The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “We can rebuild. These long, painful years are over for me—I’ll arrive home a hero! My wife will be so proud of me.” The agent glanced down at an open map, then to the dials on the instrument panel.

  Maggie bent over to tackle the knots at her ankles while Teddy was distracted. And then she was free. She lurched for the door of the wheelhouse. If she could reach the deck and dive overboard, she could swim back to shore. Or at least evade capture. That would be enough. He had nothing without her.

  The deck was awash in icy water, and she slipped on the wet wood, falling painfully on her hands and knees. Her vision swam. The boat climbed and plunged. It skidded over another enormous wave. Standing was impossible. She grabbed for the rail and held on.

  The boat rolled and the wheelhouse door slammed shut; the noise startled Teddy. In the reflection of the windshield, he caught a glimpse of her. “Gottverdammt!” he shouted. He leapt from the wheelhouse as she flung a leg over the rail. Seconds before she could dive off, he caught her from behind in a crushing bear hug.

  “No!” he cried as they grappled. She twisted in his grip to face him, kicking hard. The agent grimaced in pain but held on. “You’re my only chance!”

  As the waves threatened to upend the boat, Maggie’s eerie calm returned. She was keenly aware of the smallest of details: the brine of salt water on her lips, the crash of the waves, the dark stubble on Teddy’s determined face. There was no questioning, no thinking, only action.

  Maggie heard an animalistic howl, a roar both primal and terrifying. There was a long moment before she realized it had come from her. She pulled her head back and slammed it forward, smashing into the man’s nose as she kneed him in the groin.

  He wailed in agony. His grip loosened; she shoved him away. He grabbed for her again, and somehow her fingers closed around his pinkie. Her fury fortified her as he wrapped his free arm around her in a sickening parody of a dance. He snarled at her in German, his face a rictus of fear and anger. Maggie snapped the finger back and heard the bone crack. He screamed.

  She tried to push him away far enough to throw herself over the gunwale, but he wouldn’t let her go. Then, in a moment of clarity, she knew what she had to do.

  Maggie pushed at him, forcing the German to bear down. Then, she abruptly wilted. His weight and effort, plus the erratic movements of the boat, flung them both against the rail. Gasping from the unexpected agony of the blow, she leaned back, letting momentum take them both over the side of the boat into the wild waves.

  They both gasped as they hit the frigid water. “Scheisse!” he screeched. Maggie maneuvered her feet up into his stomach, then pushed. He let go, too stunned to hang on. She swam away.

  “No,” he gasped, reaching for her. “No!” The fury in his voice changed to panic. He flailed, choking as the waves slammed over his head.

  Maggie easily stayed out of his reach. Treading water, she rode each powerful wave the best she could. He wasn’t a swimmer, as she was; he wasn’t acclimated to the cold. He fought for breath, dipping up and down with the white-tipped waves, hyperventilating and swallowing seawater. “Hilf mir…” he spluttered. “Maggie…”

  As Maggie watched, he sank, embraced by the cold and uncaring sea.

  She heard the whistle of a bomb, and even as she glanced up, the boat exploded into a brilliant conflagration, dazzling in the darkening sky, shooting off sparks of red, orange, and gold. It was so close, she could feel the heat from the flames scorch her face.

  They must be here, she thought, as her ears rang from the blast. SOE, the Navy, the coast guard…Then, I could have been on that boat….It could have been me….There was a second explosion that set the entire craft aflame, a popping, crackling, raging red inferno. Waves slammed into her. Surfacing, she watched as the boat listed, sliding into the sea like a Viking’s funeral.

  And mine will be next if I don’t move. She swam away from the burning boat, in the direction she hoped was the shore, not looking back. Around her, waves heaved in green mountains of seawater, glittering in the light of the soaring flames. Dark shapes rippled under the water, rose into the air behind a wave. Blue Men? Selkies diving? A mermaid playing a melody on a flute? Or maybe it was all a hallucination.

  Her lungs were burning and her arms and legs ached. She gasped for air and choked on a wave. She felt the arms of the Blue Men, grabbing her, holding her down—or maybe it was seaweed.

