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?”