“Sorry,” Sarah amended.
“Back to the subject at hand,” Miss Lynd chastised. “We’d like you both to go to occupied France.”
Sarah and Hugh exchanged looks. “What would our mission be?” the dancer asked.
“First, are you amenable?”
Both nodded.
“I need verbal confirmation.”
“Yes,” they replied in unison.
“When would we leave?” Sarah asked.
“All in good time, Miss Sanderson. You both have one last training session, in a house called Blackbridge, in Beaulieu, on the estate of Lord Montagu. You’ll be given French identities—names, backgrounds, everything. All your papers for your new identities will be in order. During your time in Hampshire, you will speak only French. And you must stay ‘in character’ for your entire stay.”
“And then?” Hugh asked.
“And then, after a final evaluation—if you prove ready—you’ll be sent to France.”
“To do what exactly?”
“I can only paint in the broadest strokes—your mission will be to help organize resistance and serve as liaisons to London. You’ll be told specifics if and when you pass the final tests of the Finishing School.”
Sarah looked to Hugh with a broad smile. “So, we’re to work together, then?”
“Yes, it will be part of your cover story. You’ll be filled in on all the details when you reach Beaulieu. Do you agree?”
“I do,” the two said.
“You will leave today. You’ll take the train from Waterloo to Brockenhurst this afternoon, and you’ll be met at the station by an SOE agent.”
“And, if all goes well, when would we leave for France?”
“That’s unclear at the moment. If you’re approved, there are other variables—what’s going on there, what’s needed, the phases of the moon…They will let you know if and when you’re ready. Do you have any questions?”
“What should I tell my mother?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, mine’s wondering, too. I’ve been vague so far, but I can’t put her off forever,” Hugh added.
“You must continue to be evasive, I’m afraid,” Miss Lynd answered, “but you might now begin to give vague hints about ‘going away.’ You’ve done tours with the Vic-Wells Ballet, Miss Sanderson—it’s similar. One more thing before you go—why do you want to do this? It’s undeniably dangerous.”
“The Nazis killed my grandmother,” Sarah responded bluntly. “I hate the Germans. I hate them for killing her, for taking Paris, for invading France, for bombing us. The list is endless, really. I hate them, I hate them with all of my soul. And I want to get a bit of my own back.”
Miss Lynd’s face remained impassive. “And you, Mr. Thompson?”
“Everyone’s doing something. I want to do my duty as well.”
“A rather bland response, Mr. Thompson.”
“Well, then, because of God.”
Miss Lynd’s impassive mask wavered. “Excuse me?”
“At university, I studied religion. Almost became an Anglican priest, if you can believe it. I believe in God, and I believe in Satan, and I also believe we are called on to fight evil wherever we may find it. Working for the SOE seems like a good way to do my part.”
“And, if necessary, are you prepared to kill in the line of duty, Mr. Thompson? Would that action square with your beliefs?”
Hugh nodded. “Yes, I’m prepared to kill, although of course I’d prefer not to. If given the option.”
“You might not have an option.” Miss Lynd took one last look at the couple, then rummaged through a desk drawer. “Here you go.” She pulled out an envelope and handed it to Hugh. “These are tickets back to Brockenhurst. You’re approved for the next stage of your training. Good luck to you both.”
They all stood, and Miss Lynd showed the two interviewees out. In the front room, Hugh waved goodbye while Sarah avoided Maggie’s eyes.
Maggie gave a small wave, but as soon as the door closed behind them, her face fell. Was Sarah angry with her? Had she accidentally done something wrong?
If Miss Lynd noticed how pale Maggie had become, she gave no sign. “I’m going to make a cup of tea to try to warm up—would you like one?” she asked the younger woman.
“No. Thank you.” But Maggie followed Miss Lynd into the kitchenette. “Miss Sanderson and Mr. Thompson are doing the exact same job, but she’s making two-thirds of what he is. If they’re caught overseas, he’ll be held as a POW, while she’ll be executed as a spy. And they both have single, aging mothers. If they die in the line of duty, Mr. Thompson’s mother will receive his pension, while Miss Sanderson’s will receive—nothing.”
“Yes,” Miss Lynd said, tapping a foot as she waited for the kettle to boil.
“And you’re all right with this?” Maggie persisted, pulling her sweater around her.
Miss Lynd turned to face her. “One war at a time, Miss Hope.” The kettle whistled and she turned off the gas.
Maggie wouldn’t give up. “Speaking of war,” she continued, “I’ve gone over all of Agent Calvert’s communiqués again. There’s every reason to believe she’s been compromised—things just aren’t adding up. If she’s in enemy hands and our team goes in for the extraction—well, not only is she already in danger, but they’re likely to be taken out as well.”
“What does Colonel Gaskell have to say about all this?”
“The colonel doesn’t seem at all concerned.”
There was a long pause. “Then you shouldn’t be, either.” On the reception desk down the hall, the telephone rang with a shrill bleat. “I believe that’s your cue,” Miss Lynd pointed out.
Maggie ran to pick up the telephone receiver. “Good morning. You’ve reached Inter-Services Research Bureau—may I help you?”
“Director General Peter Frain for Miss Margaret Hope,” shrilled a woman’s voice.
“This is she.”
There was a series of clicks as Peter Frain, head of MI-5, got on the line. There was a pause, then, “Hello, Maggie.”
“Hello, Peter.” Even years later, it felt odd to be on a first-name basis with the director general of MI-5. The man who’d gotten Maggie involved with SOE in the first place.
“You must come to my office. Immediately.”
She wound the telephone cord around her hand. “I—I’m at work, sir.”
Frain was undeterred. “Yes, I know where you are—obviously. Tell them it’s MI-Five. They’ll understand.”
Maggie looked up at Miss Lynd, who was retreating to her office with her steaming mug of tea.
“Yes, sir.” Maggie hung up the receiver. She knocked on Colonel Gaskell’s door.
“What is it, Meggie?”
“I need to leave, sir.”
“Leave?” He arched one eyebrow. “Leave? May I ask where you need to be that’s so important? A hairdressing appointment, perhaps? A dress fitting? An engagement party?”
Maggie really, really, really wanted to roll her eyes—but refrained. “Director General Peter Frain wants to see me as soon as possible, sir.” She was gratified to see the Colonel startle and his pale eyes widen.
“But—but we need you here! Who will make our tea?”
“Mr. Frain said to tell you it’s MI-Five business and you’d understand, sir.”
Once again, Gaskell’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. Finally, he managed, “Women! Flibbertigibbets! All of you!”
“Yes, sir.” Maggie gave him her best noncommittal look. “It’s important, sir.”
“Of course it is,” he spluttered. “Well, then, go! Go!”
“Sir, about Agent Calvert—” Maggie took a deep breath. “In her latest communiqué, she mentioned something about a birthday gift for her mother. But her mother’s been dead for over ten years. And when I spoke with her father—”
“Blast Agent Calvert!” He flushed red. “Blast her mother! And blast her father! Off with you to MI-Five, then!” he managed, waving his hands. “And bring me back a Sally Lunn roll when you return!”
“Yes, sir.” Before Maggie put on her coat, hat, and gloves, she made sure to lock the latest transmissions back in the filing cabinet. Hang in there, Erica….
And Brynn, where are you?
—