The american agent, p.1
The American Agent, page 1
Dedication
In Memory of Don
One of “The Few,” the young men of the Royal Air Force who fought the Luftwaffe in the skies above England during the Battle of Britain. He was killed in June 1940, age twenty-two.
Epigraph
The radio will be for the twentieth century what the press was for the nineteenth century. With the appropriate change, one can apply Napoleon’s phrase to our age, speaking of the radio as the eighth great power. The radio is the most influential and important intermediary between a spiritual movement and the nation, between the idea and the people.
—From a speech by Joseph Goebbels given on August 18th, 1933, at the Tenth Annual Radio Exposition
Agent. Noun: A person who works secretly to obtain information for a government or other official body. A person or thing that takes an active role or produces a specified effect.
—Definition from the Oxford English Dictionary
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jacqueline Winspear
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
I am going to talk to you three times a week from a country that is fighting for its life. Inevitably I’m going to get called by that terrifying word “propagandist.” But of course I’m a propagandist. Passionately I want my ideas—our ideas—of freedom and justice to survive.
Vernon Bartlett, May 28, 1940, during the inaugural broadcast of the British Broadcasting Corporation’s North American Service
The RAF’s brilliantly successful week raised the public’s spirits enormously. It was hoped that the number of German planes destroyed by the British fighters would be duly noted by a section of the American press which appears to people here to act as though mesmerized by the achievements of the Luftwaffe. Many astonished Britons, taking time off from the war to read how American editors think it’s going, have felt like protesting, like Mark Twain, that reports of their death have been greatly exaggerated.
The New Yorker’s Letter from London by Mollie Panter-Downes, August 12, 1940
Each time I entered a new shelter people wanted to know if I’d seen any bombs and was it safe to go home. At one shelter there was a fine row going on. A man wanted to smoke his pipe in the shelter; the warden wouldn’t allow it. The pipe smoker said he’d go out and smoke it in the street, where he’d undoubtedly be hit by a bomb and then the warden would be sorry. At places where peat is available, it’s being consumed in great quantities at night. I have seen a few pale faces, but very few. How long these people will stand up to this sort of thing I don’t know, but tonight they’re magnificent. I’ve seen them, talked with them, and I know.
London Calling broadcast by Edward R. Murrow to America, August 26, 1940
In September 1939, the talk was of the Navy, the ring of steel that was to starve the Germans. Today the Royal Air Force has captured the respect and admiration which has traditionally been given to the Royal Navy. On the day war was declared any man who predicted that after a year of war, including only ten weeks of battle, Britain would be without effective allies and faced with the prospect of invasion would have been considered mad. Invasion is now one of the favorite topics of conversation. These Londoners know what they’re fighting for now—not Poland or Norway—not even for France, but for Britain.
London Calling broadcast by Edward R. Murrow to America, September 3, 1940
BLITZ BOMBING OF LONDON GOES ON ALL NIGHT
Two buses hit: Hospital ringed by explosions
EAST END AGAIN: MORE FIRES
Goering restarted his great Blitzkrieg on London last night promptly at black-out time—one minute to eight. Half an hour before that time he made a gloating, boasting broadcast to the German people. “A terrific attack is going on against London,” he said. “Adolf Hitler has entrusted me with the task of attacking the heart of the British Empire.”
The Daily Express London, Monday September 8th, 1940
London still stood this morning, which was the greatest surprise to me as I cycled home in the light of early dawn after the most frightening night I have ever spent. But not all of London was still there, and some of the things I saw this morning would scare the wits out of anyone.
Helen Kirkpatrick, reporting for the Chicago Daily News, September 9, 1940
Chapter 1
Reporting London, broadcast by Catherine Saxon, London, September 10th, 1940
Tonight I joined the women of the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service as they rushed to the aid of civilians caught in the relentless bombing of this brave city. Herr Hitler’s bombers have been swarming in for the past three nights, raining down terror on the men, women and children of London as if to pay the country back for the success of Britain’s Royal Air Force as they fought the Luftwaffe over England’s southeastern counties throughout the summer. Resilience and endurance have been the order of the day and night for the citizens of this country—an experience we Americans should be grateful we have not yet encountered on our soil. Pray to God we shall never see the shadows of those killing machines in the skies above Main Street.
