Chapter Twenty-one

Dawn was breaking at RAF Tangmere, the sun turning the high, silvery clouds pink. From the cockpit window, Maggie could see two men in dark suits and two Coldstream Guards. She stepped past Gus with a “sorry” and ran for the door. Together, she and Sarah managed to open it.

“Here!” Maggie yelled. “We have an injured man in the cockpit!” As soon as the gangplank was extended, the guards boarded the plane. She watched them place Gus on the stretcher and carry him out. As Sarah stood over Jacques with the wrench, Maggie called out the Hudson’s door to the other two men in dark suits. “And we have a prisoner.”

She led Jacques out, his hands still tied behind his back. Sarah followed, holding the dance bag in both arms.

England, Maggie thought as she made her way down the plane’s narrow stairs, greedily breathing in the sweet morning air. Home. She felt dizzy with a heady mix of joy, sorrow, anger, and relief.

She watched anxiously as the guards lifted Gus’s stretcher into a waiting Range Rover. She owed it to him, and to Elise, and to Mère St. Antoine, to make sure everything was done for the injured pilot. “We’ll take good care of him, miss,” one of the men assured her. It was wonderful to hear people speaking English.

The two men in suits, Bishop and Martens, stared at Jacques, his face angry and defiant. “Raoul, I presume. I’m Colonel Bishop, head of MI-6’s French Intelligence Department. This is Colonel Henrik Martens. And you must be Jacques Lebeau, real name Jean-George Dubois. Tell me, what did the Nazis call you?”

Jacques stuck out his chin. “Gibbon.” His hair was matted with blood.

“Care to explain why an SOE agent would be consorting with the Sicherheitsdienst?” Martens asked the Frenchman.

“Sir, it’s a misunderstanding—”

“No, it’s not. He’s a double agent,” Maggie clarified. “He’s been working with von Waltz and the Sicherheitsdienst—photographing agents’ mail, compromising our communications. He betrayed Hugh and Sarah and me to the Nazis by letting us think Bar Lorraine was safe.” Then, to Jacques, “You’re the lowest of the low—a double agent. A traitor. God help you.” She had to look away—the sight of him was too much to bear.

“Take him in the Range Rover. We’ll question him later.” Bishop gave a signal to the soldiers, who herded Jacques into the vehicle and drove off.

Colonel Martens scratched his head. “If Raoul was tied up, who landed the plane?”

“Maggie did,” Sarah answered.

“Gus and I did it together.”

Martens raised an eyebrow, then extended a hand. “You’re Miss Hope? I’ve been eager to meet you.” As they shook hands, Maggie realized how cold hers were. She felt chilled to the very bone.

Martens seemed to read her mind. “Here,” he said, taking off his coat and wrapping her in it. Bishop did the same for Sarah.

“Oh, dear,” Maggie said, remembering her abrupt departure to France. “You haven’t been talking to Miss Lynd, have you? Whatever she’s told you, don’t believe her.” She looked around. “She usually attends both the departures and the arrivals—where is she?”

Bishop ignored her question. “Where is Mr. Thompson?”

“Dead,” Sarah whispered.

Martens removed his trilby. His lips tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing.

“Were you able to complete your mission?” Bishop asked. Sarah shook her head mutely, and he scowled before turning to Maggie.

“Agent Calvert?”

“Also dead,” Maggie admitted quietly. “But we did get her bag.” She motioned to Sarah, who was cradling it in her arms like an infant.

“Sir, we—”

“Not here.” Bishop held up a peremptory hand. “Colonel Martens and I will be handling your debrief at the house. Tell us everything then.”

Maggie turned away, looking up at the rising sun and gold-tinged clouds, momentarily overwhelmed. Another mackerel sky, she thought.

“You’re between worlds,” Martens told her gently, once again uncannily seeming to read her thoughts. “It’s hard to get used to, I know. Only a few people understand.”

“And you’re one of them.” Maggie realized this was his way of telling her that he, too, had been on missions abroad. “What is it that you do again, Colonel Martens?”

“The Prime Minister recently appointed me ‘Minister of Disinformation.’ ”

Maggie made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “That sounds like Mr. Churchill.”

“You worked for the P.M., didn’t you? As a secretary?”

“Yes, a long time ago.” Maggie looked to Sarah, standing alone, lips pressed together so hard they looked white, and realized this was only the beginning of grief for her friend.

Bishop put a hand on her shoulder. “Miss Sanderson. I believe you have something for us.”

For a moment, it looked as if Sarah was going to refuse to hand the bag over, then, without speaking, she thrust it toward him.

Bishop accepted it, bowing his head in acknowledgment of its cost. “Thank you, Miss Sanderson. And please let me thank you on behalf of a grateful nation, although one who will never know all the sacrifices you—and Mr. Thompson—made.”

Martens cut through the heavy silence. “Right then—let’s get you two ladies back to the house. You can freshen up and have some breakfast. And then, when you’re ready, we’d like to have a little chat.”

