The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(72)

Most of the men were in uniform and all the ladies were in bright-colored silk and satin gowns that glinted in the lights. Many of them had a flower, a plumeria or an orchid, in their hair. They wore the blooms Hawaiian-style—left for those taken and right for those looking. Kimmel and his wife, Dotty, found their table, and he pulled out her chair as she sat down. He took his seat.

“Those B-17s are coming in from California tomorrow, Admiral,” one of the young men in a naval uniform already seated at the table said.

Dotty smiled. “Now, Captain—can’t we have at least one night off from military talk?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Kimmel,” the young man said, offering his hand as the band segued into “Stardust.” “Would you care to dance?”

“Why, thank you, I would love to dance,” she replied, with a significant look in her husband’s direction. Kimmel grimaced and motioned to one of the waiters with a silver tray of drinks.

As they left for the dance floor, another sailor, a private, leaned in to speak with Kimmel. “They’ve arranged for Honolulu air to stay on all night, so that the signal can guide them in, sir.” He had carrot-colored hair and a galaxy of freckles across his nose.

Kimmel laughed, accepting a Mai Tai garnished with a slice of pineapple and a maraschino cherry from a waiter’s silver tray. “I hope they like the ukulele—only music the damn station ever plays!”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be manning the Opana radar site tomorrow, sir.”

“What time does your shift start?”

“Oh-four-hundred, sir.”

Kimmel quirked a bushy white eyebrow. “Then shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Yes, sir!” he said, jumping to his feet and saluting. “Thank you, sir!”

Kimmel smiled. “What’s your name, son?”

“Private Daniel Mathis, sir!” he said, saluting again from sheer nerves.

“Well, Private Mathis—I wouldn’t say anything to your commanding officer if you had another drink before you left. Or a dance with a pretty girl.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Kimmel winked and downed his Mai Tai, motioning over the waiter for another. “It’s not as if it’s the end of the world.”


Maggie went to the main house first, for any messages and her schedule. “Here you go, Miss Hope,” Gwen Glyn-Jones said, handing her yet more messages from David.

“Thank you—” Maggie almost called her Twelve. “—Miss Glyn-Jones.”

“You know my name!” the girl cried. She smiled, a warm, wide smile.

“Of course I know your name,” Maggie said, feeling slightly ashamed of how she’d treated the trainees. “And I know I was a bit tough on you. But you’re going to face …” Maggie had no idea what Gwen would face, where she would be sent, what she’d be up against—but she knew it wouldn’t be easy.

“I just want you to survive,” Maggie finished. “When this is all over, I’d like to know you’ve come back to Blighty in one piece. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Miss Hope,” the girl said shyly.

Mr. Burns entered. “How’s your friend feeling? It’s Miss Sanderson, isn’t it?”

“She’s feeling a bit stronger this morning, thank you, Mr. Burns. By the way, I recently learned that not only does Sarah Sanderson have a beautiful French accent, but she’s well acquainted with Paris—spent several summers there. She’s recovering from an illness, but she’s a trained dancer. She’s strong and flexible.”

“Really?” Mr. Burns said. “Do you think she’d like to interview for The Firm?”

“I think she would. Can we set it up?”

“Of course. If she’s a dancer, she’ll do well with the physical requirements. Not like—” He looked askance at Maggie. “—some people. And how was Edinburgh? You look better.”

“I feel better, thank you.”

“You were gone a bit longer than expected.”

“An old friend at MI-Five needed some help.”

“Glad we could lend you to them, then. But also glad you’re back.”

Satoshi Nagoka entered the room and went to his mail slot, picking up files, memos, and a few airmail letters with American stamps. “Thank you, Miss Hope, for teaching my class.”

“Sorry?”

Then she remembered. The jujitsu class she’d taught before she’d left. How long ago it all seemed … “You’re American,” she realized, putting together the accent and the stamps. “I didn’t know that. I’m from Boston,” she said, holding out her hand.