Chapter Thirteen

Colonel Henrik Martens, Prime Minister Churchill’s newly named Master of Deception, whistled “In the Hall of the Mountain King” as he pored over files of top-secret documents. The door to his tiny office in the underground Cabinet War Rooms was cracked open.

George Rance, a former Army sergeant and head of the War Rooms, popped his head in. He had receding hair and prominent cheekbones, and his polka-dotted tie was in a perfect Windsor knot. “You must not whistle, Colonel Martens! The P.M. loathes it—and has absolutely forbidden it!”

The colonel grinned. “If I’m to work as a troglodyte, I must have a proper song for it, Mr. Rance.”

“No whistling. If you please. Sir!” The older man closed the door firmly.

Martens’s office was cramped, the white walls smoke-stained, the low ceiling bristling with red-painted pipes, and a military-issue clock on one wall. The tall Welshman had folded himself behind his military-issue desk, lit by a green banker’s lamp. The metal briefcase with the attached handcuffs was at his feet. A fan recycled the stale air.

Martens had requested all the relevant files transferred to his new office, and the space was stuffed with boxes of them, piled high on shelves, a metal bookcase, even in stacks on the floor. He was starting by going over all the back traffic from the agents abroad.

His first shock had come when he read a situation report on the Free French, stamped in red ink: FOR MOST LIMITED DISTRIBUTION ONLY. As he read over file after file, it became clear to him that Charles de Gaulle and the Free French were at odds with SOE—the two organizations were too busy belittling each other’s achievements to learn from each other’s mistakes in the field, let alone share crucial information.

Then there were the memos from MI-6. Everyone in the intelligence agency—from Sir Stewart Menzies, signature invariably “C” in green ink, on down—distrusted SOE. They loathed the start-up organization, considered them bumbling amateurs, called them “gung-ho incompetents” and the “Boys of Baker Street.” In fact, one memo from MI-6 read: It is a fact universally known that if you want to disseminate information widely, there are three sure methods of communication: telephone, telegraph, and tell SOE.

Martens read over SOE’s F-Section correspondence, noticing messages from the Rouen area flagged for lack of security checks. He was especially puzzled by the radio traffic of an agent named Erica Calvert. After a certain date, Calvert’s messages had been stamped in red ink: SECURITY CHECK MISSING.

Scowling, Martens combed through Calvert’s decrypts. Something else was wrong. Very wrong. At some point after the new year, Erica Calvert’s went from the normal mistakes one would expect from an agent in the field, coding under duress, to absolutely error-free. And yet she consistently omitted her security checks, even after being reminded on multiple occasions.

Martens pushed back his chair and stood, banging his head on one of the low-hanging pipes. “What the bloody hell’s going on here?” he muttered. There were two people he needed to speak with: Colonel Harry Gaskell, head of SOE’s F-Section, and Colonel George Bishop, head of MI-6’s French Intelligence Department. And Martens could tell from the interdepartmental memos—both what was said and unsaid—that the men loathed each other.

Maggie was nervous, worrying her gloves in her hands. One of the nuns entered silently and put a wooden tray down in front of her with not only tea but beetroot sugar and goat’s milk, as well as a ceramic plate with a slab of bread spread with butter and topped with a thick slice of smoked ham. When the nun left, Maggie poured the steaming, fragrant tea into a cup, then took a huge bite of the bread and ham.

Maggie had planned it so many times, her reunion with Elise. She’d played out so many different scenarios—in Paris, in Lisbon, in London. However, never once had she foreseen meeting her sister while she was chomping on a thick slice of ham and a particularly crusty piece of baguette.

And so, when Elise appeared, Maggie was unable to speak—at least not until she could swallow. She raised one palm in greeting.

Elise nodded, unsmiling.

Maggie took a gulp of tea and nearly choked. Finally, she managed, “Bonjour!” It came out far too cheery—embarrassingly chirpy. She felt herself blush as she swiped at her lips with a linen napkin, then rose, juggling her teacup awkwardly. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said finally.

Elise sat across from Maggie. “You’ve come a long way to find me.”

“You don’t know the half of it!” Her words felt flat.

“No, I don’t. And I may not want to.”

“Touché.”

Elise folded her hands in her lap and gazed steadily at Maggie. “You don’t know me. You may think you do, but you don’t.”

