The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(90)

Sarah’s eyes were wide. “Look, Captain Gordon, I’m just a girl from Liverpool, with very little formal education. I don’t know much about politics or governments—or secret armies, for that matter.”

Captain Gordon stood and turned to face the window. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, glowing blood-red over the water. “Twice in your lifetime, your country has been gutted like a fish by Germany. But this war is not just one country against another—it’s the fight for freedom against the powers of darkness. You have the drive and the discipline and the strength from dance to succeed, as well as the language and geographic knowledge. Now we just need to know—do you have the stomach for it?” Sarah was silent.

He turned back to face her. “Tell you what. Come to us for a period of training.”

“Here? At Arisaig House?”

“Here, and a few other places in Scotland. Then you, I, and The Firm will know for sure if you’re right for the job. You could still leave at any time, gracefully. We only take volunteers, you know. We believe in free choice.”

He took his seat again. “Now, it would be silly to talk to you about security and what that means in this business, but for every person involved in The Firm it is as secret as can be. For God’s sake—and I never take the name of God lightly—keep it so.”

“This is what Maggie—Miss Hope—does, isn’t it?” Sarah said, realizing. “Oh my God, Maggie’s a spy!”

“You know I can’t possibly comment, Miss Sanderson.”

Sarah stood and shook his hand. “Thank you, Captain Gordon.” She walked to the door, then, merrily, called, “Au revoir,” over her shoulder.


After Sarah Sanderson had left, Captain Gordon took out a sheet of paper and studied it. It had a surprising number of personal details about Sarah Sanderson. The date and place of her birth, family tree, where she’d been educated, where she’d lived, where she’d toured with the Vic-Wells. At the top left-hand corner of the sheet was a small hieroglyph—the symbol that the integrity of the person questioned had been investigated and determined to be sound.

Captain Gordon wrote at the bottom of the typed sheet, Found Sarah Sanderson to be direct-minded & courageous. God help the Nazis if she gets near them.


Maggie and John changed trains at Glasgow, and headed south to London. The sun had set, and the blackout curtains had been pulled. They could barely make out each other’s faces by the blue bulbs. After sandwiches and coffee, they began a discussion of That Hamilton Woman. “The Boss is obsessed with it. I can’t tell you how many evenings we watched it at Chequers.”

“Well, I’ve seen it, too, of course,” Maggie said. “ ‘Has it ever occurred to you that a woman can sometimes be of more help than a man?’ Although it seems a shame that Lord Nelson had a hero’s death, while Lady Hamilton had to die alone, an alcoholic, in prison.”

“ ‘You must please excuse these souvenirs …’ ” John said, looking at her.

“ ‘I had no idea,’ ” she quoted back. “ ‘They told us of your victories, but not of the price you had paid.’ ”

They sat in silence, until John stood and switched seats so he could be next to Maggie. “Meh,” K protested, jumping up and wedging himself between them.

“We should probably get some sleep,” John said.

“Yes. We probably should.”

In the darkness, they closed their eyes, then reached for the other’s hand.


Snow was falling on the city of London, covering it in white, like a bandage, as their taxi made its way past bombed-out blocks, next to those left curiously intact. Barrage balloons still stood guard.

“Wait,” said Maggie. “I want to see how much damage there is to my house. Driver, may we please go by Portland Place?”

“Your grandmother’s house was bombed?” John asked.

Maggie nodded. “The tenants escaped, but they tell me it’s uninhabitable now. I just need to see for myself.”

When they reached Portland Place, there were already signs of damage from explosions on the street—broken windows boarded up, burned trees, craters in the street marked off with hastily built fencing.

“It’s—it’s still standing, at least,” Maggie said finally, as they reached the address. It was true: A bomb had flattened what had been the upper story of the house, leaving nothing but charred remains. The first floor was burned and the windows were cracked.

Maggie looked from the window of the taxi. “Damn,” she said, taking it in.

“Yes,” John said.