  Under the water, she opened her eyes. There was still light from the blazing boat, light enough to see. And then she saw a blurry figure—their chief, all blue, wearing a crown of seaweed. She thought she heard him say:

  Lass with the red hair, what do you say

  As your body sinks in brine?

  And then she remembered what Mrs. McNaughton had told her about the Blue Men. And that legends told of how they would quote two lines of poetry to the sailors, and if they couldn’t say two lines to complete the verse, the Blue Men would overturn the boat, drowning the humans. Maggie thought quickly:

  My body and spirit fight the waves

  To reach the rocky shore’s line

  The Blue Chief replied:

  My men are eager, my men are ready

  To drag you below the waves

  This can’t be real. She was drowning, she knew she was. It was lack of oxygen that was causing her to imagine the Blue Men who floated about her in a taunting ring, reaching for her, grabbing at her hair and clothes. But still she managed one last reply:

  My stroke is strong, my stroke is steady

  This water will not be my grave.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The weather was breaking as Rogers, Lewis, Frain, Martens, David, and Durgin sailed from Arisaig to Scarra on the Navy’s harbor defense motor launch the HMS Midge. Martens and Frain stood on deck in oilskins and rain hats. The rain mixed with the spray of the waves, drenching them. “How long is this going to take?” Martens demanded, checking his wet watch. He clutched the gunwale as the boat’s rocking challenged his balance.

  “I heard the captain say it’s an eighty-minute journey,” Frain told him. “But with the wind and waves, maybe a little longer.”

  In the distance, they saw three RAF Spitfires. Circling at low altitude, the planes looked like seagulls watching for fish. A second formation was flying by overhead to join them.

  David was out of breath when he made it up to the deck to give Martens and Frain the latest update. “The U-boat’s surfaced,” he reported. “Corvette 548 can see the conning towers. The Spitfires are taking shots, but they don’t seem to be doing much.” He put both hands on the rail, looking green.

  “Seasick?” Frain asked, not unkindly.

  “No,” replied David. “Terrified my best friend will be shot by one of our own en route to a submarine pickup.”

  Martens gazed at the horizon. “That’s the worst-case scenario.”

  At that, there was a reddish orange explosion in the distance, black smoke billowing. “The boat,” David said, realizing. “The boat Maggie’s probably on. She could be dead now, for all we know.”

  “And our German spy dead, as well.”

  “All thanks to you, Colonel Martens,” David spat. Martens’s jaw dropped. “It’s easier to play these games when you don’t know and love the people involved, isn’t it? Well, if Maggie’s dead, I will hold you personally responsible!”

  Martens replied, “I can only tell you what Churchill told me. ‘We don’t have time for feelings—none of us, not now.’ ” He walked unsteadily toward David on the slippery deck. “I’ve learned to set aside whatever qualms I may once have had, whatever human sympathy and empathy, and do everything and anything it takes to win. The secret of the invasion is at stake, the fate of the entire war. Civilization as we know it, all of humanity. Thousands have died for this, and by the end, perhaps millions will have, Greene. With thos
e numbers in play, isn’t it worth taking one life?”

  David was silent.

  “We will do what we must to protect humanity’s future—no matter how painful, no matter how repugnant. Is that clear, Mr. Greene?”

  David nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  —

  Maggie lay on the rocky shore, hair plastered against her skull, skimming consciousness. She was achingly cold. Her lungs felt as though they had burst, her bones shattered, her face slapped. All she could smell was the fresh seaweed, torn up from the bottom of the sea and flung onto the beach by the storm, and all she could hear was the hiss of the waves breaking.

  She opened her eyes reluctantly; even that small movement was painful. They’re here, she realized. They finally made it—SOE, Navy, coast guard…They took the boat out. They’re here. Maybe there’s hope for Anna and Quentin and McNaughton. And maybe even for me.