I was aboard an ambulance with two women—both Mrs. P and Miss D served their country in the last war: Mrs. P with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, and Miss D as a nurse at a casualty clearing station close to the front line. I later discovered Miss D is, in fact, a titled member of England’s aristocracy, a sign that everyone’s pulling together on Britain’s home front. As Miss D drove through the streets at speed, her way lit only by fires either side of a thoroughfare strewn with scorched and burning rubble, the flames threatened to take us with them. When we reached our destination, a street I cannot name and would not know again, Miss D braked hard, and before the ambulance came to a stop, Mrs. P had leaped out and was gathering the kit needed to aid bombed-out families. The men of the fire service were hard at work, directing wide arcs of water into houses destroyed by the bombing. Flames rose up as if to spike the heavens, the remaining walls like broken teeth leading into the mouth of hell. Beyond I could see searchlights as they crossed each other scouring the skies for bombers—and many of those searchlights were “manned” by women. The constant ack-ack-ack of anti-aircraft guns added to the ear-splitting sounds of a night with London under attack. Within minutes an injured boy and a girl were made stable and placed in the ambulance. I’d watched their grandmother pulling at fallen masonry even as it scorched her hands. “My girls, my girls,” she cried, as she tried to move bricks and mortar away from the untimely grave that had claimed her two beloved daughters. Miss D gently put her arms around the wailing grandmother and led her toward the ambulance, where she bandaged her hands and reminded her that two small, terrified children were counting on her strength. Minutes later, firemen carried away the bodies of the deceased, the grandmother’s “girls”—the mother and aunt of the two children. This report cannot include a description of the remains of those two women.
The Civil War is still remembered by the elders in our American hometowns. Those men and women were children during a terrible time in our country’s history, and some saw what trauma cannon fire and machine gun will inflict upon the human form. The volunteers who fought with our Lincoln Brigade witnessed Hitler’s Blitzkrieg in Spain—they too know the terror of a bombing raid. We who have seen war know the children in that ambulance will never forget this night—it will be branded into their young minds forever. And it will be branded into the memory of those two women of the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service, and into the heart of this reporter. The children’s father is at war. If he comes home, it will be to what’s left of his family—as will many men who believed they were fighting for the safety of their loved ones.
This is Catherine Saxon, courtesy of the British Broadcasting Corporation in London, England, on the night of September tenth, 1940. God bless you all, and may peace be yours.
“Well, Miss D—what do you think of that?” Priscilla Partridge leaned toward the wireless set and switched it off, then reached for her packet of cigarettes and lighter. “I thought she was quite good. That broadcast went out live last night—New York is five hours behind, so I daresay they heard it at dinner time over there—carefully planned to tear at the hearts of happy families as they sit around the table.”
“I wish she’d held back on that bit about the aristocracy. It was rather much, and I’d like to tell her ‘See these streets? I know my way around Lambeth because I was born here!’”
“She would probably have missed the irony, Maisie,” said Priscilla, drawing on her cigarette. She blew a smoke ring into the air. “Americans don’t quite understand the many distinctions between one person’s station and another here in Britain, as I am sure we don’t understand theirs—though they know rich and poor. We’re a mystery to each ot
her, if truth be told.”
“Anyway, I’m just glad she didn’t give out our full names. She must have whipped over to Portland Place and recorded that report immediately she left us last night. Apparently she had been pursuing an opportunity to broadcast for a while. In fact, she told me it was an uphill battle because reporting is a boys’ game.” Maisie stifled a yawn. “Oh dear, I’m worn-out, Pris. It was a long night and I’m going home to bed for a couple of hours before I start my day.” Maisie Dobbs pushed down on the arms of the chair, stood up and leaned toward her friend, kissing her on both cheeks. “What Miss Saxon didn’t say was that we all need a bath.”
“I thought she was a good sport,” said Priscilla.
“She was,” said Maisie. “She didn’t get in the way and helped when she could. I would imagine she has to walk a narrow line between telling Americans what she’s observed, and not scaring them so much they don’t listen.”
“You’re right—you wouldn’t hear her describing the poor baker who went out to find out why his drain was blocked, only to find a decomposing foot in it.” Priscilla paused. “It’s only eight in the morning and already I would like a drink.”
“Do me a favor, Pris—settle for another cup of tea. And some toast. I’m going home now.”
“All right, Maisie. We’re both fit to drop—it’s just as well you only live up the road.” She paused. “I wonder about those children—the ones we picked up on that run with the Saxon woman.”
“The girl will pull through, but I wouldn’t put money on the boy’s chances,” said Maisie. “Miss Saxon rather understated their wounds.”
“Douglas says that truth is always a victim of war.”
“‘No kidding,’ as our new friend from the Colonies might say. I’ll see you later, Pris,” said Maisie. “We’re on duty at five.”
Maisie had just begun to draw back the blackout curtains at her Holland Park flat when the telephone in the sitting room began to ring.
“Blast!” She had a mind to ignore the call, but thought better of it—she had not been able to return to her property in Kent for several days, and as much as she would like nothing more than to sink into a bath filled with hot water, the call might be about Anna—and there were many things to concern her about Anna.
“Good morning,” said Maisie.
“Busy night?” The voice was unmistakable.
“Robbie MacFarlane, you should know better than to ask, and in that tone—it was a terrible night, and it’s not a bloody joke you know.” Maisie knew her reply was uncharacteristically short, but at that moment she was too tired to deal with Robert MacFarlane.
