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Authors: Susan Elia MacNeal
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after Poland.…”
“Hear, hear,” said old Mr. Hodgeson, a Great War veteran in the corner. “We don’t need English boysgoing to war again, just for the bloody Jews. Excuse my language.”
“Poland and Czechoslovakia are Jewish interests, it’s true,” Pierce said. “That’s the reason I’m adamant that we don’t belong in this war. Look at this young woman,” he said, nodding to Claire, who smiled back. “She’s seeing a nice young chap, she tells me. Well, what happens when this nice young chap joins up with His Majesty’s forces? What happens to her then? I’ll tell you—he’ll come home blind or maimed or worse, in a mattress cover secured with large horse-blanket safety pins. Slaughtered, just because Germany invaded Poland. And she becomes a widow—or ends up spending the rest of her life with a cripple. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again—this is an unnecessary war.”
There were tears in Claire’s eyes that threatened to overflow. “But what can we do?” she said, her knee touching Pierce’s.
“My dear,” Pierce said, his leg pressing against hers. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
SIX
M I-5 WAS OFFICIALLY known as the Imperial Security Intelligence Service—but no one called it that. Headquartered in a small office building at 58 St. James’s Street, MI-5’s mission was counterintelligence. Protecting secrets. Catching spies.
And with the Prime Minister’s blessing in wartime, at any cost, by any means necessary.
Down in smoke-filled windowless offices crammed with battered wooden desks, dented gray filing cabinets, and worn green carpeting, junior MI-5 agents toiled in obscurity.
“Mark, I need you on something.”
Mark Standish, a youngish man with tortoiseshell spectacles, looked up from the piles of photographs on his desk with tired, red-rimmed eyes. He was dark-haired and doughy. “What is it?”
“I just spoke with one of our agents,” Hugh Thompson said. “There’s a high probability that someone from the watch list was spotted in London yesterday.” Hugh was taller and slimmer, with a high forehead and deep-set green eyes. He had a tendency to stick his hands in his hair when he was frustrated, which was often, and so it stuck up at odd angles.
“Nazi?” Mark asked.
Hugh shook his head. “Bloody IRA. Suspected of coordinating several bombings, including the one at Euston.”
“Euston, you say? Bad one, that.” Mark shuffled through some papers. “Let’s see.… Our agents in the field have picked up some leads in the last week about a possible attack by the IRA.” Mark shuffled through some papers and picked one up. “Here it is, from Agent Dunham.”
“What was the target?” Hugh asked.
“Saint Paul’s Cathedral. But the time-and-date window passed.”
“Passed?”
“Yes.”
Hugh looked at the memo again. “What if the agents got the date wrong? Would be terrible if something happened to it. Change the skyline, terrify people, crush morale …”
Mark shrugged. “Don’t know, old bean.” He surveyed the mountains of papers and maps and photographs of suspects. “But I’ve got at least fifty IRA leads that are even more specific, and I suggest that’s where we put our manpower. Most of them somehow connected with one Eammon Devlin.”
“Fine,” Hugh said. “But I’m taking this memo up to Frain.”
As Hugh reached for it, Mark pulled it closer to himself. “I can take it to him,” Mark said, smelling an opportunity.
Hugh snorted. “Why? I thought you had at least fifty leads that were more specific.”
“You know, you’re really a transparent bastard. Stop trying to brownnose Frain. He doesn’t like it.”
Hugh scratched his head, unwilling to push the matter. “Fine. Forget it, then.” He snatched the memo back and jammed it underneath a towering stack of papers.He sighed, unbuttoning his top button and loosening his tie. “Anything else?”
“Ah, here’s something—that girl who was
“Hear, hear,” said old Mr. Hodgeson, a Great War veteran in the corner. “We don’t need English boysgoing to war again, just for the bloody Jews. Excuse my language.”
“Poland and Czechoslovakia are Jewish interests, it’s true,” Pierce said. “That’s the reason I’m adamant that we don’t belong in this war. Look at this young woman,” he said, nodding to Claire, who smiled back. “She’s seeing a nice young chap, she tells me. Well, what happens when this nice young chap joins up with His Majesty’s forces? What happens to her then? I’ll tell you—he’ll come home blind or maimed or worse, in a mattress cover secured with large horse-blanket safety pins. Slaughtered, just because Germany invaded Poland. And she becomes a widow—or ends up spending the rest of her life with a cripple. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again—this is an unnecessary war.”
There were tears in Claire’s eyes that threatened to overflow. “But what can we do?” she said, her knee touching Pierce’s.
“My dear,” Pierce said, his leg pressing against hers. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
SIX
M I-5 WAS OFFICIALLY known as the Imperial Security Intelligence Service—but no one called it that. Headquartered in a small office building at 58 St. James’s Street, MI-5’s mission was counterintelligence. Protecting secrets. Catching spies.
And with the Prime Minister’s blessing in wartime, at any cost, by any means necessary.
Down in smoke-filled windowless offices crammed with battered wooden desks, dented gray filing cabinets, and worn green carpeting, junior MI-5 agents toiled in obscurity.
“Mark, I need you on something.”
Mark Standish, a youngish man with tortoiseshell spectacles, looked up from the piles of photographs on his desk with tired, red-rimmed eyes. He was dark-haired and doughy. “What is it?”
“I just spoke with one of our agents,” Hugh Thompson said. “There’s a high probability that someone from the watch list was spotted in London yesterday.” Hugh was taller and slimmer, with a high forehead and deep-set green eyes. He had a tendency to stick his hands in his hair when he was frustrated, which was often, and so it stuck up at odd angles.
“Nazi?” Mark asked.
Hugh shook his head. “Bloody IRA. Suspected of coordinating several bombings, including the one at Euston.”
“Euston, you say? Bad one, that.” Mark shuffled through some papers. “Let’s see.… Our agents in the field have picked up some leads in the last week about a possible attack by the IRA.” Mark shuffled through some papers and picked one up. “Here it is, from Agent Dunham.”
“What was the target?” Hugh asked.
“Saint Paul’s Cathedral. But the time-and-date window passed.”
“Passed?”
“Yes.”
Hugh looked at the memo again. “What if the agents got the date wrong? Would be terrible if something happened to it. Change the skyline, terrify people, crush morale …”
Mark shrugged. “Don’t know, old bean.” He surveyed the mountains of papers and maps and photographs of suspects. “But I’ve got at least fifty IRA leads that are even more specific, and I suggest that’s where we put our manpower. Most of them somehow connected with one Eammon Devlin.”
“Fine,” Hugh said. “But I’m taking this memo up to Frain.”
As Hugh reached for it, Mark pulled it closer to himself. “I can take it to him,” Mark said, smelling an opportunity.
Hugh snorted. “Why? I thought you had at least fifty leads that were more specific.”
“You know, you’re really a transparent bastard. Stop trying to brownnose Frain. He doesn’t like it.”
Hugh scratched his head, unwilling to push the matter. “Fine. Forget it, then.” He snatched the memo back and jammed it underneath a towering stack of papers.He sighed, unbuttoning his top button and loosening his tie. “Anything else?”
“Ah, here’s something—that girl who was
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