There was a series of hisses and crackles on the telephone line. “Her mother’s been dead for over ten years” was the curt reply.
Dead? It didn’t sound that way in the message, at least. “Is—is there something Erica did on the anniversary of her mother’s birthday? A gift she might have left at the cemetery, perhaps? Flowers?”
“No, no—nothing of the sort. Erica’s not a sentimental girl, not at all. And her mother left us without so much as a goodbye, year before she did us the favor of dying. No gift necessary!” He slammed down the telephone.
Maggie winced and pulled the receiver away from her ear. Something’s wrong.
But before she could get any further, Sarah opened the door and stepped inside, poised as any Vogue model.
As she did, Gaskell opened his door, folder in hand. He froze, slack-jawed, gazing at Sarah in what could only be described as awe and perhaps even terror.
Maggie tried not to laugh as she saw Gaskell react to Sarah’s beauty. He stared, opening and closing his mouth like a hooked fish.
Finally he managed in his gruff voice, “And are you Miss Parry?”
“Non, monsieur,” Sarah replied in a cloud of clove cigarette smoke and L’Heure Bleue.
“Well, then—who are you, young lady?”
“Sarah Sanderson,” she replied coolly, with a mischievous side wink to Maggie. “Here to be interviewed by Miss Lynd.”
“Of course, of course,” the colonel backtracked, hastily retreating to his office. “Bonne chance, Miss Sanderson.”
“Welcome.” Maggie grinned up at her friend. But the smile faded from her lips as soon as she caught sight of the man coming through the door. Hugh Thompson, her former MI-5 partner, looked the same: tall, with green eyes and a high forehead—perhaps a bit higher now as his hairline was beginning to recede—but handsome as ever. It had been a long time since she’d seen him last, at least. Her heart turned over, and she had no idea what to do with her hands.
“Maggie!” Hugh exclaimed, whipping off his hat and twisting the brim in his hands. “Er, I mean, Miss Hope.”
“Mr. Thompson.”
“Let me guess.” Sarah angled a plucked eyebrow. “You two know each other.” She did not look pleased.
“We—worked together once,” Maggie admitted. “A long time ago.”
Sarah would not be distracted. “When?” she demanded.
Maggie was startled by her tone. “The less information we all have, the better,” she said, falling back on the standard SOE answer.
“Well.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “I bet it’s ‘a long story.’?”
“We, ah—” Hugh cleared his throat. “That is, Miss Sanderson and I, have an appointment to see Miss Lynd.”
“Of course,” Maggie replied. She scooped up the telephone receiver and dialed the extension. “Miss Sanderson and Mr. Thompson to see you, ma’am.” Maggie listened, then replaced the receiver. “Miss Lynd is ready for you now. Second door on the right.”
“Thanks,” Hugh said to Maggie. “It’s…er, good to see you again, Miss Hope.”
Sarah began to walk down the hall. “Come on!” she called back to Hugh. “Miss Lynd is waiting!”
“Don’t mention it.” Maggie did her best not to blush. “It’s good to see you again, too, Mr. Thompson.”
—
Miss Lynd rose and proffered a heavily ringed hand to both Sarah and Hugh, then settled herself back behind her desk, glowing in the thin strips of feeble sunlight allowed in by the wooden venetian blinds. She lit a cigarette, eyes fixed upon the new recruits as they removed their coats—Hugh helping Sarah with hers—and then took seats across from her. Sarah tried to rub some warmth into her hands through her gloves.
“You’ve been training in Arisaig?” Miss Lynd asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” Sarah answered for both of them.
“Well, you might as well know each other’s real names now. Sarah Sanderson, meet—officially now—Hugh Thompson.”
“A pleasure,” Hugh said.
Sarah colored. “Likewise.”
“Miss Sanderson,” Miss Lynd said, “according to your file, you’ve spent a lot of time in France, Paris, on the ?le St.-Louis specifically.”
“Yes. My grandmother lived there. We would visit her every summer when I was younger.”
“You speak French well?”
“Je suis bilingue, Madame. Ma grand-mère m’a tout appris.”
Miss Lynd opened a folder. “Your reports are good,” she stated, paging through. “Your physicals, your psychological examinations.” She looked to Hugh. “And how is your French, Mr. Thompson?”
“J’ai passé deux ans à la Sorbonne, Madame. Ca, c’est à vous de me dire.”
Miss Lynd gave a slow nod. “Not bad, not bad at all.” She contemplated them, as if trying to make up her mind. Finally, she spoke. “Miss Sanderson and Mr. Thompson. You each did assessment and training at Wanborough Manor, then paramilitary work in Scotland. You completed your parachute training at Ringway airfield, then continued on to our so-called Finishing School at Beaulieu in Hampshire.” Miss Lynd pronounced it the English way—Bew-lee.
“Yes, ma’am,” Hugh answered.
“You both also have special skills—Miss Sanderson, you as a ballet dancer, and Mr. Thompson, you as a cellist.” Though she rarely visited the training schools herself, Miss Lynd received regular reports from instructors as each agent progressed. She looked down again at the file on Sarah Sanderson. Too beautiful, one instructor had noted. Will only draw attention. Too headstrong. Too used to getting her own way. DO NOT recommend.
But Miss Lynd ignored the comments. She’d become quite used to the skeptical, if not downright damning, comments that came back to her about the women trainees from the men in charge. The male staff at the schools appeared awestruck by the “feminine” qualities of the women, who were “painstaking,” “lacking in guile,” and “innocent.” Either that, or they were “too fast,” “devious,” and “slatternly.” What the men really meant, in Miss Lynd’s opinion, was that women shouldn’t be serving behind enemy lines at all.
Sarah reached into her handbag and pulled out a cloisonné cigarette case. Hugh pulled out his lighter and flicked it for her.
Miss Lynd shook her head. “No smoking, Miss Sanderson.”
Both looked to her, and one of Sarah’s perfectly angled eyebrows shot up as Hugh’s flame went out.
Miss Lynd held up a hand, her rings sparking in the light. “In France, women do not smoke. Only the men receive cigarette rations now. And women smoking is forbidden by the Nazis—it’s not considered ‘ladylike’ and might not be healthy for any children of the Reich.” She leaned forward. “It’s not only the language you must perfect but all the details.”
“Is that it? The big news? We’re going to France?” Sarah put her cigarette case away and snapped the bag closed.
“This has all been rather hush-hush, you know,” Hugh added.
Miss Lynd leaned back in her chair before replying. “What is it you think you’re going to be asked to do? Any clues from your training? Your interviews?”
“Commando work, I’d say,” guessed Hugh. “At least given the curriculum—parachute jumping, stealth shore landings at night, blowing up bridges and roads, using intermediaries, bo?tes aux lettres, Morse code, and the like. And somewhere in France, I’d guess by the language classes. But—”
“Yes?”
“But there were—ah—women training alongside men. And Miss Sanderson is a…a woman.” He cleared his throat. “Obviously.”
Sarah smiled. “I’m glad you noticed, darling. Those jumpsuits we wore weren’t at all flattering.”
Miss Lynd suppressed a smile. “Actually, Mr. Thompson, women are our secret weapon here at SOE. We women are underestimated by the Germans. And while most men of fighting age are being shipped off to the East, women may still travel freely.” She looked directly at Hugh. “Do you have a problem with working with female agents, Mr. Thompson?”
“No, no, I’ve worked with female agents before, that is, a female agent in particular, but not—”
Sarah blinked. “Do you mean Maggie?”
“Miss Sanderson!” Miss Lynd barked, and Sarah jumped in her seat. “The less you know about your fellow agents in this business, the better.”