You do deserve more information.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said, sitting down once again.
“As you know,” Frain said, “although we’ve made it through the summer and fall attacks, we’re still getting pounded by German aircraft. Their plan, of course, is to invade and conquer England. First by taking out the RAF. And then invading the coasts, moving inward, finally reaching London and establishing their supremacy.
“In the countries they’ve already invaded, such as the Netherlands and France, the Nazis have made a point of working within already existing structures. So, Churchill would be assassinated—if he could even be taken alive —and it’s probable someone like Lord Halifax would be put in charge of the country. He’d reassure people, you know, ‘I know this Hitler and he’s really not such a bad chap—let’s all keep it together for the sake of Britain and cooperate with the Nazis.’ Et cetera.”
Maggie had been aware of this scenario, but hearing it spoken aloud was grim. Hugh cut in: “A familiar figure like the Duke of Windsor, who only abdicated a few years ago, after all, might help people rally together under Nazi rule. The Duke’s been a longtime admirer of the Nazis—he and Mrs. Simpson have made numerous trips to Germany, meeting with high-ranking officials and even Hitler himself. Last time he was there, Goebbels allegedly said it was a shame the Duke wasn’t King anymore. Because, of course, if the Duke were still on the throne as Edward VIII, it would be so much easier for the Nazis’ invasion—they’d already have their own king in place.”
“King George VI has no such alliances?” Maggie asked.
“No, he and the Queen don’t,” Frain answered. “Which is why the Nazis need the Duke of Windsor. He and the Duchess are in Bermuda now—sent off recently on Churchill’s orders. But our intelligence tells us that when they were in Spain they’d been approached by Walther Shellenberg, Heinrich Himmler’s aide. Shellenberg offered them fifty million Reichsmarks to return to the throne.”
“I see,” Maggie said, processing what he was telling her.
“So, the King’s life is in danger. But if they killed him, many people would want Elizabeth to rule—not the Duke of Windsor. And so she’s in danger too. Serious danger. The most likely scenario is kidnapping. I doubt they would try to assassinate her outright—not that they’d blink, of course, but then the tide of public opinion might turn against them then if they killed a young girl.”
“What specifically do you know about threats to the princess?” Maggie asked.
“There’s an infamous intelligence officer in Germany known as Commandant Hess,” Frain said. “Chatter we’ve picked up suggests Commandant Hess has been receiving radio transmissions sent from Windsor. We don’t have the whole story, I’m afraid. But as I’ve said, we’d like someone to keep an eye on things. It’s possible the person making radio transmissions to Hess is in the royal family’s inner circle—one of the nursemaids, perhaps. An underbutler. The governess.”
“I see,” Maggie said.
“Brilliant!” Hugh exclaimed. “Er, right,” he corrected himself, off Frain’s disapproving glance.
“You’ll work at Windsor during the week,” Frain continued, as though he’d never doubted her commitment. “On Sunday afternoons, you’ll walk into the town of Windsor. You will meet with Mr. Thompson, to report on how things are going. I don’t want anything written coming in and out of the castle. If you need to reach Miss Hope, Mr. Thompson, you may ring her using the code that something she’s ordered from a shop has arrived and she needs to pick it up. Maggie, that call will be your cue to meet with Mr. Thompson. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Thompson and Maggie both answered.
“When do I leave?” Maggie said.
“Friday,” Frain replied. “I’ll arrange for Mr. Greene to drive you. I doubt he’d mind.”
“It is … unclear,” Frain said.
Windsor Castle. Of all places.
“That will be all, Mr. Thompson,” Frain said. “I’ll send Miss Hope down to your office shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Thompson gave Maggie a quick smile and then left.
When the heavy oak door had clicked shut again, Frain turned to Maggie, a softer look on his face. “And, Maggie, I’m sorry to hear about John.”
“Thank you,” she managed, as her heart lurched. Then she raised her chin. “Will that be all, then?”
“Yes,” Frain said. “Mr. Thompson’s office is three floors down.”
Maggie made her way down to the smoke-filled windowless offices crammed with battered wooden desks, dented beige filing cabinets, and worn green carpeting that the junior MI-5 agents called home.
Mr. Thompson caught sight of her in the hallway and waved. “This way,” he said, ushering her into the small office he shared with fellow agent Mark Standish. He moved a pile of papers from a wooden chair to the floor. “Please sit down.”
“Hello,” Maggie said to Standish.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hope,” he replied, blinking and looking up from his paperwork. Like Hugh, he was dedicated to his work. Unlike Hugh, he was married to his childhood sweetheart, with a two-year-old girl and another baby on the way.
Hugh took the seat behind his desk. “Miss Hope, ah, Maggie,” he said, “there’s a bookshop in the town of Windsor, Boswell’s Books—the proprietor is a retired MI-5 agent, Mr. Archibald Higgins. There’s a room in the back. We’ll meet there the second Sunday afternoon you’re at the castle. Afterward, we’ll work out a system where we can indicate meeting times and various places that won’t seem suspicious.”
“Yes,” Maggie said. There was a long silence. In the silence, she took in his desk, piled high with papers and folders. Perched at the edge, nearly pushed over, was a framed photograph of a young blonde woman in a spring dress, laughing at the camera.
Hugh sprang to his as well, almost knocking over a pile of folders and running his hands through his wild crop of hair.
“I look forward to working with you, Hugh,” she said, extending her hand.
“Me too!” Hugh blurted as they shook. “I mean, I look forward to working with you, also.” Maggie gave him a pained smile.
When the sound of her footsteps receded, he sat down at his desk and began sorting through papers madly.
When the click of her heels could no longer be heard, Mark spoke. “So, you’re the handler for Maggie Hope.”
Hugh reached for several more folders from his inbox. “Yes, thank you, Sherlock. Now I know why you’re such a brilliant agent. Those ace skills of deduction.”
Mark grinned. “Lucky bastard. She’s a looker, she is.”
Hugh opened the top folder and began making notes. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Maggie was pulling on her gloves in the building’s lobby when she caught sight of a familiar figure, tall and thin, with receding mouse-brown hair streaked with gray. “Dad?” He didn’t notice her. “Edmund?”
Edmund Hope spun on his heel. “Margaret!” he said, shocked. “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting with Mr. Frain,” she replied. “You?”
“Just … meetings.”
Maggie and her father hadn’t seen each other since their awkward reunion a few months earlier. And since Edmund Hope was undercover as a mad cryptographer at Bletchley, there wasn’t much opportunity for social interaction.
“How—how are you?” Maggie asked. “How have you been?”
He looked down at her in the way he used to sort out a maths problem or squint at crossword puzzle. “Uh, fine … fine. And, er, you?”
“Persevering.” She paused, searching for something to say, then added, “John’s missing. His plane was shot down over Berlin.”
“I heard.”
