communiques, and sent on by motorcycle courier to Bletchley Park.
Still …
She got down a Morse code book from a shelf and began to decode.
“Miss Manley!” called Martin Leaper from across the room. He was a narrow middle-aged man, with a narrow pencil mustache, and the station’s overseer. The memo Frain had dispatched to all the Y-stations by motorcycle courier was laying on his desk, unread.
Mary didn’t look up from her translating. “Sir,” she said, “you’re going to want to look at this.”
“Yes, Miss Manley?” he said, pursing his lips and walking over.
“Sir, someone here, in England, just signaled to a U-boat.”
“What?”
“It could be a spy!” she ventured. “A spy signaling a U-boat for a pick up!”
“Control yourself, Miss Manley,” Mr. Leaper admonished, shaking his head as he took the papers away from her. “I’m afraid you’ve seen far too many movies.”
In the cottage, Audrey finished tying Princess Elizabeth to a wooden ladder-back chair. She took some moldy hard bread from the cupboard and stuffed it in the Princess’s mouth, securing it tightly with a tea towel around her head. If it were up to her, she would have killed the Princess—for keeping her alive was a bigger risk. Still, she was following the orders of Commandant Hess. And from what Commandant Graf had told her, one didn’t question Hess’s orders.
Lilibet kept very still, but her blue eyes glittered with defiance as Audrey went about her work. “I want you to be a good little girl,” Audrey said as she gave the knot at the back of Elizabeth’s head a final tightening. “Or I’ll kill you myself.” She smiled and came over to face Lilibet, her breath smelling sweet, like violet chewing gum. “And I know how to make it look like an accident.”
In the control room of U-246, First Officer Horst Riesch approached Captain Vogt. “Sir, our friends in Britain have given us word. They’re ready,” Horst said.
“Good, good,” said Vogt. “What’s the weather?”
“Clear now, sir, but the wind’s picking up, up to seventy kilometers per hour.”
“Christ,” Vogt said, rubbing his stubble-covered chin—water was too precious in a submarine to waste on shaving. “They’re probably coming in a dinghy, for all we know. Still, can’t be helped. I’ll set a course for the rendezvous point and have the men prepare to surface. You organize a reception party. Also, Horst told me they’ll have two prisoners with them.”
“Yes, Herr Vogt,” Riesch said, saluting. Then he issued a long string of commands to the crew. Moments later, U-246, like the mythical kraken, was making its way through the black waters of the North Sea, up to the rendezvous point, ten miles off the coast of Mossley.
Chapter Twenty-seven
A fierce wind was blowing as Gregory, Poulter, and Boothby went to the barn to uncover the small boat they’d hidden away, a twenty-foot gasoline–engine–powered fish tug, with a V bottom. The three men strained and grunted as they pushed it over the rocks and grasses until they reached the stone-strewn beach.
Gregory looked out over the rough sea. “Not the best night for a sail, eh, lads?”
“It’s that or hide out for another three more days, for another pickup,” Boothby said. “I’d rather take my chances on the water.”
“No, it’s now or never,” Gregory said, staggering slightly in the wind. “I’ll stay here with the boat. You two go back and help Audrey with the prisoners.”
Maggie and Hugh pulled up to Mossley by Sea’s two piers, with only a few fishing boats rocking wildly in the black water. The local police were there. Maggie got out of the car, heading into the stiff wind. Hugh grabbed the flashlight and gun from the glove compartment, slipping the gun in the back of his waistband under his coat, then followed her.
“These look like locals,” Hugh shouted into the wind. “So, where’s the cavalry?”
“I’m sure they’re coming,” Maggie shouted back. But she was worried. She thought that by now the Army would have soldiers assembled, Navy ships offshore, RAF planes overhead. Where were they?
As a police officer in a sou’wester waved them over, Hugh took out his MI-5 identification card. “Agents Thompson and Hope here,” he shouted, his words nearly blown away by the wind. “What have you got?”
“We’re on it, sir. If they’re here, we’ll find ’em.” He looked at them, still in their light clothing. “Why don’t you go back to the station, have a nice cup o’ tea? Me and my boys’ll take care of things here.” He walked off to confer with his men.
Hugh and Maggie looked at each other in the darkness. They were not reassured. “There are police all over —they won’t get these boats,” Hugh said, scanning the dock.
Maggie was thinking. Gregory and his crew were too smart to try to use a boat from the dock. “But what if they’re not using a boat from here? It’s possible they have their own, hidden away. They could carry it down to the shore and then launch from there.”
“In this weather?” Hugh asked. “Couldn’t be a very large boat, then.”
“They might not have any other option. And they just might be desperate enough to try it. I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“So we have two choices. Wait at the station, or—”
Maggie was already off, leaning into the wind as she made her way to the beach.
“—or we look for them ourselves,” Hugh finished. “Right, then. Off we go.”
They picked their way over stones and pebbles on the shore in the semidarkness. The white-tipped waves were crashing in, creating a low roar. The light from Hugh’s flashlight was ineffective against the crushing darkness. Only a waning moon overhead provided any useful light.
“There!” Maggie shouted, over the din of the waves. She pointed to a small shack on the beach.
The small shack on the beach was made of planks and covered in tar paper. The edges of the door were illuminated. Maggie and Hugh approached cautiously. He held the gun as Maggie rapped at the door. There was no answer. She pushed at the door. It swung open easily.
The stench hit them first—the overwhelming odor of stale smoke, sweat, and alcohol. The room was bare, except for a bulb and an old, stained mattress in the corner. On the mattress, a man was lying on his back, snoring loudly, a ratty wool blanket pulled over his legs and a half-empty bottle of gin clutched to his chest.
Trying not to inhale through her nose, Maggie went over to him. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, kneeling down and giving him a firm shake. “Sir?”
“Wha—?” he said, opening his eyes. He was unshaven and unkempt, with thinning gray hair and a weather- beaten face. His plaid flannel shirt had yellow stains under his arms.
“We’re looking for some people, sir,” Hugh began. “Not from around here. They might be in a cottage or shack close to the beach? Have you seen anyone?”
“Go ’way. Wanna sleep.”
“Sir!” Maggie said. Which was not at all the word she wanted to use.
No response.
“Bitch!” he slurred, trying to reach for the bottle with dirty hands with filthy broken fingernails.
Maggie tipped the bottle and let a few drops of liquid trickle out. She had to admit that while it was technically illegal to dispose of his property, it was probably the fastest way to get him to talk. It was also grimly satisfying.
