The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(90)

Another guard opened the car door for Maggie and Sarah, and they were guided through the front door and hall, down a smoke-filled corridor. It was loud inside, filled with pilots in uniform and men in khaki trousers and navy turtlenecks—Maggie assumed they were either just returning from missions or about to take off.

“You back from bombing Paris?” one called to the two women.

“Not exactly,” Maggie called back.

“Officers of the One Sixty-one Special Duties Squadron,” Martens explained. “Most of them flying SOE agents in and out of occupied territories, armed with only a compass, a Michelin map, and a full moon.”

Despite the early hour, another shouted, “You ladies want a drink?”

Oh, you have no idea. “No—but thank you.” Maggie smiled and the officer grinned back at her.

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.”