The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(93)

“Miss Hope, we’ve been discussing theoretical moral problems in our highest circles. Let me pose to you one of our most frequently discussed scenarios. Suppose Hitler has given orders for the Luftwaffe to obliterate a city—a city that is not London. A nonmilitary target. An undefended city of civilians. Hitler wants to demonstrate his power—that he can flatten any target he chooses in Britain and get away with it. We know of this because our cryptographers at Bletchley Park have unscrambled some of that secret Nazi code. There’s no mistake, it’s been checked and crosschecked.”

He kept the full intensity of his gaze upon her. “Now, what would you do?”

Maggie thought before replying. “Could the attack be stopped with an all-out effort by the RAF, sir?”

“Yes, of course. But there’s a catch—the Germans will know we had prior knowledge of the raid. They’ll know we broke their code. It comes down to the code, or the city.”

“Well, surely we could evacuate the children …”

“No! To do so would betray the secret. And the city would be bombed anyway and we’d still have lost the advantage of breaking the code. Think, Miss Hope! Think!”

“Just to clarify, sir, we are talking about letting innocent civilians die. Without warning.”

“Yes. Now let’s make it more complicated—because life often is. This city that will be bombed—it’s a city near Bletchley, and many of the people working at Bletchley have relocated their families there. So it’s not random and anonymous families who will die, but families of the people who broke the code in the first place.”

Maggie’s forehead creased. “There are only two possible moves, sir—either defend the city in an all-out battle, or—”

“Or what, Miss Hope?”

“Or …” Her heart sank as she realized the only other option. “… sacrifice the city and keep the secret. Lose the battle, in order to win the war.”

The Prime Minister rested his cigar in a cut-glass ashtray. “And what would you do, Miss Hope?”

“I would—” Maggie stared into the dancing flames. “But it’s—it’s an impossible choice, sir.”

“Yes, but as Prime Minister: You. Must. Decide.”

“I would sacrifice the city,” Maggie said finally. “I would sacrifice the city to win the war.”

“And now, Miss Hope, you know how impossibly hard my job is. And how impossibly hard it was, with you, in regard to your past. But we had an advantage and I pressed it. I used you to press it.”

“You used me.”

“I did. And I’m deeply remorseful, Miss Hope, for any mental anguish I’ve caused you. But you’ve furthered our cause more than you know.”

Maggie took his words in. “Thank you, sir. I accept your apology. But what about the anthrax? With all due respect, how could you possibly approve the development of such a monstrous thing, sir?”

“You yourself have used a gun, Miss Hope, have you not?”

“Yes, I have,” Maggie answered, voice steady. “I took a man’s life in Berlin. And I take full responsibility for my actions—and will until my own dying day. But biotoxins—they’re indiscriminate. They’re shameful. They’re—for want of a better word—dirty.”

“Dirty, you say? And you prefer clean weapons, like guns.”

“At least you look your enemy in the eye. And it’s better to die by gunshot than by a long, slow, festering illness.”

“You’re talking again about your friend. The one who nearly died.”

“Yes, and two women who did die. Innocent women, who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Doctors, whose edict is to ‘first, do no harm,’ are making poisons to be used as weapons. It turns civilization on its very head.”

“Do you think we are alone in our potion making? We received all of our information from France before she fell. Germany has its own wizards and warlocks, making their own bubbling cauldrons of poison. Surely we would be remiss not to act to protect ourselves against our adversaries?”

He sighed gustily. “Sometimes I miss the Battle of Britain. Everything seemed so clear back then. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Black and white. Freedom and slavery. But we’re fighting against humans who have been infected with an inhuman germ. And so we must fight. With broken bottles and pitchforks if we must. And even with mustard gas and anthrax.”

He rose and walked to a credenza arrayed with various cut-crystal bottles and glasses. “Oh, my dear Miss Hope, things are going to become much darker before the dawn.” He poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black into one of the glasses and added a tiny splash of water. “And people wonder why I drink,” he muttered.