The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(61)

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.”