  Maggie wanted nothing more than to lie still, but she knew the longer she lay there, the more likely she’d never move again. Newton’s first law of motion, she thought in a daze. Newton…Apple, don’t sit under the apple tree. Devil, snake. Her mouth tasted of brine, and she shivered. The image of Teddy’s eyes, just before he drowned, haunted her.

  She swallowed, then attempted to move, starting gingerly with her fingertips and toes. Astonishingly, nothing seemed broken. She tried her legs and arms; they, too, appeared to work. With immense effort, she raised herself to a sitting position. Pain vibrated through every cell of her being. She coughed, bringing up seawater. She didn’t remember how she’d got to shore, only something about Blue Men? But how could that be?

  All right, Hope, on the plus side, you’re not dead. Also, it’s finally stopped raining. She tried to focus on the two positives, even as she flashed back to the horror of what had happened. Are Anna and Quentin still alive? McNaughton? She had to be optimistic. If you don’t know, it’s like Schrödinger’s cat, though—they’re both alive and dead at the same time, her brain taunted her. Stop it!

  She checked the horizon. Was the sky turning lighter? Just a hint of gray at the edge? She couldn’t be sure. Maybe. No, wishful thinking. But…? But the utter blackness of the sky surely seemed to have a violet hue where the water met the horizon. As she watched, the line grew lavender, brightening into a pearly pink.

  In the distance she thought she heard a voice—or was it the cry of a Manx shearwater? She looked up to the castle, eyes stinging from salt, and glimpsed what she thought was a mirage—a group of men, heading her way. All were in uniform—coast guard, police, and Royal Navy. Then she saw one figure, one unmistakable figure, leading them. Her heart lurched.

  “Maggie!” she heard him say, as he fell to his knees and enveloped her in a hug.

  David, oh, David. But “Ow” was all she could manage.

  “Sorry.” He dropped his embrace but kept one arm around her protectively.

  Men in uniform swarmed about her. She felt hands under her shoulders, assisting her to her feet, swaddling her in wool blankets. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she kept protesting in a croak, though she wasn’t at all sure that was true. The lump on the back of her skull felt huge and throbbing. She put a hand to it, and it came away sticky with blood.

  Durgin and Frain stepped forward. “I see the gang’s all here…” she tried to joke, but her knees buckled.

  “Miss Hope!” It was Henrik Martens. “Let me through!”

  When he arrived in front of her, he had the grace to clear his throat uncomfortably. “The Abwehr agent—”

  “—was Teddy Crane,” she finished. “He was manipulating Ramsey Novak, making him think this was a German prisoner of war camp and that you—we—were trying to make him spill.” Despite the blankets, she was shivering. She gathered her strength and straightened to her full height. “Ramsey killed himself when he realized what he had done.”

  “And Crane? Was he on the boat? The one that sailed from here at sunset?”

  “No. Well, yes, and no.”

  “Yes and no? Was he or wasn’t he?”

  Maggie would have laughed at the panic in Martens’s face, but it would have hurt too much. “He was. He’s dead.” The words came with great effort. “He had me tied up. But I was able to get free. My plan was to dive overboard and swim back to shore.”

  She shuddered, remembering. “But he wouldn’t let me go. We were fighting, and I took both of us over, into the water. He drowned.” Her stomach turned as she realized how close he had been to taking her and meeting the submarine.

  Martens was shouting something at her, sounding far away. “Did you tell him? Miss Hope, did you tell him anything?”

  “No.” Without warning, Maggie doubled over and vomited seawater. She saw Martens’s shoes moving out of the way of the spew. She dimly hoped she’d hit him anyway.

  “You’re sure?”

  She wiped her mouth with the edge of a blanket. “Of course.” She looked up at him with disgust. “You put me on this island so I wouldn’t talk—and I didn’t. Not to any of the other prisoners, not to Dr. Jaeger, either—and he kept asking me to reveal what I knew in our sessions. Crane read all of Jaeger’s notes. If I’d trusted your Dr. Jaeger, Crane would have learned everything I know.”

  “You kept your secret, Miss Hope?” Martens repeated it, quieter now, as though to make sure.

