The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(75)
Bratton started to pull on his jacket. “I’ll find General Marshall, you find Admiral Stark.” He looked up at the clock with wild eyes. “We still have time.”
“Dr. McNeil?” Maggie said, pushing open the door to the veterinarian’s office.
The doctor was at his desk, his bushy white hair as wild as ever, typing up invoices with his two pointer fingers. “Who are you?”
“Maggie Hope. I adopted the cat from your office last week.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have recognized you, Doreen. You’re not half as pale and pinched as you were. But you can’t give the cat back. No matter how obnoxious he is.”
“No, no—the cat’s fine,” she said. “Dr. McNeil, I know you only work with animals—”
“Farm animals, lassie. Large brutes of the field. No dogs and no cats.”
She looked at his typing. It was riddled with errors. “What about humans? A human’s an animal. Sometimes not even as noble as animals.”
“What are you getting at, lassie?”
Maggie took off her coat and untucked her blouse, revealing the flesh just above her waist. The scar from the bullet was red and angry.
“Looks like you have an infection, there.”
“I have a bullet there,” Maggie retorted. “And it needs to come out. I’d like you to do it.”
“I don’t do cats and dogs—and I don’t do humans. Go find a people doctor—Fort William has a few. I can make a call—”
“Dr. McNeil,” Maggie interrupted, “I want it removed now. It’s been in there far too long, and now it’s time to come out. And,” she added, with a sly smile, “I’m an expert typist—even typed for Prime Minister Winston Churchill once upon a time. I’m sure I can help you with this batch of invoices. What do you say?”
The vet glared. “You drive a hard bargain, lass.”
Maggie grinned. “I do.”
“Should I even ask why you’re carryin’ around a bullet in yer middle?”
“Probably not. But let’s get it out now, shall we?”
Bratton burst into the offices of the Deputy Chief of Staff of Intelligence. “Where’s the General?” he barked.
The assistant covering the desk was freckled, slight, and fair-haired. “It’s—it’s Sunday morning, sir.”
Bratton exhaled with impatience. “I’ll need to use your phone,” he said, reaching for the receiver.
“Yes, this is Colonel Bratton,” he said. “Connect me with the Chief of Staff, General Marshall.” He began drumming on the desktop with his fingertips. “Yes, at his quarters in Fort Myer.”
There was an interminable wait while Bratton listened to the piercing ring of the telephone. He kept checking his watch. Finally, someone at Fort Myer picked up. “This is Colonel Bratton,” he repeated. “I need to speak with the General, ASAP.”
He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “What do you mean he’s not there?”
Then, “He’s out riding? Well, somebody better mount up and gallop after him!”
In the Japanese Embassy, the clicks and clacks of hunt-and-peck typing ceased. The typist, sweaty and disheveled from his efforts, burst into Ambassador Nomura’s office, where he and Special Envoy Kurusu were waiting. They, too, had been up all night, and while their posture was impeccable, there were violet circles under their eyes.
The typist bowed deeply, then said, “Here’s another part of the document, sir.” He cleared his throat. “We are instructed to deliver the fourteen-part message at exactly one P.M., sir.”
They all looked to the grandfather clock in the corner of Nomura’s office. It was already after eleven.
“One P.M.?” Nomura shouted, standing. It was the first time the usually placid man had ever raised his voice in the office, and the other men stared at him, mouths agape. “Hurry! Or else we’ll never have it ready for Secretary Hull in time!”
Kramer had reached the office of Admiral Harold Rainsford Stark, Chief of Naval Operations, out of breath, his white silk scarf undone, threatening to slip from around his neck. He handed the document to the Admiral, who looked askance at Kramer’s demeanor, his own thick white hair perfectly combed and square jaw set.
Stark left Kramer standing as he read through the document, taking his time, while sunlight through the government-issue blinds cast lines across both men’s faces. A clock ticked on the mantel. Finally, Stark looked to Kramer. “This message indicates the Japanese are going to attack.”
Relief flooded Kramer’s face. “Yes, sir.”