The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(81)
Suddenly Hugh’s life had purpose again. He would be a spy. He would use his knowledge of the French language to help a French resistance group. La Résistance!
As Hugh finished up his training in F Section, he became restless. His fellow trainees were being sent off, parachuted God only knew where. When would it be his turn? At the pub in town, Hugh finished yet another beer as he listened to Lidell on the wireless. When the news was announced, there was stunned silence, then cheering, as people put together that the United States would finally be entering the war.
“Mr. Thompson!”
Hugh looked up from his glass. It was Philby. “Have you heard?” Hugh asked. “About Pearl Harbor?”
“Yes,” the older man said. “Walk with me.”
Hugh put a few coins on the bar and the two men made their way outside. “I wanted to speak with you. You see, I’m being reassigned. I’m leaving SOE and transferring to MI-Six,” Philby said.
“Oh.”
“But I do have a special mission in mind for you, and I wanted to speak with you about it before I go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In France, we’ve discovered that making connections with and working with Communists is our only hope of fighting Fascism. I’m not sure where you stand ideologically …”
“I hate Fascism with all my heart and soul,” Hugh vowed.
“Well, Great Britain and Russia are allies now. The bulldog stands with the bear.”
“I had a brief flirtation with Communism at university,” Hugh admitted.
“Where were you?”
“Selwyn College, for a degree in theology. But on scholarship.” He shook his head. “The class divisions were hell.”
“Ah,” Philby said, nodding. “I was at Trinity. I know exactly what you mean.”
Hugh cocked his head. “I was influenced by E. M. Forster: ‘All men are brothers. All men are equal.’ ”
“And so you’d have no issues working with French Communists?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
Philby smiled. “Excellent. Your cover is that you are the newest member of the orchestra of the Paris Opèra Ballet. You are military excused from service because of a weak heart, and will take over as one of the cellists. I was told you play the cello quite well—is that true?”
“I play, I’m not sure I’m up to that level …” Hugh was flustered.
“Well,” Philby said, “start practicing. We have several resistance contacts among the orchestra, the ballet, and the intelligentsia. They are an armed branch of French Communists, called Francs-Tireurs et Partisans—the Free Fighters and Partisans, or FTP.”
“Who will be my radio operator?”
“We’re still looking. There’s someone we have in mind, but she has more training to do before she can be considered.”
Churchill was finishing his transatlantic telephone call with President Roosevelt when David and John came in. “Yes, Mr. President—we’re all in the same boat now. Good night.” As he hung up the telephone receiver, the Prime Minister’s face broke into a beauteous smile. “Gentlemen,” he said, “pack your bags, we are going to America!”
“To Washington?” David asked, astonished. “For how long? How many staff?”
“Tell Cook to make some sandwiches and bring them up—it will be a long night. We have much to plan, much to arrange. We shall go to Downing Street first, and then I want to leave as soon as possible.” He blinked, then looked at the two men. “Have either of you ever been to America?”
David and John looked at each other. “No—no, sir,” they both said in unison.
“I need an American, or at least someone who speaks American … Look at the debacle between Popov and that Hoover chap … I’m sure it was a language mishap.”
“They do speak English, sir,” David ventured.
“Two nations divided by a single language—I shall need a translator! For language and customs! We don’t want to misstep. And I’ll need a typist.” Churchill looked thoughtful. “Where is Miss Hope these days?”
David’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Maggie Hope, sir? She’s still in Scotland, as far as I know.”
“Well, bring the girl back! I need a typist, I need a translator, and it won’t hurt to have yet another person on my staff for protection. I must have Hope. Hope shall go with us to America!”
“I shall telephone her immediately,” David said.
“Excellent,” Churchill said. “Tonight I shall sleep the sleep of the saved and thankful. Thanks to God. Good night, gentlemen.”