Freddie pulled over the Times Mr. Greene had left and scanned the articles. Most were about the meeting between Winston Churchill and Franklin D. Roosevelt, the eight points of their Atlantic Charter, and if and when the United States would finally commit to war. “Well, well, well,” Freddie muttered, tossing the paper aside. “Close, but no cigar, eh, Winnie?”
Chapter Fifteen
Edmund Hope took the train from Bletchley to London the next day, to go to MI-5 and speak with Hugh Thompson.
They sat down together on a bench in Hyde Park, watching a group of boys dressed in white with straw boaters playing cricket with a red leather ball and a willow bat. The clouds were dark and sullen. “As it turns out,” Edmund said, “the sequence of numbers and letters you gave me wasn’t actually a code. It was a numeric description.”
Hugh cocked an eyebrow.
“Translated, it tells us that Hess wants Stefan Krueger to obtain a large supply of fluoride and dump it into nine of London’s water reservoirs.”
“To what effect, Professor Hope?”
“Well, back in the day, the Russians used sodium fluoride in the gulags’ water supply to control their prisoners. They thought that ingesting repeated small doses of fluoride would, in time, poison certain areas of the brain—making the prisoners easier to control. My guess is that they shared this information with the Nazis. And now Commandant Hess”—he spat the name—“wants to use sodium fluoride to poison our water, most likely to make the British population easier to control during an invasion.”
Hugh ran his hand through his hair until it was standing on end. “Is it true? Would it really do that?”
Edmund watched the boys at cricket, undeterred by the heat. Their shouts rang through the humid air. “It’s unclear. I spoke to Professor Ingold at University College London—one of the most brilliant chemists we have. I asked him if, in a hypothetical situation, an enemy dropped a significant amount of sodium fluoride into one of London’s water reservoirs—what would happen.”
“What did he say?” Hugh asked, mopping his face with a handkerchief.
“More or less that it would do nothing, nothing at all. Well, it might kill any plants that it came in contact with at full strength—plants and perhaps fish. The person doing the dropping would have to wear goggles, a breathing mask, and gloves. But Ingold said the effect on London’s drinking water would be minimal, if any.”
“What did he think about the evidence from the gulags—and from the Nazis?”
“Laughed, actually. Said he’d heard about the research done at I.G. Farben in Germany with sodium fluoride, but he didn’t think they were the most impartial of scientists—maybe even were working with a chemical company who wanted to get rid of the fluoride, make a little money off the deal. But from the double-blind studies Ingold’s seen, small amounts of sodium fluoride have no effect on the human brain—and may even have the added benefit of preventing tooth decay.” Edmund smiled, a rare sight. “According to Ingold, some fluoride in the drinking water might be doing Britons a favor in terms of dental health. If, of course, such a drop were to take place.”
He pulled out a silver hip flask and opened it. He offered it to Hugh, who shook his head. Edmund took a large swallow and contemplated the clouds. Then he asked, “Any word from our girl in Berlin?”
“Still there,” Hugh said, a stone in his throat.
“Still there? But—why?”
“I honestly don’t know, sir.”
“Has she been captured?”
“I don’t believe so. Although, as you know, I’m not in the loop on this one.”
“Well.”
“Yes.” Hugh folded his newspaper. “If that’s all then?”
“That’s all. Just curious—what are you going to do about the fluoride and the reservoir?”
“You mean, how will I prove to”—Hugh stumbled—“to Clara Hess that Krueger dropped fluoride in the water?” His eyes darkened. He jutted his chin at the flask. “Professor Hope, do you mind if I have a sip of whatever you’re having there?”
Edmund nodded and passed the flask.
This time Hugh took a pull, then passed it back, smiling a grim smile. “Let’s just say I have a few ideas.”
“You know”—Edmund took a drink himself—“in the midst of everything that went on at Windsor, I never had a chance to say how sorry I am. For your father. His death. His murder.”
Hugh was shocked. “Th-thank you, sir.”
“And, of course, how dreadfully sorry I am for my former wife’s part in it.” Edmund passed the flask back to Hugh.
