“Yes, ma’am,” Frain said, his face twisting in a grim smile.
Maggie began running to the castle’s car park. “Come on, Hugh,” Maggie said over her shoulder, “let’s get going!”
From the P.M.’s rooms in the castle, Peter Frain orchestrated the biggest manhunt in Britain’s history. Every police station from Windsor to Mossley was alerted. Descriptions of Audrey Moreau and George Poulter were circulated. Frain used motorcycle couriers to dispatch photographs of the two to cities, towns and villages en route. Most were only told that there had been a kidnapping of a high-level official. Only a handful of the most high-ranking officials were told what really happened.
The police precincts contacted moved with alacrity; within minutes of Frain’s calls, roadblocks were established on all of the major and minor roads leading to Mossley.
Frain contacted the Admiralty and advised them to be on the lookout for U-boats approaching the coastline in the Norfolk area. He contacted the Coast Guard and asked them to keep a watch for any small craft heading out to sea. He telephoned the Y service radio monitors and asked them to be on the lookout for suspicious wireless transmissions.
Then he contacted the BBC and circulated a story about a shootout and two fugitives on the run—giving a description of Audrey Moreau and George Poulter, as well as a number people could call in case they spotted either. Within five minutes of the radio broadcast, the phones started ringing. Most of the tips were nonsense; none produced a lead.
When Frain had done all he could think of, he rose from the desk, rubbing the back of his neck. Things were grim, he knew, and every second that passed made things worse.
The Prime Minister looked at him from across the room. They exchanged the glance of battle survivors— dazed and weary. The king had joined them on hearing the news. He now sat alone, head bowed, hands twisting around each other. His arm was bandaged and in a white sling. The P.M. rose and walked to him. The room was silent.
“We’ve covered every possible escape route,” Frain said. “Now we just have to wait.”
“How’s your shoulder, sir?” Churchill asked the King.
“I can’t even th-th-think about the shoulder,” the King replied, his eyes still unfocused.
The P.M. lit yet another cigar. “How’s Her Majesty?”
“She’s with Margaret now,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“Good, good,” Churchill boomed. “Best place for her.”
“Would you like to lie down and rest, sir?” Frain asked.
“I want to be here,” the King replied. “In case there’s any news.”
“Gutsy move of theirs,” Churchill said, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “An assassination attempt and a kidnapping right under our very noses! They’ve got stones, I’ll give them that,” he said, punctuating his words with jabs of his cigar. “
The King blanched.
“We’ve covered every possibility,” Frain said. “Now we just have to wait for something to break.”
“There’s a map in the glove compartment,” Hugh said as he drove. The blue-black sky was encrusted with stars. A glowing waning moon hung in the sky.
Maggie opened the box. In it were the map, a flashlight, and a gun. She held the lit flashlight in her teeth, pulled out the map, and squinted at it. “Yes, we’re on track,” she said through the flashlight.
They drove together in silence for a time. Finally, Maggie spoke: “What happened between us—”
“Yes?”
“Well, it can’t ever happen again. There’s a reason why agents can’t be involved with each other. We’re working together.”
“Of course,” Hugh agreed. “I would never do anything to compromise your safety.”
“That’s just the point. It’s not my safety you need to worry about—it’s the Princess’s safety.”
“I know, Maggie. I know this may be hard to understand, but I’ve been doing this longer than you have.”
Maggie felt a flash of anger—then realized he was right. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She took a brief moment to think of how it might work for them. Then dismissed the thought. “Thank you for the painting. It’s beautiful.”
“Glad you like it.” Hugh cleared his throat. “So, what’s the plan, once we get there? Sounded like you had one.”
Maggie’s smile was crooked. “As we say in America, Hugh—we’re going to wing it.”
Frain’s call to Scotland Yard had caused local police precincts to scramble to put up roadblocks, but the van with the Princess was already racing along the AI, on its way to Mossley. Poulter and Audrey were in the front seats, while Lilibet, tied up, was lying in the very back. The van, one used by the castle staff for transporting large game animals from the grounds where they’d been shot to the slaughterhouse, had the metallic smell of old blood. But it was fast and the all-terrain tires had a surprising amount of tread still left on them. They gripped the road as Poulter drove faster and faster in the blackness, past cities, villages, and hamlets: Hatfield, Welwyn, and Stevenage; Letchworth, Foster, and Baderton.
For a moment, he considered removing the blackout hoods from over the headlights. But only for a moment. A move like that would allow them more speed but would ultimately attract attention. And by this time, Poulter had no doubts that Scotland Yard had been alerted.
The winds had picked up. Between the motion of the van as it sped over the darkened roads and the gusting of the wind, the insides shuddered and shook. The passengers were silent as Poulter turned off the main road onto a narrower one, less likely to be blocked by the police. It was rough going, and he had to reduce speed, but he was convinced it was better to be safe than sorry.
“Shit,” he said, seeing lights and roadblock ahead. He could see at least four men in police uniforms, gesturing for him to slow down and stop.
Audrey’s eyes were wide as she reached into the glove compartment. There she found two guns. She passed the first to Poulter, then picked up the second, wrapped her hands around the Sten, hiding it in the folds of her skirt.
Then she turned back to Lilibet. “Lie down and keep silent!”
Poulter slowed the van, braking to a stop in front of the barricade. He rolled down his window. “Good evening, officers,” he said, smiling.
“Please step out of the van, sir,” the fresh-faced officer said.
“Look, it’s late,” Poulter said, “and my wife and I are tired. Would you mind just letting us pass?”
“Where are you and your ‘wife’ going, sir?” the bobby asked.
Poulter could see the other officers conferring in the background, probably matching their faces to an issued description.
“Grimsby—visiting family there,” Poulter answered, even as one of the officers came up to Audrey’s door and the two others around to the back of the van.
The young officer pulled out his gun and then opened Poulter’s door. “All right, sir, we’ll need you to get out of the vehicle. Slowly, please. Mind the step.”
In the back of the van, Lilibet lay with her hands and feet bound. She’d seen the lights from the front window and felt the van slow and then stop. She’d seen Audrey pass Poulter his gun. She heard Poulter’s side of the conversation with the officer, for they had to be police officers. She’d also heard the door open and saw them both getting out of the van. She’d been afraid, to afraid to think, but now that was passing. She was still afraid, of course, but she was starting to get angry, too. How dare they! And Audrey! Cook’s husband’s cousin! They thought they were helping a poor French girl get out of occupied France, when the whole time she was plotting against them. Lilibet felt not only angry but terribly betrayed.
After seeing them shoot the Marine, Lilibet had no doubts about what they were capable of. She had to warn
