During the circuitous journey to Bond Street, the two men had revealed the bare bones of the assignment the Secret Service had in mind for Maisie. The more detailed briefing took place the following day. Arriving at an address in Whitehall, she was escorted along a labyrinthine web of corridors until she reached the department presided over by Brian Huntley. She had first met Huntley some years before, when he was a field intelligence agent sent to follow her and bring her to the Paris headquarters of his department. She’d felt shock, and no small amount of betrayal, when she realized that his superior was none other than Maurice Blanche, her longtime mentor. Following Maurice’s death, the house in Paris became part of her inheritance, and though it was leased to the British government, an apartment on the upper floors originally kept for Maurice’s personal use was now where she stayed in Paris.
In the meantime, here she was, about to meet Priscilla for a shopping expedition, feeling as if she were straddling two different worlds. In a final letter to Maisie, Maurice had written, “You will be called to service as I was prior to and during the last war. I believe you are ready and suited to any challenges that come your way.” He had closed his note with the words, “And I predict that they will be the making of you.”
As she walked along Bond Street, she sensed tears welling. A few years earlier, as a new bride in Canada, she had thought that motherhood would be the making of her. Now she felt quite alone.
“Ah, Maisie—let’s take a more comfortable seat.” Huntley extended his hand toward a table set alongside the far wall of the spacious room. The chairs were of solid dark wood, with padded leather seats. An envelope marked with her name indicated her place. She picked up the envelope and moved to another seat, this one facing across the room to the window, which looked out across Whitehall. From this position she could just see the top of the Cenotaph, Sir Edwin Lutyens’ memorial to the dead of the Great War.
“Interesting move, Maisie,” said MacFarlane. He’d taken a second look at Maisie as she entered, his eyes glancing from the magenta two-piece costume Priscilla had persuaded her into buying to her short hair, which was partially covered by a neat black narrow-brimmed hat in the fashionable Robin Hood style, embellished by a single gray feather.
“I’d like to be reminded of the reason I’m doing this,” she replied as she pulled out her chair.
Huntley cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s start by going over a few points from our little chat yesterday.”
MacFarlane looked at Maisie and raised an eyebrow. The “little chat” had taken them down to Covent Garden, along the Strand, around Buckingham Palace, up toward Piccadilly, along Regent Street, to Oxford Circus, and finally to Bond Street. The most crooked taxicab driver could not have taken a more rambling route. But that was the informal conversation. This was the formal briefing.
Huntley opened his manila folder, removed the green tags securing one document to another, and pushed a photograph of an older man toward Maisie. She estimated him to be in his mid-sixties.