to the horizon. It was increasingly cold, and the winds were picking up. “Of course we are,” Mark muttered.

On the other side of the field was a hut made from corrugated metal. “I don’t suppose you have the key?” Mark muttered. His sour mood was intensifying.

“Don’t need one,” Maggie informed him; “I’ve been taught by Glaswegian safecrackers how to unlock almost anything. This—” She looked at the three padlocks. “—is a breeze.”


It was dusk when Maggie finally got the door open.

“Finally,” Mark said.

“I said I was good. I didn’t say I was fast.”

Inside were military-issue desks and chairs, bookcases and file cabinets. Maggie switched on a light.

“Really?” Mark said, his voice rising slightly. “Really?”

“Are you worried about blackout rules here and now? There are no ARP matrons to fine you, I assure you,” Maggie said tartly. There was a safe in the corner. She went straight to it.

Mark found an apple on one of the desks and grabbed it. “Want some?” he mumbled, his mouth full.

“No thanks,” said Maggie, taking stock of the safe. She was familiar with the model, but that still didn’t mean it would be easy. She sat down in front of the metal box and patted it. “Now we’re going to have a nice little chat …” she said.

“What?” Mark asked. He was going through the researchers’ desks, finding a few sugar cubes, which he popped into his mouth. “Here!” he said, tossing one to Maggie.

She caught it with one hand, then turned back to the safe. She dropped the cube on her tongue. It was delicious. Then she shook her head. Back to the safe, Hope.

She twirled the knob back and forth, her ear pressed to the cool metal door, listening. Every tiny click and clack meant something. Finally, finally, the door swung open.

“Bingo,” Maggie breathed, taking out the papers and paging through them. There, in a manila folder, were all of the research notes on the experiments, all neatly typed, all stamped with TOP SECRET in red ink.

“Bingo?”

“It’s American for ‘We got you, you bastards.’ And now, Mr. Standish, I think it’s time to go.”





Chapter Thirteen


They dragged their boat back into the water and sailed to shore, with Maggie navigating by the stars, as she’d been taught. Once ashore, Mark asked, “Back to the train?”

Maggie looked at him, then down at herself. Their feet and legs were caked with mud, their clothes were filthy, and they had grass snarled in their hair. Mark’s cashmere coat was torn. “We’ll only draw attention on a train,” she said. “And we don’t have time to clean up. Come on.”

In the darkness, they made their way to the researchers’ parking lot. Maggie ignored the cars and went straight to one of the couriers’ motorbikes.