The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(89)

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.