The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(69)

“Well, where the hell is he? I need to get this to him!” It was late, and Kramer was cold and tired.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

At General Marshall’s, the butler checked his watch. “It’s after ten, sir, and General Marshall always retires early.”

By now, Kramer was apoplectic. “Get me his private secretary!” he bellowed.

The butler was unruffled. “Yes, sir.”

An assistant came and looked over the document. “I don’t want to disturb the General for something that’s incomplete, sir,” the young man said, handing it back. “Let me know when the final part is in, and I’ll give it to him then.”

At Secretary Knox’s residence, the windows were dark and no one answered the door. Kramer had his wife drive him to the nearest phone booth, where he fumbled for change and cursed at his cold, stiff fingers as he struggled with the dial. At the Secretary of the Navy’s residence, the telephone rang and rang.

Cursing, Kramer hung up.





Chapter Seventeen


The next day, Maggie and Sarah took the train from Edinburgh to Glasgow, changing trains at Queen Street Station under the great glass ceiling, pigeons pecking on the platform. Maggie had arranged for their things to be sent. Sarah leaned on a walking stick.

On the train from Glasgow to Fort William and then Arisaig, both young women were silent, watching the scenery as it passed. Fields neatly arranged and dotted with white farmhouses. Swiftly running streams and low fences. Telephone lines black against sky as blue as the Scottish flag.

Scotland’s history flashed before them, the snowy mountains, created by ancient volcanoes and cut by primeval glaciers, the ruins of pagan stone circles, towns and lonely church spires, ancient graveyards set back on the curve of hills.

As they wended higher into the mountains, Maggie looked over at Sarah. “How are you doing?”

“My feet are freezing.”

“It’s not too much longer.”

“I look at this and think of it being invaded.”

“I know.”

“Can you imagine this as Nazi territory?” Sarah asked, gesturing to the landscape out the window. “Since France was invaded, I haven’t been able to banish the image from my mind. And now, my grandmother …” Her face clouded, but she didn’t cry. Maggie took her hand.

She thought about the deadly anthrax Britain was developing. Would it keep the Nazis from invading? If anthrax was right to use as defense, what about offense? Was it being developed to be dusted over cities, cities with civilians?

At the highest elevation, the train pierced through clouds, the ground covered in snow, the evergreens becoming more sparse. Finally, after a stop at Fort William, the train pulled into the Beasdale station, where Mr. Burns was waiting to meet them and drive them back to Arisaig House. There was the sharp blow of a whistle, the scents of wood smoke and pine, and the tang of the sea. The tall pine trees were dusted with snow.

“Welcome, Miss Sanderson,” Mr. Burns said, pipe clenched between his teeth. “I hear you’ll be staying with us for a time.”

“Yes, thank you, I do appreciate it.”

“You must sign the Official Secrets Act.”

“I have already.”

His bushy eyebrows raised. “You have?”

“Yes, in July 1940. It should be on record.” Sarah shot Maggie a look. “So, what exactly do you do for the war effort, Maggie?”

Maggie gave a sly grin. “Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that.”

“Your cat missed you,” Mr. Burns remarked as they climbed into his jeep. “And he was quite vocal about it. Mr. Fraser was not pleased. Neither was Riska.”


It was cold and damp, the omnipresent damp that seeped into bones. The kind of cold only a hot bath and hours by the fire would dispel.

And so once they were back in her little apartment, Maggie lit a fire and ran Sarah a bath. While Sarah was in the W.C., she went through the icebox. Arisaig House’s cook, Mrs. MacLean, had left a pot of stew that Maggie put on the stove to reheat. The aroma of the rich stew filled the room as the flickering fire warmed it.

However, K was nowhere to be found.

“K? K?” Maggie called. “Mr. K?”

She found him on her bed. He gazed at her, rose, stretched, and began to speak. If it had been English, it would have been profanity of the worst sort. “Meeeeeeeeeeh!” he chided. “Meh! Meh! Meeeeeeeeh!” And then turned his back on her, wrapping his tail around his body.

“I think you’re in a bit of hot water there, Maggie,” Sarah said, fresh from the bath, wearing one of Maggie’s flannel dressing gowns, her hair in a towel. “He seems a bit put out.”