“It had nothing to do with you, sir.” Hugh took a long swallow and passed the flask back.
“No,” Edmund said, taking the flask. “But still.”
“Thank you for that.”
“And about the accusation of my being a double agent?”
Hugh braced himself.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
Hugh didn’t know what to say until he saw Edmund’s face crease into another smile. “No—no, sir. I promise. I’ll never do that again.”
The men sat in silence, passing the flask back and forth, watching the boys play.
Herr Oberg’s dining room had more mounted antlers than art, and even the few oil paintings framed in gold were of hunting scenes. Glass eyes stared down at the guests assembled below, high-ranking Nazis and their wives. Rows of servants lined the walls.
Maggie, dressed in the gown she’d worn to the Fire and Ice Ball and wearing the late Frau Oberg’s jewels, was sitting at the foot of the long table where the guests included, Maggie noted with a frisson of fear, Dr. Goebbels and his wife. During all of her time in Germany, she’d never been more afraid. Her knees were shaking under the table, and she grasped her hands tightly so they wouldn’t tremble.
Still, no one seemed to expect much from her, certainly not coherent conversation, and for once she was grateful. She pushed roast pork around her plate, trying to smile and laugh at the appropriate times. There was a small commotion at the head of the table as Herr Oberg stood to propose a toast. “To Judenrein!” he proclaimed, lifting his glass of champagne.
The rest raised their glasses in response. “To Judenrein!” they intoned.
Maggie, too, raised her glass. She forced herself to say the words, which she knew meant “Jew-free.” She set her face in a smile and took a sip.
“And yet,” Goebbels said, “according to Himmler there are still more than four thousand Jews left in Berlin, and many of them are in hiding. We have a long way until we will perfect the Reich.”
Herr Oberg, flushed with wine, was in a jovial mood. “Like rats, we will flush them out!”
Goebbels nodded. “Those ghettos in Poland are getting crowded, I hear. And winter is coming.… That would take care of quite a few, I think.”
“I’d thought Britain would have surrendered by now,” Oberg grumbled.
“We all did. But Britain’s still fighting. And with her navy still on patrol, we can’t afford to take any of our ships out of commission to use for transportation. We’d counted on using Britain’s fleet.” Goebbels sighed. “If we only knew where to put several million Jews, there would not be so many after all.” Then, “Nach Russland abkarren … am Bestan wäre es, diese überhaupt.”
It took Maggie a moment to translate. The rest of the Berlin Jews should be carted off to Russia, but best of all would be to kill them.
Her stomach knotted as they once again clinked glasses and laughed.
“Your work is also vitally important, Herr Oberg,” Goebbels remarked as the dishes were cleared.
“Thank you, sir,” Oberg replied, flushing with pleasure.
“You’ve dealt with plenty of Mischlinge in your line of work, yes?”
“Of course,” Oberg replied. “And we are ever becoming more efficient.”
“Efficient, yes.” Goebbels turned to Maggie, his dark eyes piercing hers. “Fräulein Hoffman, you seem to be making the social rou
nds these days. First I see you at Clara Hess’s party, now at Herr Oberg’s table. Tell me—is Gottlieb Lehrer’s loss Herr Oberg’s gain?”
That brought roars of laughter from the men and some uncomfortable looks from the women.
Maggie knew she had to tread carefully. “It’s lovely to see you and your beautiful wife again, Dr. Goebbels,” she answered. “I work for Herr Oberg now, as a companion to his daughter. He most graciously asked me to take part in this dinner party.”
Goebbels’s eyes narrowed. “Last time we spoke, you were with young Lehrer, and going to interview for a secretarial position with Göring.”
Maggie made her lips twist into a smile. “Neither seemed to work out, sir,” she replied.
“And then you vanished into thin air!”
Maggie dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, to hide the shaking of her hands. “Hardly, sir. I’m certainly enjoying my time with Fröulein Oberg and the wonderful lake air.”
