“Two questions, neither of which you have answered. One: Why me? And two: Who is Donat really?”
“I’ll answer the second question first. Leon Donat is exactly the man I have described—a man of commerce, an engineer, a dabbler in the world of publishing. He is a man of great curiosity who uses his money to support the endeavors of others and to promote education—we thought you would like that about him. But Donat is also what we call a boffin.”
“A what?”
“Boffin, Maisie,” MacFarlane interjected. “Bit of a tinkerer.”
“Maisie, he is rather more than that,” said Huntley. “Calling him a boffin is a slight in good heart, if you will—an affectionate insult, mainly because people like me do not really understand people like Leon Donat. We know only one thing—they are very valuable because they do not think like others of their ilk. Donat is not just an engineer but an inventor. It’s his pastime, and it has served him well—his company has developed many interesting bits and pieces over the years. Such men—and women, let it be said—will become more important to us in the coming months.” He sighed, and for the first time Maisie was aware of his hesitation. He looked up at her, then at MacFarlane. “I can tell you no more than this, for this information might lead to your death if you fall into the wrong hands. But we have come to understand that Donat has developed plans for a very specific type of seaworthy landing craft. The trouble is, the plans are all up here.” He tapped the side of his head.
“A boat?” asked Maisie.
“No, not a boat. A vessel. A very advanced vessel of its type.”
“What would this vessel be used for?” asked Maisie.
“There’s only one thing a landing craft might be used for, Maisie—and that is an invasion to meet an enemy,” said MacFarlane.
Maisie was silent, looking once again past the men to the Cenotaph beyond, the grand memorial to the war’s dead, still surrounded with brown-edged red poppy wreaths from November’s Armistice ceremony.
She sighed and turned to Huntley. “And what about my first question? Why me?”
MacFarlane answered, “We considered several possibilities, Maisie, and we kept coming back to you. We need someone with a calm head on her, someone we can work on to make her resemble Edwina Donat. For a start, she has your height.”
Maisie nodded slowly. “And I suppose, in your estimation, I have something else going for me. I have nothing to lose.”
Silence enveloped the room.
“One more thing, Maisie. You should know that the meeting you attend at Nazi headquarters will be conducted by a member of the SS—the Schutzstaffel. It is a powerful paramilitary organization formed by the Nazi Party, and now under the jurisdiction of a man named Himmler, whom we believe to be a most dangerous individual. The SS encompasses quite a few investigative, military, and administrative departments, including the Gestapo, a secret police force; the Waffen SS, an elite fighting force; and the security service. It also controls the prisons and other disciplinary camps, which seem to be sprouting up like mushrooms.”
“So if I put a foot wrong, a trapdoor opens and I’m lost forever—is that it?”
“Not quite, but it’s important for you to know the lie of the land.” MacFarlane pushed a document toward Maisie. “You’ve already signed one of these in the past, but just to make sure, we’d like another signed copy for our files.”
“Is this the ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, I won’t tell anyone’ promise to king and country? Official secrets and all that?”
“Yes.”
“So you think I am still going to say yes, even given the risks you’ve described?”
MacFarlane grinned. “We know you are.”
“How?”
“Because after everything you’ve been told in this little meeting, if you say no, I’ll have to kill you. Now then, lass, sign the bloody form and let’s get on with it. You’ve got some training to do.”
“Training?” said Maisie as she picked up the navy-blue fountain pen Huntley had passed to her.
“Give me a few days, and you’ll be shooting like a sniper, Maisie. And you’ll know how to kill a man—so he doesn’t kill you first.”
“Did you see any flats you liked, Maisie?” Priscilla handed Maisie a gin and tonic. “Don’t worry, I only waved the bottle over your glass so the tonic absorbed a few fumes.”
Maisie took the glass. “I think, after this afternoon, I could do with a real one!” She moved the glass as Priscilla reached to take it from her. “No, not really—it’s still a bit early for me. Perhaps a little later I’ll have a normal gin and tonic, though.”
“No luck with the flat-hunting, then?” Priscilla slipped off her shoes and made herself comfortable against the opposite arm of the sofa.
Maisie shook her head. “I’m looking for something light and airy, overlooking a square or with a garden, perhaps, and close to the Underground.”
“What about Fitzroy Square? It’s still not the best area, but you like it there.”