  “Yes. I kept your secret. Our secret.”

  “Thank God.” His face sagged with relief. “We thank you.”

  “Tell the Prime Minister you’re welcome. If he even knows about this place,” she said, her teeth starting to chatter. Her clothes were soaked, cold, and muddy. The blankets weren’t helping. She managed, “You need to go to the church…”

  “The church?” David asked. “What church?”

  “About a half mile inland. There are two injured agents there—Anna O’Malley and Quentin Asquith. Angus McNaughton’s hurt and at the ghillie’s cottage with Dr. Khan. Mrs. McNaughton and Murdo are there, too.”

  A man in a police captain’s uniform barked orders, and men swiftly dispersed.

  “Is anyone else still alive?” Martens asked, his voice incredulous.

  “No,” Maggie said flatly. “Everyone else is dead. Ten are dead.” Ramsey was dead. Leo was dead. Camilla, Torvald, Helene, Dr. Jaeger, Captain MacLean, Captain Evans, Ian…And now Teddy was dead, as well.

  “Come on,” David insisted, holding her tight. “Let’s bring you inside, warm you up. Do you want to be carried?”

  “I can walk,” she rasped. She felt hot, so very hot, yet she couldn’t stop shivering, her muscles wracked with spasms. “I—I—”

  David caught her before she fell.

  * * *

  —

  The Kapitänleutnant was on the U-boat’s bridge, drinking cold coffee. He’d seen the fishing boat holed and sunk by the British corvette. His U-boat had taken damage before they’d submerged. Although they were safe for the moment, the Brits were on their trail. His head hurt from the strain and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

  “The corvette is pinging for us, Herr Kaleu.”

  “I am aware, Schäffler.”

  “The Abwehr agent died in the explosion.”

  “Indeed.” It was over. The spy was dead. And even if he’d seen the danger and had been able to swim back to the island before the fishing boat exploded, there was nothing they could do now.

  “They will send aircraft with radar—”

  “Yes. We have limited mobility so close to the Scottish coast. It’s too easy for the wabos,” the Kapitänleutnant said, using slang for depth charges. “Engines full, best speed. Take us out beyond the twenty-fathom line and make a course for the North Irish Sea. Passing the forty-fathom line, make your depth one hundred and eighty feet. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Herr Kaleu.” As Schäffler
strode away, the first depth charge made a direct hit.

  * * *

  —

  Maggie’s window rattled as a deafening explosion detonated. In the distance, beyond the bay, there was a fountain of flame. It continued to smoke.

  “I think that was the U-boat,” David said. Maggie managed a small nod from the bed.

  “This damn place is like an icebox,” Frain groused, laying wood on the bracken kindling and then topping it with coal. Maggie almost smiled, seeing the head of MI-5 on his knees, waving a newspaper to help the flames catch hold.

  There was a knock and Sayid entered, carrying a tray. “I have brandy and tea,” he told them. “And some of those oatcakes.” He set a tray down on the bedside table. “There are also some supplies.”

  Maggie caught a glimpse of cotton gauze, tape, and scissors. “It’s a bit crowded in here….” she murmured.

  “I’m a doctor,” Sayid explained, seeing David’s scowl. “I’d like to make sure Mag—Miss Hope is all right.” He patted the tartan-covered chair in front of the fire. “Why don’t you come sit here, Miss Hope?” David gently helped her upright, and she managed the few steps before collapsing onto the chair.

  David roamed about, examining the Victorian artwork, the grotesque finials on the bed, the antler pull in the bath. “Jumping Jupiter, what a hideous room. Whoever designed this should be shot.”

  “Actually…” Maggie tried to joke, then began coughing.

  The fire in the hearth had caught and was burning brightly. Frain went to wash his hands as Sayid cleaned the wound on Maggie’s head, then bandaged it.

  “I can tell you’re a good doctor,” she said.

  “You’re worse for wear, but you’ll be fine. Just a few scrapes and bruises. The swelling on your head should go down in a few days.”

  “Come on, out of those wet clothes,” David ordered. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”