“Do you happen to be in touch with Frau Hess?” Goebbels asked, as the servants began to carry in Birnentorte, a chocolate and pear cake. “She seems to be quite taken with you.”
Maggie nearly dropped her napkin. “N-no, sir.”
He waited for the plate to be set down in front of him before saying, “She’s been trying to find you.”
“R-really,” Maggie managed.
“Yes.” Goebbels smiled. “You should send her a note when you have a chance. I think she’d appreciate that.” He motioned to one of the servants to take his empty glass away. “I’ll probably see her later tonight—I’ll give her your regards and let her know where you’re staying.”
Maggie sat, frozen, at her end of the table. Why would Clara want to find her—a woman who was the date of a low-level Abwehr agent? Did she suspect something? What did she know?
Seeing Oberg look at her with concern, Maggie forced herself to pick up her knife and fork and join in the conversation once again. Once Goebbels told Clara that Maggie was working for Oberg, it would be over. The Gestapo would come.
When the last guest had left, Oberg smiled at Maggie. “You were magnificent, my dear.”
Maggie, who felt as though she might lose her mind at any second, was feeling less than magnificent. All she wanted to do was get away. If her cover hadn’t been compromised yet, it would be by morning. She had only a few hours in which to run. Every second counted. “Thank you, Herr Oberg,” she replied evenly.
“Please,” he said, “after such a wonderful evening, why don’t you call me Gustav? And may I call you Margareta?”
“Of course,” Maggie answered, even though her heart was hammering treacherously. Was Goebbels on the telephone now, telling Clara that she was working for Herr Oberg? And then what would happen? Would the Gestapo bang on the door and take her to headquarters for interrogation? Certainly in the morning.… But what if he called Clara tonight? Would there be SS officers pounding on the door during the night?
“Would you like a drink, my dear?” Oberg suggested. “In my study? Some cognac, perhaps?”
Maggie forced a yawn. “I’m afraid it’s late and I’m tired,” she said, moving away from him.
He pressed closer, pinning her against the wall, hot breath scented with chocolate. “You have such beautiful hair,” he murmured, running a hand along her cheek. “What I wouldn’t do to see it down …”
Maggie pulled away. “I’m sorry, I have”—it took her a moment to think of the word in German for menstrual pain—“Krämpfe. It’s not the best time.”
She was relieved to see his look of ardor dim. She walked to the door to the servants’ stairs. “Good night, Gustav.”
“Good night, Margareta,” he replied regretfully.
Maggie forced herself to walk in a sedate fashion up the stairs to her room.
However, as soon as she’d closed the door and locked it behind her, she set to work with feverish intensity. She tore off the borrowed jewelry, stepped out of her evening gown, and slipped on a nondescript cotton dress. Over it, she put on a cardigan. And then, as she’d rehearsed at training camp, she rolled up a blouse and stuffed it under the sweater, creating the illusion of a dowager’s hump.
From the secret pocket in the hem of her skirt, she took out the slip of silk with her codes. Then she lit a match and let the silk burn on the green-glass candle stand. When only ashes remained, she mixed the ash with water from the basin, then used her fingers to paint the gray through her hair, hide the coppery red of her curls. She used some of the dry ash as powder, and darkened the circles under her eyes and below her cheekbones. She pinned on her hat and pulled on her gloves, then picked up the bag with knitting and the false bottom with the camera. She knew what she’d captured on film in Oberg’s office didn’t amount to much. Should she risk taking it and being discovered?
In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided, and threw it in.
Then, looping the handbag around her neck, she opened the window and crawled out, leaping down to the lower-floor roof—an insane distance, but she had no choice. When she’d recovered from the impact, she climbed down a trellis. She hit the ground, looked around her, and then began to run. In the yard next door, a chained dog began to bark.
Only when she reached the U-Bahn station did she slow, affecting a shuffle and limp, as though her joints were arthritic. She kept her eyes down and tried to focus on her breath. In and out, Hope—in and out—just like Thorny taught you …
Her train pulled away from the station just as an SS van pulled into Herr Oberg’s drive.
