He nodded somberly.
Fury flooded through her. “I hate this! I hate all of it. I hate the way the world is. I hate knowing these things. I hate what we’re becoming. I hate who I’m becoming.”
“If we loved it, we’d have to worry. We’d be no better than the Nazis.”
There had to be a way to stop this. “I’ll—I’ll tell Fleet Street!”
“I’m afraid you’d simply be arrested and discredited.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Churchill!”
“You know the P.M. needs plausible deniability. And don’t fool yourself that the same man who let Coventry be destroyed in a Luftwaffe attack to protect the secrets of Bletchley Park will be sympathetic to your moral qualms. Really—do you think he’d hesitate to use any weapon at his disposal? I read in your file you know about the chemical weapons, the anthrax, already.”
We shall fight on the beaches…Maggie recalled typing for him, when she was his secretary back in the summer of ’40. And she remembered their conversation here at Number 10 in Churchill’s office the previous fall, when she heard the terrible truth about what he was willing to sacrifice, when she bargained for Elise’s rescue.
No, no I don’t believe the P.M. would hesitate, she thought. If only math could help. But the value of human life is immeasurable, and so neither option is morally acceptable. How do you measure and compare the quantity of x versus the quantity of y + z if you don’t know the values of any of them? How many angels can die on the head of a pin?
“How can you keep on”—Maggie began, her voice raw with emotion—“knowing what you know? It’s so…cynical.”
“A cynic is what an idealist calls a realist.”
“It’s wrong. It’s evil.”
“We need to win this war, Maggie. As someone said to me, chivalry died with the poison gas and trenches, when we attacked cities and civilians. There is no nobility now, no good and evil—only victory. Or defeat.”
“History will judge us.”
“That’s why we put nothing down on paper. You must understand one thing—never, ever admit anything. No matter what happens, never reveal what you know, what you’ve done. You must resolve to go to your grave resolutely denying anything ever happened. Remember that.”
“No! No, I won’t be part of it.”
“You need to grow up,” he replied harshly. “And learn the meaning of duty. In fact, we need you to continue to do your duty—and work for us. Colonel Bishop and I would like you to take over Gaskell’s position—to run F-Section.”
“Me?” It was what she’d wanted—to have a position of authority where she could use her brain—but not like this. “No—my God—no.” Maggie shook her head. “I can’t. I’m not like you. The men and women of SOE give their hearts and souls! They sacrifice everything! They trust you! We trust you!”
“Our agents will still be able to give their hearts and souls—and achieve the same ends.”
“Which justify the means? No, just—no. You’re as corrupt as the Nazis.”
“I’m afraid that, in this war, things aren’t as black and white as the propaganda reels would make them seem. I’m merely willing to be a part of something that’s hateful and dangerous for the sake of victory. Believe me—I didn’t like it at first, either. But then I saw the logic.”
“When your moral sense begins to rot, it’s worse than if you had none to begin with.” Maggie stood. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but I can’t work for SOE in that role—knowingly sending agents to their deaths. I won’t be a part of it. No. An unequivocal no.”
“I was afraid of that.” He rubbed his hands together. “And now you know too much.” He rummaged around in one of his desk drawers. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m leaving.” She rose.
“I don’t think so.” Martens stood as well, both hands clasped behind his back. “I want to assure you that I respect your decision not to work for SOE. We don’t consider you a traitor, you haven’t betrayed anything—but now, alas, you know too much. It’s in your own interest that you be kept safely.”
“Kept? What—?”
As Martens stepped around the desk, his right arm rose, swiftly sweeping toward Maggie’s head. Instinctively, she raised her hands. This threw Martens off balance, allowing her to use both hands to swing his arm up as she rotated under. He gasped at the pain as Maggie forced him over. He hit the desk sideways. His right hand opened.
“A pen?” As Maggie voiced her disbelief, Martens’s left hand came up behind her, covering her mouth with a cloth wet with chloral hydrate. She struggled, then went limp.
After she’d lost consciousness, he laid her gently on the floor, then walked back to his desk. He picked up the red telephone receiver. “It’s Colonel Martens,” he said. “Let them know that Miss Hope will need to be detained indefinitely.”