The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(63)

“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.”