The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(63)

She took one of the freshly sharpened pencils and began. The more she read, the more engrossed she became. It was Kita’s message to Admiral Yamamoto explaining Otto Kuhn’s signals for last-minute information to be communicated to ships offshore—by lights lit at certain times in certain windows, code hidden in newspaper advertisements and radio spots, and even burning garbage for smoke signals.

Dorothy was new to Washington, and she was brand-new in the Intelligence department. Still, she knew that something was wrong, and she sensed that this particular decrypt was of paramount importance. The Japanese had plans for the military base at Pearl Harbor—and the U.S. fleet was in jeopardy.

She showed her translation of the decrypt to Chief Bryant, her supervisor. “It’s interesting, to be sure, Mrs. Edgars,” he murmured, glancing at his watch. It was Friday, and he was eager to start his weekend. “But surely it will keep until Monday.”

Dorothy bit the inside of her lip in frustration. “I’ll keep working on the translation, sir,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He waved her off. “Would you mind getting me a cup of coffee first? Milk, no sugar.”

But back at her desk in the deserted office, Dorothy continued the translation, hoping that when Lieutenant Kramer arrived, he, at least, would see its importance.

She finished the final lines: If the above signals and wireless messages cannot be made from Oahu, then on Maui Island, six miles to the northward of Kula Sanatorium … at a point halfway between Lower Kula Road and Halakala Road (latitude 20°40′ N, longitude 156°19′ W, visible from seaward to the southeast and southwest of Maui Island), the following signal bonfires will be made daily until your EXEX signal is received: from 7 to 8, Signal 3 or 6, from 8 until 9, Signal 4 or 7, from 9 to 10, Signal 5 or 8.

“Oh my stars,” she whispered, reading the translation again. “Oh! Oh my stars!”

She waited, heart thumping, pencil tapping, until Kramer arrived. “Look, sir!” she exclaimed, jumping up even before he entered the room.

“Mrs. Edgars, please allow me to take off my coat and hat before you start badgering me,” Kramer snapped, not happy to be working the weekend shift, especially after Bratton’s false attack alarm of the previous weekend.

When he’d settled in at his desk, she walked to his open office door and knocked. “Please, sir,” she said, holding out her translation of the decrypt. “Read this. I think it might be important.”

Kramer looked cross as he took the papers. “I don’t know why you’re staying after hours to work on something that isn’t even in your jurisdiction.”

He picked up a pen and began to edit her copy. “You need to make your translations sound more professional, Mrs. Edgars.”

After working at it a few minutes, he said, “Why don’t you run along now, Mrs. Edgars. Although you’ve made a brave attempt at a translation, it still needs a lot of work. I’ll have to finish the editing properly myself next week.”

“But, sir—”

“Go home, Mrs. Edgars,” Kramer insisted. “Your shift is over, and your husband is probably already there, waiting for his dinner. We’ll get back to it on Monday.”


Dr. Carroll knew he didn’t have long if he wanted to solve the mystery of Clara Hess. “Tell me about the first time you revealed yourself to Dr. Teufel.”

Clara smirked. “I thought he was going to piss his pants. He was trying to get her to change her name—he wanted her to have a spy name. So she told him about me—and how I was her doll when she was little, how I was her friend, how she thought I was alive. She was convinced I would talk to her. And of course I did!”

“Then what happened?”

“He gave her an IV drip—and she began to get a horrible stomachache.”

“Do you know what was in the drip?”

Clara shook her head.

“Can you see the writing on the bag?”

She squinted. “S-sodium amatol,” she said, as if reading.

Sodium amatol was a barbiturate that induced trance-like states. “And then?”

“And then she was I—I was she. I was in control of the body. I had the power.”

“And what did you do?”

“I grabbed Dr. Teufel’s arm. I said, ‘It is I!’ The idiot—he actually had to say, ‘Who?’ And I replied, ‘Clara Schwartz!’ ”

“What did he do?”

“You should have seen his face!”

“What was it like?”

“Afraid. Very afraid.”

“And after that, what did he do to get you to come out?”