“No,” Maggie agreed. “No, I don’t know you. But I’d like the opportunity to get to know you. If you’ll let me.”

There was a thick silence.

“I always wanted a sister.” Maggie’s words tumbled over themselves in her hurry to get them out. “When I was little I had an imaginary friend, a sister. Called Sister. Yes, I know—a bit redundant.” She grimaced, but persisted. “Like you, I grew up as an only child. A ‘lone child’—alone—I used to say. So I always had a fantasy of having a sister, even after I outgrew my imaginary friend. I always thought we’d play checkers and chess together and fight and make up and hug each other during thunderstorms. I’d be Jo and you’d be Beth—”

Elise looked confused.

“Little Women? Louisa May Alcott? Well, never mind, she’s an American author. Of course I always wondered what it was like to have a mother, too.”

Elise raised her eyebrows. “With ours, you didn’t miss much. Diva would be an understatement. Narcissus was nothing compared to our mother. She died, you know. I mean, you must have heard.”

Maggie gave Elise a sharp look. “Actually, I heard they faked her death in Germany. And that she’s in some sort of internment camp in Britain now. But I truly don’t know.”

If Maggie’s words about their mother surprised her in any way, Elise didn’t betray it. “In Germany, they are saying she’s dead. That she died a martyr to the cause. A Nazi hero. That’s the reason I was temporarily released from the camp—to go to her memorial service in Berlin.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the news. Look—” Maggie leaned forward. “You’re right. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. And what you saw of me in Berlin wasn’t my best. Although I will still defend my actions. However, if it makes you feel any better, I think of that boy, and his family, every day.”

Maggie looked down at the low table with its tray of food. “Look at the beetroot sugar—beautiful, right? I hate beets. But I love chocolate and anything with chocolate, especially a chocolate cake my Aunt Edith used to make—well, buy and then try to pass off as her own. But still, she tried. And it was my favorite.

“And I love math, love it—love it obsessively. But I’m terrible at art—can’t even draw a stick figure. And I was awful, tragically awful at sports, until, well…until this war gave me some pretty good incentives to improve.” Maggie snorted as she remembered her original failures. “The first time I went to training camp, I washed out.”

“Really?” Elise said. In Berlin, almost a year ago, she’d seen Maggie take down a German soldier.

“Really. I was awful.”

“What happened?”

“I worked hard to catch up and then tried all over again. Made it through the second time. I fell in love, once—with John, you remember him. And I ruined that, too. He broke my heart, and I, well, maybe I broke his a bit. And then I really liked someone, and botched that up, as well. And then—” She laughed with practiced self-deprecation. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sorry to hear about John. I really liked him. Thought you two would be married by now, actually. Maybe a niece or nephew on the way.”

I rather thought so, too. “Wartime isn’t exactly conducive to happily ever after.”

“True. But maybe someday?”

Maggie changed the subject. “How about you? Are you a nun now?”

“A novice—an apprentice nun.”

“Do you think you’ll take the vows?”

“I love God—I just have problems with promising lifelong poverty, obedience, and chastity.” The hint of a smile tugged at Elise’s lips. “Especially chastity. And really, obedience, too—when you get down to it.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Maggie pictured Elise’s escape from SOE and her desperate dash into hiding. “I’d have a lot of trouble with obedience myself.”

“I can see that.” Elise continued, “You love math? Well, for me it was science. I used to take a straight razor to my dolls and rip them open—no, not like that!” she said, seeing Maggie’s expression. “I not only always saved their lives but stitched them up, and gave them milk and cookies after. I wanted to be a doctor—”

“Before wanting to be a nun?”

“I thought I could do both.”

“Doctor Sister?” Maggie smiled.

“Sister Doctor!” Elise smiled, too. “But then the war broke out and nurses were needed…I like chocolate cake, too, and sweets and ice cream—really, there isn’t anything I don’t like to eat, as my—our—mother often lamented. She wanted me to wear couture, like her, but I had too many curves.”

Elise laughed softly, looking down at her thin frame. “Well, that’s not a problem now. And I play the piano—but you know that.”

“I play the viola!”

“We could perform quite the duet.”

“I’d like that.”

“How did you get here? To France?”