Chapter Sixteen
The Berlin-Mitte that Maggie returned to had changed. The RAF had been making nightly raids—there were more bombed-out buildings, some completely leveled, others decimated. The hot morning sun shone red through the haze of dust and destruction. The acrid stench of smoke wafted on the breeze as air-raid sirens throbbed in the distance.
Maggie glanced surreptitiously at the people on the street and realized that the Berliner invincibility she’d noted when she first arrived had been punctured. She could see it in the people’s eyes—a flicker of realization, of panic, of the knowledge that the war wasn’t just something happening in the abstract but was now coming home to them.
On the one hand, she felt sorry for them. She knew, all too well, what it was like to mourn civilian deaths, to spend nights in a bomb shelter, to see a beloved city attacked.
And yet, these were the same people who had given Hitler his absolute power, who didn’t question the Nuremberg Laws, who turned a blind eye to the horrors of Kristallnacht. Some—many?—were people like Herr Oberg, who wanted Berlin to be “Judenrein.” And his daughter, who’d been brainwashed into becoming a soldier-making machine for the Reich. As terrifying as it was to be on the run, there was relief in leaving the Obergs’ stolen villa. She longed to be home in London.
Maggie shook her head. Focus, she scolded herself. By now the SS must be looking for her. And she had to make contact with Madame Defarge before she was spotted. Gottlieb, she thought, heart pounding, Gottlieb will be able to help me.
When she reached his apartment, however, she pressed the buzzer again and again. Nothing. She leaned on it for a full fifteen seconds. Still, no response. Then she went to the street and threw a pebble at his window.
Above her, a window opened. “Go away!” she heard Gottlieb’s voice call down.
“Let me in!” Maggie called back. “You must—”
“I don’t know you.” The window slammed shut.
Hot, red anger welled up inside her, and all the German profanity she’d ever heard came unbidden to her lips. But his window did not reopen.
Maggie saw the knitting woman on the bench, took a calming breath, and crossed the street. She sat down near, but not too near, her.
The woman moved closer. “Your young man’s tough,” she said under her breath. “I saw him once in a boxing match—he has a technique of tiring his opponent out but not throwing any punches, and then, in the tenth round, scoring a k
nockout. Don’t take it personally.”
“He’s not my young man. And if I don’t make it back,” Maggie said, taking it quite personally, “you have to tell them that I’ve been found out and I’m on the run. I don’t suppose … that you …”
Could hide me? The unasked question hung in the air.
“No, child.” The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“One of your associates?”
“Nein.”
“I understand.” Splendid, Maggie thought, here I am risking my neck, and before the cock’s crow, they’ve denied me thrice. She saw a man in a black trench coat walking closer to them. And it wasn’t the usual quick, eyes-down Berliner walk. He was looking at everyone. Taking everyone’s measure. Looking for me?
“Goodbye,” she said, getting up slowly, in character.
The old woman kept her eyes on her knitting and nodded. “Viel Glück.”
In her office at the Abwehr, Clara Hess was seething. “What do you mean, they lost her?”
On the other end of the telephone line, Goebbels was unflustered. “She must have suspected something when I mentioned your name. By the time we reached Oberg’s, she was gone. We sent men by Gottlieb Lehrer’s flat, and one of them thought he spotted her, but she gave him the slip.”
Clara drummed her long red-painted nails on her desk. “Then she has to be a spy.”
“Oberg said all her paperwork was in order, that it had been checked when she interviewed for the position with Göring. But I dug a little deeper—since she didn’t get an interview, they actually never did check her papers.”
Clara wrapped the silver telephone cord around her fingers so tightly that they became white. “Bring in Gottlieb Lehrer for questioning.”
“Questioning by you, or by the SS?”
“Me. Immediately.”
It didn’t take long for Maggie to realize the man in the black trench coat was following her.
She began walking slightly faster, but still limping and not fast enough to draw attention to herself. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to break into a run. She stopped in front of a butcher’s window to see if he was still following behind.
His Majesty's Hope Page 21