The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(23)

“Yes, sir.” Maggie hung up the receiver. She knocked on Colonel Gaskell’s door.

“What is it, Meggie?”

“I need to leave, sir.”

“Leave?” He arched one eyebrow. “Leave? May I ask where you need to be that’s so important? A hairdressing appointment, perhaps? A dress fitting? An engagement party?”

Maggie really, really, really wanted to roll her eyes—but refrained. “Director General Peter Frain wants to see me as soon as possible, sir.” She was gratified to see the Colonel startle and his pale eyes widen.

“But—but we need you here! Who will make our tea?”

“Mr. Frain said to tell you it’s MI-Five business and you’d understand, sir.”

Once again, Gaskell’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. Finally, he managed, “Women! Flibbertigibbets! All of you!”

“Yes, sir.” Maggie gave him her best noncommittal look. “It’s important, sir.”

“Of course it is,” he spluttered. “Well, then, go! Go!”

“Sir, about Agent Calvert—” Maggie took a deep breath. “In her latest communiqué, she mentioned something about a birthday gift for her mother. But her mother’s been dead for over ten years. And when I spoke with her father—”

“Blast Agent Calvert!” He flushed red. “Blast her mother! And blast her father! Off with you to MI-Five, then!” he managed, waving his hands. “And bring me back a Sally Lunn roll when you return!”



“Yes, sir.” Before Maggie put on her coat, hat, and gloves, she made sure to lock the latest transmissions back in the filing cabinet. Hang in there, Erica….

And Brynn, where are you?

—

All Brynn Parry knew was she had the worst headache of her life. Her temples throbbed. She cracked open her eyes.

Then she started. The room she was in was not the room she’d gone to sleep in.

Something was wrong. She looked around. The room itself was small and narrow, with no windows and a low ceiling. Shadows from a candle on a battered campaign bureau danced over rough stone walls. It smelled of must, damp, and old brick.

She knew she had to get out.

As she struggled to sit up in her hard, narrow bed, her head spun and she feared she might vomit. When she kicked off the coarse, faded coverlet and swung her legs over the side, her muscles ached, as if she’d been through battle. She stood with effort, shaky on her feet, then took a few tentative steps on the cold, bare floor toward the door.

It was locked. She jiggled the knob and twisted and pulled at it. Then she beat upon the thick pine and called for help until her throat was raw.

You’re a trained agent, she reminded herself. Act like one. In the dresser drawers were all of the things she’d had crammed in her suitcase—all the things she hadn’t bothered to unpack the night before.

Her suitcase was gone. Someone had taken her suitcase.

There was a chipped jug of water and a bowl on a dressing table, along with her hairbrush and tube of lipstick. The bed’s frame was made of white ceramic, like a hospital bed, and the mattress was thin. A reproduction of Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare hung on one wall, the incubus staring back at her with a malevolent expression. There was a deep chill in the air—like in her parents’ cellar. Wherever she was, she was underground, she was certain of it.



The candle’s flame flickered. Her book on the bedside table, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, mocked her.

She didn’t know where she was.

She didn’t know what time it was.

Or even what day.

For a moment, the wave of terror and shock was so overwhelming she feared she might faint, but she sat on the bed’s edge and bent to put her head between her legs, as she’d been taught, taking deep breaths.

When the dizziness and nausea began to subside, she lifted her head. She’d been trained to withstand capture, imprisonment, even torture. And although her training was supposed to be of use in Nazi-infested Europe, in London—assuming she was still in London—it was the same principle.

She swallowed hard.

She was still alive.

And—somehow—she would get out.





Chapter Four


On St. James’s Street, past Boodle’s and White’s and the other exclusive men’s clubs, between Park Place and Jermyn Street, stood the headquarters of MI-5. It was officially known as the Imperial Security Intelligence Service. Its mission: countering any and all threats to national safety.

Maggie hadn’t been back recently, but she still remembered where to go, resolutely making her way through marble hallways lined with rows of Corinthian pillars and past various security checkpoints, up in a polished brass elevator, until she reached the director general’s office.

A secretary with grayish white hair that didn’t quite match the fake white braid on her headband greeted her, then picked up the telephone receiver. “Miss Hope is here, sir.” She looked up to Maggie. “Go in.”

Maggie opened the heavy paneled door.

Behind his massive mahogany desk, Frain stood. “Thank you for coming, Maggie.” Peter Frain had been made director under Mr. Churchill during the dark days of the summer of 1940, which was when Maggie had first met him. Then a tall man with slicked-back hair and cold gray eyes, he still looked the same—elegant, sophisticated, debonair—although Maggie could see he had more silver hair at his temples. It suits him, she decided as she shook his hand.