They drove on a narrow hedgerow lane across gently sloping, green hills. The car’s windows were open to the warm air. On the edge of the grounds was a roadblock where an RAF sergeant asked them for identification. Bishop showed it, and the guard waved them all through.

They passed through a tall gate and then made their way down an overgrown drive. Hidden in the trees and bushes was a brick, slate-roofed Victorian manor house, guarded by more uniformed men. People in intelligence regularly joked that the initials “SOE” stood not for Special Operations Executive but for Stately ’Omes of England, as so many had been requisitioned for war work.

Another guard opened the car door for Maggie and Sarah, and they were guided through the front door and hall, down a smoke-filled corridor. It was loud inside, filled with pilots in uniform and men in khaki trousers and navy turtlenecks—Maggie assumed they were either just returning from missions or about to take off.

“You back from bombing Paris?” one called to the two women.

“Not exactly,” Maggie called back.

“Officers of the One Sixty-one Special Duties Squadron,” Martens explained. “Most of them flying SOE agents in and out of occupied territories, armed with only a compass, a Michelin map, and a full moon.”

Despite the early hour, another shouted, “You ladies want a drink?”

Oh, you have no idea. “No—but thank you.” Maggie smiled and the officer grinned back at her.

They were led up the massive staircase to bedrooms. Maggie’s room was shabby but pleasant, sunlight streaming through the windows into a golden pool on the chintz-covered bed.

After a long, steamy bath, ignoring the five-inch waterline, Maggie dressed in the clean uniform that had been left for her. She didn’t miss couture in the slightest. Despite the fact she had never been overjoyed to wear the frumpy, belted ATS uniform and dreaded lisle stockings, today was different. She put everything on and, for the first time in months, felt like herself again.

She went to the window and looked out. Life continued, despite Hugh’s death, despite Jacques’s betrayal. She opened the glass pane, letting in grass-scented air, admiring the banks of pink roses. The early morning’s clouds had burned off, revealing a brilliantly blue sky. She thought of Elise and realized her sister would probably see a time like this as a chance to pray to the God she so firmly believed in. Maybe—just maybe—there was a God. Not the old angry man of the Bible, but a force of order, growth, beauty, and harmony. And in the long-running battle between light and darkness, Maggie vowed to play her part.

A robin perched on the sill, peering at her with bright, inquisitive eyes. “Well, you’re a cheeky little fellow, aren’t you?” Maggie observed. As the robin flew off, just as swiftly as he had come, she realized she was absolutely starving.

The former dining room was now the officers’ mess; even without a fire, the décor was cheerful. A number of small drawings, mostly pen and ink with a few watercolors, were tacked up on the paneled wood walls. The table and chairs were military issue. From a side table, Maggie helped herself to scrambled eggs, tiny fried mushrooms, toast, and tea.

She sat down at the long table and began to eat. Food—plain English food—had never tasted so good. Sarah, also in her ATS uniform, sat down beside her. “You must have something,” Maggie urged her.

“I don’t want anything.”

“At least have some tea then.” Maggie rose and poured a cup, pressing it into her friend’s hand. Sarah didn’t drink from it, nor did she set it down. Instead, she clasped it firmly, as if for warmth.

A young woman with a long nose and slightly bulging eyes appeared at the door. “Miss Hope?”

“Yes?”

“Colonel Bishop and Colonel Martens would like to speak with you now.”

In what had been the house’s library, foxed glass reflected the sunlight, and a banjo clock ticked away the minutes. From above the fireplace, a mounted boar’s head with curved yellow tusks stared down at them. “Thank you for joining us, Miss Hope,” Martens said, standing. “Please take a seat.”

Maggie perched on a metal folding chair. Despite the room’s grandeur, the furniture was all government issue. Martens settled his lanky frame behind a metal desk, while Bishop stood at an open window, hands clasped behind his back. There was a framed needlepoint sampler on the wall: Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well.—Samuel Butler

Bishop turned. “We’d like to commend you for the remarkable courage and ingenuity you showed, in escaping the Gestapo, but also in retrieving Agent Calvert’s bag. And taking down Jacques Lebeau.”

Martens added, “Not to mention flying the plane. And landing it.”

“I had a lot of help. The bag was Sarah’s—Miss Sanderson’s—doing. And there are people over there taking far greater risks than I. The truth is, I wasn’t able to save Agent Calvert.” Tears stung her eyes. “Two of our own made the ultimate sacrifice.”

Bishop’s frown deepened. “You’re referring to Agents Calvert and Thompson.”

“Yes.”

Martens looked over his papers. “You knew Hugh Thompson?”

“We worked together on a case for MI-Five a few years ago. We were…friends.”

“Miss Sanderson seems most distraught,” he observed. “They were close?”

Maggie wasn’t going to reveal her friend’s personal business, but she wasn’t going to lie, either. “Yes,” she said simply.

