“But there’s respect there, one for the other—always is among enemies when they’re strong. And these men with their businesses have enemies all over the place. Donat has them in Germany, as Huntley told you in the briefing. You see, Maisie, you and I, we’re not of this world of commerce, but I can tell you one thing—there are more captains of industry than officers on the battlefield willing to kill a man. And people like Leon Donat—quiet, methodical, thoughtful, yet very, very clever—they will always have as many against them as for them. But as we know, Donat’s people were always for him.” He blew out his cheeks. “Anyway, at least Otterburn is on our side, Maisie.”
Surrounded by mature Leylandi cypresses, and fields and forest beyond, the house had originally been built in the early 1600s, with a later addition in the mid-eighteenth century. At the back, overlooking the manicured lawns, it had the hallmarks of a Tudor palace, with beamed construction and candy-cane chimneys. Maisie thought the front of the mansion would have been at home in Georgian Bath—she imagined Jane Austen taking a turn around the fountain that divided the carriage sweep. But it was now the twentieth century, and it was clear the building no longer accommodated a well-to-do landowner, or a clergyman with an enviable personal income over and above a church stipend. Each day she saw a few men and women coming and going, some toward various outbuildings, others—mostly women—scurrying along corridors clutching folders, or writing notes as they went. No one stopped to converse with her, and if they greeted her, it was in German. Every teacher—from Strupper to the man who told her exactly how she could use her pen as a weapon—now spoke to her in German. She took her meals in her well-appointed rooms, the maid announcing her entrance with “Guten Tag, Fr?ulein Donat. Ich bin hier mit dem Essen—hoffen wir, dass Sie hungrig sind!” Good day, Miss Donat. I’m here with your food—I hope you’re hungry! Or perhaps “Guten Abend, Fr?ulein Donat. Es war so kalt heute, so habe ich einige hei?e Suppe für Sie.” Good evening, Miss Donat. It has been so cold today, so I have some hot soup for you. In general the conversation amounted to a comment on the weather, and a desire to know whether Maisie—or Fr?ulein Donat, as she was now known—was hungry, because Cook had made something special for her. At first Maisie offered a halting “Thank you” in German, but necessity forced her to dredge her memory’s depths for the language she had learned almost twenty years earlier, and even then it was only enough to get her through the basics of polite conversation. In one week she was not expected to demonstrate fluency, but she needed to be able to offer pleasantries—and to grasp the essence of any conversations taking place around her.
On the morning of Maisie’s penultimate day at the manor house she found a note pushed under her bedroom door, informing her that she should proceed to the conference room following her lesson with Mr. Strupper, which was planned for the hour just after lunch. There was no indication of whom she would be meeting, or if preparation was required.
With a high-pitched whine still ringing in her ears, Maisie made her way down from the shooting range to the conference room. She had been to the room only once before, on her first day. It was here that she received her schedule for the week and instructions regarding how her immersion in the unknown territory of what she considered to be diplomatic risk-taking would proceed. The walls were lined in dark wood, with some panels bearing a coat of arms and others carved to depict hunting scenes and vine fruit. Rich velvet curtains draped leaded windows, and a heavy iron chandelier hung over the table. As she entered the room, two things struck her: the smell of lavender and beeswax, as if copious amounts of the polish were used every day on the long table and sturdy chairs, and a woman standing by the window, looking out across the gardens. The woman turned as Maisie closed the door behind her.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Maisie.
Dr. Francesca Thomas stepped toward Maisie. “Dear me, we’re failing you if you’ve managed to forget to speak in German at the first shock of the day!”
Maisie had met Francesca Thomas several years earlier, during her first assignment for Huntley. MacFarlane was still with Special Branch at the time, but it was to him that she reported on her work at a college in Cambridge, where there was a suspicion that subversive activities against the Crown were taking place. Maisie had taken on an academic appointment in an undercover capacity. In time she realized that Dr. Francesca Thomas was also working in a clandestine role, but for the Belgian government. Later Maisie learned that Thomas was a woman of great bravery, having been a member of La Dame Blanche—a resistance network of mainly women engaged in intelligence activities, including surveillance and sabotage against their German occupiers. It was Thomas who had warned Maisie that having worked on behalf of the British Secret Service, she would never be free.
Thomas reached out and placed her hands on Maisie’s shoulders, as if to inspect her. “You’ve weathered some storms, Maisie.”
“No more than you, Dr. Thomas.”
“Francesca, please. And in a break with the formality established since your arrival, you will not be required to converse in German during this meeting.”