MacFarlane laughed. “Lassie, it’s a wee feather compared to anything I was brandishing in the war! Now then, this is what they call a short-range weapon, so don’t be looking down the street and thinking you can take down a man who’s fifty yards away. But she’s a nifty little thing—you don’t have to put a lot of effort into firing, and it’s an easy reload. First of all, though, let’s get this bit over and done with, and we’ll go through it again. Then you’ll be in the hands of Strupper—that’s him over there, watching. He’s our weapons man. He’ll be in charge of making you what they call a crack shot. By the time he’s finished with you, you could make a few bob as a sniper.”
“Why am I not starting with Mr. Strupper?”
“Because I wanted to see the whites of your eyes when you used a revolver for the first time, Maisie. Now then, off you go—aim and do your best.”
Maisie was sure MacFarlane would not have missed the whites of her eyes from quite a distance, though she did her best to keep her arm steady and her attention on the target. She had always considered reason to be the most powerful weapon in any arsenal, along with compassion, empathy, and a desire to see into the heart of another person. And as a nurse she had seen the terrible wounds inflicted by guns of any stripe, so she’d never wanted to handle one. But something had changed in her too. She recognized the need to be armed, should she need to use such a weapon to protect Leon Donat. Bringing him back to England would be akin to carrying a very valuable piece of china in her hands. He had to be delivered to Brian Huntley without damage.
She looked at the target, squinted just a little, and held up the revolver. She felt the weight in her hand as she cast her line of sight along the barrel, leveling it with the bull’s-eye. Fearing movement in her hand as she discharged the weapon, she felt herself tighten the muscles in her shoulder. She pulled back on the trigger, fighting the urge to close her eyes. The report ricocheted from ear to ear, filling her mind, and she almost dropped the gun.
“Well, that’s a surprise, your ladyship.”
“Robbie—I’ve told you about that. No titles.”
“I should call you ‘her snipership.’”
Maisie looked in the direction of the target.
“Good shot, Maisie. A perfect bull’s-eye. Now let’s get the expert in to make sure it wasn’t beginner’s luck. And this afternoon we’ll up the ante.”
“What do you mean?”
“How to get rid of the unwanted individual when you don’t have a gun.”
“And how will I do that?”
“Oh, the pen in your handbag is a start.”
Maisie looked at the ground and felt her head swim. At that moment she wished someone else could have taken on the guise of Leon Donat’s daughter.
The grand country house where Robert MacFarlane had left Maisie in the hands of a man known only to her as “Mr. Strupper” was, she surmised, somewhere in the Cotswolds. MacFarlane had apologized for the need to blindfold her about an hour into their journey—the “blindfold” having been a pair of darkglasses with opaque lenses—so she could only guess at the location. She would be in situ for one week, and would leave directly from the mansion for Victoria Station, where she would board the express train, bound for Munich via ferry across the English Channel.
It was during the journey that Maisie decided to tell MacFarlane about John Otterburn. She recounted their conversation at the newly decorated flat in Primrose Hill.
MacFarlane pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Lass, there are certain people—your Mr. Otterburn being one of them—who are, as I am sure you know, ‘untouchable.’ They have too much value because they know too much, can do too much, and have made themselves indispensable. The canny Canadian is involved in ways you would not even be able to imagine when it comes to protecting these British Isles.” MacFarlane shook his head and sighed. “When we do business with men such as Mr. Otterburn, we shake hands with the devil we know. And what we know is that he has access to information we would rather he did not have.” He looked at Maisie. “So he told you only that he knew you were off to Munich.”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t have a reason for letting you know.”
“No.”
“He didn’t want you to look up an old friend, did he?”
Maisie shook her head.
“I daresay he’s just interested. By all accounts he wasn’t fond of Leon Donat. Not at all—Donat was the tortoise to Otterburn’s hare when it came to a very big order for machine tools, from a company down Brazil way. About ten years ago, I think it was. Otterburn thought he had it in the bag—all that flash he has, he thought he’d won the day over Donat. But no, they preferred to do business with the man who appeared more solid.”
“I see,” said Maisie.