Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“You wouldn’t understand,” Gregory said. “Lily, Victoria, Christopher and I—we—we shared many things.”

“I see,” Maggie said. She managed a quick glance at Lilibet. Maggie hoped the girl didn’t know what he meant.

“Would you take off her gag, at least?” Maggie asked. “It’s not as if anyone can hear us out here.”

Gregory pulled out his flask from his inside jacket pocket. He took a long pull, emptied it, then tossed it over the side. “Go ahead,” he said to Boothby, who went over to the Princess and undid the knots that tied the gag. As it loosened, she spit the moldy bread out of her mouth.

“Thanks, Maggie,” she managed.

“‘Elizabeth and Leicester, beating oars.’” Gregory quoted, finishing off the bottle and throwing it in a long arc over the water. He winked at Lilibet. “I suppose that would make me Leicester.”

“I hardly think Elliot was thinking of us all ‘supine on the floor of the narrow canoe,’” Maggie said. The wind was stronger now and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm. She looked at David. In the darkness, she could see his eyes were still closed.

“So now it’s your turn,” Gregory said. “Where was the decrypt?”

Maggie gave a grim smile. “In the frontispiece of Lily’s Le Fantome de l’Opera.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Because I was the one who found it,” Maggie shot back, pride wounded.

“It was Lily’s nickname for me—after I was burned so badly on one side of my face. It was our little joke, her calling me Le Fantome.” Then, “This is it,” he said to Boothby, who cut the engine and turned on a kerosene lantern.

“Ship?” Maggie asked.

“Submarine,” he corrected. Oh, fantastic, Maggie thought.

Boothby used a flashlight to check his watch. “It’s four now. The pickup window is open for three more hours.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

The Prime Minister’s rooms at Windsor Castle had been transformed into a makeshift War Room, with maps and pushpins and memos. The roar of the fire behind the andirons nearly overcame the soft and relentless tick of the mantel clock. The P.M. and King sat in large leather chairs while Frain paced.

“We have the Princess’s code, telling us they’re going to Mossley, which is near Grimsby. We have an intercept from a Y-station, saying that someone near Grimsby—close to Mossley—radioed a German U-boat. We have a German U-boat moving into position off the coast of Mossley. It’s obvious they’re trying to get the princess out of Britain. However, the U-boat can’t get too close to shore—she’ll need at least five miles. Which means that either a few men from the U-boat will form a landing party and try to get to shore in one of the U-boat’s rubber dinghies. Or they have a boat hidden away on shore and will use that to meet the U-boat.”

The King sat very still. “What are the weather reports?”

“High winds and rough seas, your Majesty,” Frain answered. “They need to do it at night, under the cover of darkness. If they decide the conditions are too dangerous, they may try to establish another rendezvous, in a few days. But they must know that putting it off would increase their chances of being found.”

“After Dunkirk, the Royal Navy seized everything that could float!” Churchill barked.

“Yes, sir,” Frain replied. “But it’s possible that someone hid away a fishing skiff or other small craft, for just this very occasion.”

The telephone rang, a shrill sound. Frain dove for it. “Yes?” he said, then listened intently. “Thank you, Admiral Kirk.”

He put a hand over the receiver. “Kirk, from the Admiralty,” he told them. “They’ve pinpointed the U-boat. The U-two-forty-six is moving closer into shore, near Mossley.”

“Wonderful!” the King said, his face not as pale as it had been.

“Not exactly,” Frain said. “They could be anywhere near Mossley. And the weather isn’t helping.”

“Put every man on it,” Churchill growled. “Have them sift through every grain of sand and drop of water—until we find the princess!”

Frain spoke into the receiver again. “Move two of our submarines into the area and see if you can get an exact location on U-two-forty-six. Move two of the Royal navy’s corvettes in, as well. If we can’t get a lock on them by dawn, I’ll have the air force do a patrol.”

“I’m assuming, sir,” Kirk said on the other end of the line, “that the hostage is valuable?”

“Yes,” Frain replied. “Extremely valuable. Tell all your boys to keep that in mind.”

Maggie was gripped with fear and pain, but adrenaline kept her sharp. Jaw clenched against the cold and wind, she scanned the sky and sea in the moonlight, looking for anything—British ship or plane, Nazi U-boat. Who would reach them first? Mathematics were true and cruel. You have a fifty-fifty chance, Hope. Probability equals the number of desirable outcomes divided by the number of possible outcomes. A coin flip. And that’s only theoretical—a big wave might take you out first—better make that one of the possible outcomes. Probability of survival dips even lower, then … 

She realized that at this point, even if she and David were disposable to the British, the P.M. might not shoot the U-boat, in order to save the Princess’s life. She remembered the cyanide pill David had in his pocket and how matter-of-fact he’d been about needing to take it if it came to it.

But it hasn’t come to that, Maggie thought. Yet. Was she ready, if it did? Best to worry about that if and when the time comes.

“David needs a doctor,” Maggie said, shouting to make herself heard over the wind.

“Don’t worry,” Gregory said. “He’ll be fine. Believe me, it was a love tap. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to my ticket out of this mess.”

“Do you mind if I see to his wounds?” Maggie asked, looking at Gregory with what she hoped was an imploring look. She did her best, considering the high wind and saltwater spray. “I have a handkerchief—I can at least clean his face.”

Gregory and Boothby locked eyes. “No,” Boothby said. “Stay where you are.”

“Oh, Boothby,” Gregory said. “What’s the harm? We’re not barbarians, after all.” He motioned to Maggie.

Gingerly, Maggie made her way to the back of the boat and sat down near David, pulling his head into her lap. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and gently pressed it to David’s face. The sensation seemed to revive him, and his eyelids fluttered open.

“Magster,” he said weakly, gazing up at her, words getting lost in the wind. “You—you look awful.”

“You don’t look so great yourself,” she countered. He tried to sit up, but the ropes and the pain were too much for him. “May I untie his hands and feet?” she asked Gregory. “The ropes are too tight.”

Boothby scowled. “No!”

“Please,” Lilibet implored, eyes filling with tears.

“Oh, Christopher,” Gregory said. “Do you really think a Princess, a slip of a girl, and a poof can do much of anything?”

“Poof?” David muttered, stirring. “And here I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” Gregory said, having the grace to look chagrined. “And I’m terribly sorry about all this. When we get to Germany, I’ll make sure you’re treated well.”

David wasn’t buying it. “You do still remember I’m Jewish, yes?”

“You might want to keep that detail to yourself.”

“Gregory and Boothby plan to turn you over to Abwehr,” Maggie explained. “You and your briefcase.”

Maggie undid the ropes tying David’s hands and feet. Carefully, he rose to sit. “Bloody hell!” he said, clutching his head with his free hand.

At that moment, without warning, a long, thin, dark shape, like a sea monster, broke through the water, causing the small shell to rock back and forth in the waves. The protruding sail was black and painted with a red and white Swastika and U-246. Maggie held on to David, and they both tried to keep their