“By plane. SOE. The same organization that got you out of Berlin. Or tried to.”

Elise shook her head. “I didn’t want to be taken out of Berlin, to be ‘saved.’ I know you meant well and I apologize for running—”

“Please don’t.”

“But how did you manage it? Another mission?”

“I called in a favor.”

“He must be someone quite important.”

Maggie remembered Queen Elizabeth, waving her off at the airport. “She, actually….At any rate, I’d like to bring you back to England with me, when I go back. I have a house. And I have a cat, a tabby named Mr. K, who really has me. And my friend Chuck—Charlotte—and her baby are living with me while her husband’s serving in the Middle East. It’s quite nice, really.”

“And what if I don’t want to go back to England?”

“Then I will respect your decision,” Maggie promised sincerely. “It seems nice here, removed from the insanity of Paris. You’re interested in being a nun—this way you can see that sort of life up close, and make an informed decision. And Mère St. Antoine says you’re working in an infirmary?”

“Yes.” Elise nodded. “With mentally ill women.”

“So you can practice medicine as well. Doctor Sister.”

“Or Sister Doctor.” Elise bit her lip, as if deciding how much she could trust Maggie. “Would you like to see our grounds?”

“I’d love to.”

Henrik Martens arrived seventeen minutes early for his meeting with Colonel Gaskell at SOE offices. He was surprised to see the colonel emerge from the building wearing a light coat. “Let’s take a walk,” Gaskell said by way of explanation. “Jolly good day to get some fresh air.”

The two men made their way up Baker Street to Regent’s Park, passing John Nash’s elegant white terrace houses, crossing the Outer Circle, and heading over gravel paths through lush green grass toward Boating Lake. All of the metal gates and fences had been removed—to be melted down for munitions—but the park had sustained little bomb damage and retained its beauty. They reached the “lake,” which was more of a pond, filled with paddling ducks, two black swans, and a long-legged gray heron, posing on a fallen tree trunk. The paths were full of men and women in uniform; children played tag in a grove of trees.

“Stop here?” Gaskell suggested as they approached a wooden bench.

“Of course.”

Gaskell caught sight of movement overhead. “Ah, a cuckoo. Most unusual. I’m a bird-watcher, you know. Wish I had my notebook with me.”

The men sat in silence, the wind ruffling the dark waters under an opalescent sky. Gaskell took a bag of breadcrumbs from his coat pocket. Within moments, they were encircled by sleek ducks, flapping and greedily squabbling for their share.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you, Colonel,” Martens began. “The thing is—” He was unsure of how to begin. What he was about to say could be considered an enormous criticism of F-Section. “One of the first things I did when I got this job was read through all the SOE agents’ back traffic.”

Gaskell continued to throw crumbs to the noisy birds.

“On some of the decrypts, the security checks were consistently missing. They were stamped as such by Station 53a, but no one at Baker Street ever followed up.”

“What’s your point?” Gaskell asked.

“Well, I’m asking you why. Why has no one followed up on the lack of security checks? Beyond reminders to remember for the next transmission—which also, invariably, was missing a security check.”

“I want you to know,” Gaskell said, his eyes not leaving the birds, “not only do we know all about this situation with the security checks but we’re on top of it. And there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, old thing.”

A man in a bowler hat limped by, his glossy ebony walking stick, patterned with golden feathers, striking the gravel at regular intervals.

After he was out of earshot, Martens began again. “I don’t see how you can say that, sir. Enlighten me—please.”

“These agents—they operate under unimaginable stress. They don’t have time to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.”

“I was an undercover agent myself, sir. In Norway. My colleagues and I all found the time to include our checks, even in the midst of the most dire operating conditions.”

Gaskell was silent. He had run out of crumbs to throw to the ducks. Disappointed, they waddled off.

Martens pressed on. “There’s something else, too. There’s a certain agent, an Erica Calvert, in F-Section. I read all of her messages. Her coding was riddled with errors for a while, then, suddenly, became perfect—absolutely flawless. No agent in the history of SOE has ever sent such error-free messages. And yet, none of those messages have their security checks in place.”

“Women—” Gaskell waved a gloved hand. “They don’t always remember things the way we do. Their brains aren’t equipped to—”

“Colonel,” Martens interrupted impatiently. “I believe it’s not a question of if a French Section agent is operating under duress, but how many.”