“My apologies. Yes, you’re right. I heard you were out on more than a few runs to the hospitals last night. I’m sorry.”
Maisie chewed her lip. It wasn’t like MacFarlane to request forgiveness. She knew him only too well, and if he was rude, it was generally by design, not an error.
“Why are you calling me, Robbie? You’ve let me know you’re keeping tabs on me, but I am bone tired and I want to rest my weary head before I try to get some work done today, and then take my ambulance out again.”
“It’s about an American. One of those press people over here on a quest to keep our good friends on the other side of the Atlantic informed about the war. Name of Catherine Saxon. In fact, Miss Catherine Angelica Saxon, to give the woman her full moniker.”
“Angelica?”
“No accounting for the Yanks, Maisie.”
Maisie rubbed her neck, following the path of an old scar now barely visible, and shivered. “No, it’s just that . . . well, she was with us on the ambulance last night, just for a couple of runs because she had to make her first broadcast—she told us that she had previously only had her reports printed in the newspapers. I can’t remember which papers she’s working for. More than one. Anyway, I was just listening to her on the wireless at Mrs. Partridge’s house—her report was broadcast for the Americans last night. In fact, she told us she was very excited because it was also going out in London this morning, and she hoped she would get to be as popular as Mr. Murrow, who is as well known here as he is over there in America. I’ve heard him a few times myself. Anyway, it’s just that she didn’t strike me as an Angelica, that’s all, even if it’s only a middle name.” Maisie was aware that she was rambling, staving off whatever news MacFarlane had called to convey. She’d wanted to escape war and death if only for the time it took to wallow in a hot bath.
“Well, hold on to your seat, Maisie, because she’s with the angels now.”
“Robbie? What’s happened? Was the poor girl caught in the bombing on her way home? Or were her lodgings hit?” Maisie felt a chill envelop her. She knew the gist of MacFarlane’s response even before he spoke.
“No, lass. She’s been found dead in her rooms at a house on Welbeck Street this morning. And we can’t lay this one at Hitler’s feet—she was murdered. Twenty-eight years of age and someone saw fit to slit her throat.”
Maisie felt her own throat constrict, her voice cracking as she spoke. “And why are you involved, Robbie?” Robert MacFarlane worked in the opaque realm between Scotland Yard and the Secret Service. “Why not someone like Caldwell—murder is his job.”
“Maisie, I know you can hear me, even if you’ve almost lost your voice. Get yourself some sleep, then go to your office. I’ll see you there at two this afternoon and we’ll discuss the matter. There will be plenty of time for you to find your way to the ambulance station before tonight’s blitzes start. And they will come back again, those bastards. They won’t leave us alone until we’ve beaten them. See you this afternoon.” Maisie stood for a moment, holding the receiver, the long tone of the disconnected call echoing into the room—MacFarlane was known to dispense with a formal “good-bye.”
She slumped into an armchair and thought about the young woman who had joined them on the ambulance when they’d reported for duty at five o’clock the previous evening. Saxon was almost the same height as Maisie, with shoulder-length, sun-kissed hair—she looked as if she’d spent the summer sailing. At one point she’d twisted it back and pinned it in place with a pencil. Maisie could see her now, laughing. “Gotta use the tools at hand,” she’d said. She’d worn a pair of dark khaki trousers, with a fawn blouse tucked into the waistband—both seemed freshly laundered. And she had brought a brown tweed jacket, though she soon took it off. Her worn but polished lace-up boots were a choice Priscilla had seen fit to comment upon. “No one could accuse her of overdressing, could they? That girl could be a mannequin with those looks, yet look at her—she’s almost ready for the trenches!”
Maisie remembered the scuffs of ash and dirt across the blouse as Saxon clambered over hot bricks to talk to a fireman, and later she explained to Maisie and Priscilla, “My mother always says that no matter what happens, one should always make a good first impression—hence the pressed blouse, which is now fit for the trash! I never told her how I’d let everything go when I was in Spain—there wasn’t time to look as if I’d just returned from a shopping expedition to Bonwit Teller!” And Maisie had told her that she too had been in Spain, but they’d let the words hang in the air, as if neither wanted to recall or discuss—and there was no time anyway, because now Saxon was reporting on Hitler’s blitzkriegs in another country, and Maisie was drawing upon skills she’d honed in two wars. Saxon had only mentioned that, while her mother seemed to admire her choice of occupation, her father did not approve. “In fact, he doesn’t want me to be occupied at all—he’d rather I just sort of languish until a good man finds me. My mother, though, is secretly proud, I think—and sometimes not so secretly, to my father’s chagrin.” Maisie had shaken hands with Catherine Saxon—Catherine Angelica Saxon—only nine or ten hours ago, bidding her farewell and expressing hope that her first broadcast went well. She’d added that she also hoped her parents were indeed proud of their intrepid daughter.
And now she was dead.