“I see.”

“The bag,” Bishop interjected. “Did you look inside?”

“No, sir. ‘The less we know the better’ is what we were taught at Beaulieu.”

He exhaled. “Very good, young lady, very good.” Maggie felt as if she had sidestepped a land mine.

Martens continued, “We learned that while you worked for SOE at Baker Street earlier this year, you noticed the lack of security checks on Agent Calvert’s decrypts. We just want you to know that you were right. She’d been compromised—and was trying to signal SOE.”

“It’s bitter consolation.” Then, “Who finally realized there was a problem?”

“That’s under internal investigation,” Bishop evaded smoothly.

“I want our agents to be safe,” Maggie insisted.

“Of course—as do we all, Miss Hope.” Martens glanced down once again at his notes. “You had a special dispensation to look for your sister. Did you manage to find her? What happened?”

“I did find her. But she decided to stay in France.” Maggie swallowed. “She’s doing important work there.”

Martens studied her face a moment, then rose. “Thank you, Miss Hope. We’ll ask you for a longer, written report later. After we’ve spoken to Miss Sanderson, someone will drive you both back to London.”

“Thank you,” Maggie replied. “May I use a telephone to call the hospital? I’d like to see if there’s any news on Gus—the injured pilot.”

“Of course.” Martens nodded. “There’s a telephone in the front office you can use.”

Bishop turned back to the window. “Before you make the call, would you please let Miss Sanderson know we’d like to speak with her?”

Maggie stopped at the door. “I want you both to know—I’d like to go back.”

Martens raised one eyebrow. “To France? Despite your experiences with the Gestapo?”

“Yes. I’d like to be useful. Do my duty, as they say. Qui n’avance pas, recule.”

From his position at the window, back to the room, Bishop translated, “ ‘Who does not move forward, recedes.’ ”

“Exactly,” Maggie said. “Sir.”

“Understood, Agent Hope.” Martens nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Please sit down, Miss Sanderson.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Would you like a cigarette?”

She nodded. Martens pulled out a case from his jacket pocket and opened it, letting her pick one out. He lit it for her.

“You’re a patriot, Miss Sanderson. We can’t thank you enough for your actions in France. And, of course, for those of your partner.”

“We never got the names of the French automobile companies,” she said dully.

“Your original mission is nothing compared to bringing back Agent Calvert’s bag safely,” Martens told her.

“Did you look inside?” Bishop asked.

“No,” Sarah replied.

The two men exchanged glances. “Did Jacques Lebeau look inside at any point?”

“No. He never even touched it. But, whatever’s in there”—she took a long drag on her cigarette, her hand trembling—“I hope it’s bloody well worth it.”

“Yes,” Bishop assured her. “It is.”

“What’s going to happen to Jacques now?” Sarah asked. “Will he be executed? I’d like to kill him myself.”

“He will be dealt with,” Martens assured her. “Miss Sanderson, we need to know—would you ever be willing to go back?”

“Never.” She flicked ash to the floor, unconcerned. “I’d work in a factory making bombs or drive a tractor before I’d do anything like this again. Are we finished?”

“Close the door,” said Bishop after she’d left. Martens did.

“Neither of them knows what’s in that bag—which is good,” Martens began, walking back to the desk. “Where is it now?”

“I’ve sent the sand samples off to our lab for analysis.” Bishop paced the length of the room. “They’ll be able to find out quite a bit about the beaches of Normandy, information that will help us immensely as we go forward with Fortitude.”

Martens sat, then straightened his papers. “Still, that information cost two agents’ lives.” He looked up to Bishop, now staring thoughtfully at his reflection in the tarnished mirror. “I must speak with Colonel Gaskell—inform him of everything that’s happened and alert him that he needs to disregard anything and everything coming from Agent Thompson’s radio. And then we have to transport Lebeau to the Tower. I predict he’ll be shot for treason before the new year.”

“No.” Bishop turned away from the mirror. “Not so fast.”

“Sir? I don’t understand.”

“But I think you do.”

The silence between the two men stretched.

“There’s something you should see.” Bishop took a manila folder out of his briefcase and handed it to the younger man. “Read it. Then ask yourself about sacrifice.”

Martens pressed his lips together as he read the folder’s contents. Finally, he raised his head and closed the file. “I see,” he said slowly.

“I’m glad you do. We’ll work together on this, then?”

“Yes.” Then, “I’m going to return to London. I’ll take Miss Hope and Miss Sanderson with me.”

“We need to win this war, Martens. Chivalry died with the poison gas and trenches—when we attacked cities and civilians. There is no nobility now—only victory. Or defeat.”

Martens nodded as he stood. “What about Gaskell? We can’t keep him in the dark forever. Eventually he’ll figure it out.”

At that, Bishop nearly smiled. “Let’s see if Miss Hope is willing to take over his job.”