Gaskell crumpled up the paper bag and slipped it back in his pocket. “You’re going to have to trust me. Everything is under control.”

“I can’t recommend any more agents being sent to France, parachuting to their unknown fate, if this situation isn’t addressed.” Martens’s voice became sharp. “We need to investigate what exactly is going on with the messages coming from France lacking security checks.”

“And as I have already told you, our agents are fine.”

“I read a particularly strongly worded memo on the direness of the situation by an agent from your office named Margaret Hope. Who is she?”

Gaskell rolled his eyes. “I haven’t the foggiest idea, old chum.”

“Really?” Martens had done his homework. “She worked for the P.M.? Went undercover on a mission to Berlin? Trained agents in Arisaig? Worked for your office for a few months last winter?”

“Oh, her.” Gaskell didn’t bother to hide his disdain. “She was just a receptionist.”

“I’ve read Hope’s file. She’s not ‘just a receptionist.’ ”

Gaskell stood, brushing crumbs from his coat. “You’d best leave well enough alone, Colonel Martens.”

Martens stood, too, blocking the shorter man. “Do you mean ‘leave sick enough alone’?” the Welshman asked. “SOE is sick—and no one’s paying attention. If the infection is not checked, it could poison the entire organization.”

Gaskell drew himself up to his full height, still many inches smaller than Martens. “Under no circumstances are you to discuss this matter with anyone else in SOE. If you have any further questions, Colonel, come directly to me. That’s an order.”

Martens barked a laugh of astonishment at Gaskell’s nerve. “You can’t give me orders, Colonel. I don’t report to you. I work for the Prime Minister.”

As Gaskell turned and walked away, Martens called after him, “And remember—so do you!”

Elise led Maggie to the convent’s herb gardens, where they silently walked the paths under leaden skies.

“There’s a man,” Elise began in a low voice, after a time. “He’s one of yours, a Royal Air Force pilot, like John. He had to bail out of his plane flying back from a mission. Not only is he in danger here, but he desperately needs medicine. Actually, he needs a hospital and a surgeon. His wounds are beyond my skills.”

Maggie nodded, thinking back to the reward poster in the train station. “It’s a risky situation. Do you know the Nazis are now offering ten thousand francs to anyone who can inform them of hidden British airmen?”

“No. We’re quite isolated here. But it doesn’t surprise me.” Elise’s voice was grim.

Maggie stopped and reached out to touch the novice’s arm. “The penalty for hiding an English soldier is death. What you’re all doing is unspeakably dangerous.”

“Well…” Elise responded with a wry smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time for that, now, would it?”

She and Maggie stared at each other. And then they began to laugh. Not demure, ladylike laughs, but real chortles, building into loud guffaws. When they had recovered, with a few snorts and hiccups, they looked at each other, intensely serious again.

“Well, I guess we really are sisters,” Elise said.

“I hope so,” Maggie agreed lightly.

They continued to walk. Elise glanced at Maggie from under her lashes. “Can you help get this pilot out? Get him to London? Where he’ll receive proper medical care?”

“Yes, of course,” Maggie answered without hesitation, even as she wondered how in heaven’s name she could pull it off. “We’ll do everything we can for him. Is he here? At the convent?”

Elise bit her lip. “I’d rather not say.”

Maggie nodded. “I understand. We always use the light of the full moon, so the next pickup will be approximately…” She counted off the days in her head. “Six days from now.”

She looked to Elise. This was the moment. Would her sister agree to return to London with her? “Should I ask for a pickup for just the pilot? Or would you—?”

“May I think about it?”

“Of course.” Inside, Maggie was overjoyed by even the chance of having her sister come with her. But she knew better than to reveal it. “How can we stay in touch? Is there a telephone here?”

“There’s one phone,” Elise replied. “It’s for emergencies.”

“I’d say this qualifies. When I call, I’ll use the name Paige Kelly.”

“That’s not a very French name!”

“No, it’s Irish…a long story—I’ll tell you all about it on the plane ride home.” Then Maggie remembered herself. “If your pilot’s as bad off as you say, I’d better get going.”

Elise scuffed one boot in the gravel of the path. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two women did not embrace. After a long moment, Maggie turned to go.