“I am going to teach you how to save your own life, Maisie. How to keep yourself safe.”
By the time the motor car arrived to collect Maisie for the journey to London, where she would lodge at a flat close to Victoria for just a few hours, the English language seemed almost alien to her, and she was tired to the bone. As soon as she was settled in the small flat, which was situated in the center of a nondescript mews just ten minutes’ walk from the station, MacFarlane knocked at her door. With him was a woman who was to fit Maisie with a shoulder-length wig of deep coppery brown hair. She also carried a small suitcase packed with clothing that fit Maisie, and which she would probably have chosen herself if Priscilla had not recently insisted that she buy nothing without her sartorial advice. The garments were plain, of fine quality, and in dark or muted shades—a heavy tweed coat, a navy skirt, a pale blue silk blouse, another matching jacket and dress costume in a deep burgundy wool barathea. There was nothing to attract attention. Soft leather shoes that were a perfect fit had been slipped into the case; and a heavier pair of walking shoes had been provided for travel purposes, and to stand up to the weather in Munich, expected to be much colder than London. There would be no Prince Charming to slip a new slipper onto her foot and whisk her away to another life.
All travel documents provided were in the same name as on the passport MacFarlane handed to her, along with the papers she would be required to relinquish to the German authorities upon her arrival in Munich. There she would be issued with more documents to secure the release of Leon Donat—the man she would call “Papa”—from the prison in Dachau. She was now officially Edwina Donat.
“You’re on your way, Miss Donat.” MacFarlane nodded to the woman who had fitted Maisie’s wig and demonstrated how to secure and style hair that was so unlike her own. The woman put away the brushes and combs, the wigs that were not deemed satisfactory, and left the room with an almost silent step. Maisie realized that she might pass the woman in the street and never recognize her; she was an everywoman, with no significant features to mark her as memorable.
MacFarlane pressed his lips together as if to stop himself uttering words he might regret. “You know what to do—stick to the plan we’ve given you, and you should have no problems at all. You just go in, say everything we’ve told you to say, then collect Leon Donat and board the train, all in double-quick time. I know I can trust you not to linger to see the sights. We want you and Donat in Paris and then in not-so-sunny London post-bloody-haste.”
“Don’t worry—I want to get back as soon as possible too.”
“Are you sure you won’t agree to an aeroplane out of Munich, hen? You only have to say, and it’s done—we can make arrangements now, and believe me, Maisie, we would rather you—”
Maisie smiled. MacFarlane was almost going soft, she thought, calling her “hen.”
“If my remit is as straightforward as you’ve described, the train will be as good as flying, and before you know it we’ll have crossed the border into France. After that, it’s only a quick hop to the finish line.”
MacFarlane nodded. Then he opened a small attaché case he had brought with him. He reached into it and took out a revolver.
“This is for you. My own personal kit. Same revolver, slightly modified. It’ll feel lighter in your hand, but handle it the same and you’ll be all right. It’s been lucky for me, and I expect you to return it personally. I’ll see you in Paris. On Thursday. All right, Fr?ulein Donat?”
Maisie laughed. “Paris. On Thursday. And you’d better have more than just a wee dram waiting for me.”
“Hen, I will have a bloody great bottle of a good eighteen-year-old malt and a couple of glasses at the ready. Now then . . .” He faltered. “Now then—do your job and come home.”
“Leave now, Robbie, before you go soppy on me.”
MacFarlane gave one more nod and left. Maisie was on her own—except, perhaps, for the assumed character of Edwina Donat.
Maisie thought she might try to sleep for a couple of hours before she had to leave for Victoria Station to catch the Night Ferry train service to Paris. She lay down on top of the bed and closed her eyes, thinking of the journey ahead. The sleeper train would transport her across the Channel and to the French capital, where she would undergo a swift final briefing from Huntley, perhaps with new intelligence, before setting off again on the express train to Munich.