Virginia snaps awake in the early hours of the morning and doesn’t try to go back to sleep. When her eyes adjust to the darkness, she crawls out of bed, attaches her prosthetic, dresses, and climbs up the ladder to the loft. There’s a cot where she can sit, and a small bedside table, just wide enough to accommodate all the components of her transmitter.
She pulls the suitcase out from under the cot, opens it, and runs her hands over the Type 3 Mark II radio transceiver. This strange device, known as a B2 in the field, will be her lifeline between France and England. On her first mission, Virginia wasn’t trained as a wireless operator—a “pianist,” as they’re known—which made her dependent on others and lacking the degree of control she needed. When her pianists in Lyon were arrested, even though they hadn’t given her name under torture, incriminating papers showed Virginia’s code name heading the circuit. And it was a double agent—who’d ingratiated himself, pretended to be one of their own—who’d gone to the Nazi MP, Haas, to help zero the target in on Virginia.
She clenches her teeth at the thought of the vile man who infiltrated her network, rendered her useless, and effectively wrote death sentences for the brave men and women at her side. Without Vera’s eyes on her, Virginia finally admits to herself that the desire to hunt him down is the other—perhaps less noble—reason for her return. She was betrayed by someone she allowed in her circle, and who he was—what he is—makes his sin greater than any other kind of betrayal. Still, she won’t allow it to take her off task.
Not yet.
Knowing the Nazis are thick on the ground here, certainly searching for any signal, Virginia will need to make this transmission as short as possible. Fortunately, the loft has a window with a tree within reach. She unrolls the antenna, threads it through the highest branches possible, and attaches it to the device. She pulls the curtains closed tightly, using a clothespin to hold them shut around the wire, and lights a candle. She plugs in the battery, attaches the Morse code transmitter, and pulls on the headphones. Taking a deep breath, she notes the time on the wall clock she can see from the loft, turns on the radio, and adjusts the dial to find the right frequency. Once she has it, she taps the poem she chose for her call sign and security check. Then she turns the knob to “receive” to await the reply.
As the minutes tick by, she begins to doubt herself. What if she set up the wireless incorrectly? What if her Morse code message was jumbled? What if the Nazis have caught her signal and are approaching the cottage right now? If there are any homing vehicles in the area, they can zero in on her transmission site within twenty minutes.
Virginia’s hands are like ice and her head is tight with a coming headache, but a sudden sound reaches her. A flurry of dots and dashes squeaks through the headphones like little fairy voices. A single word comes through with an exclamation. Her code name, the one she’d chosen to spite the Nazis, who’d christened her Artemis, among other, less flattering names.
—Diane!
She grins and exhales.
—Did you make it to Stop 1? HQ types.
—Yes. Aramis also in place.
—Good. When find good DZ, wire for date/time.
DZ. Drop zone. Fields for receiving airplane-parachute drops. With rolling farmland as far as the eye can see, she won’t have a problem finding one. Finding people to help her receive the drops, however, will be another story.
—Copied.
—Any requests?
—English tea.
—Crossword puzzles?
Virginia smiles. She can almost see Vera dictating over the shoulder of some young woman at HQ, dribbling cigarette ash all over the poor girl.
—Yes.
—GB. BC.
Good-bye. Bonne chance.
Excellent. Five minutes.
While Virginia packs up her wireless and stores it back under the cot, a fond memory comes to her mind, stirred by the mention of crossword puzzles. She can almost see the latticed London café windows filtering the January light, dust motes playing in the rare sunshine, that day in 1941 when Vera Atkins began recruiting her for the SOE.
Virginia recalls spotting Vera by her trademark perfectly arranged, glossy black hair, sitting in a corner booth, smoking, moving her gaze between the newspaper in front of her and the café. Her eyes lit up when she saw Virginia.
“If we were in France, you’d no longer be allowed to smoke,” Virginia said, sliding in the booth.
“And why is that?” Vera asked.
“Rations. They seem to think only men need tobacco.”
“Perhaps they’re right. Women can endure anything.”
Vera had held out a pink container of Passing Clouds cigarettes to Virginia.
“No, thanks,” said Virginia. “I can’t be dependent upon anything if I ever want to get back to France.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I’m working on it.”
Vera stared at Virginia a moment before stubbing out her cigarette in the near-overflowing ashtray. She turned her attention to her handbag, where she searched a bit before finding a folding knife. It was rough and well used, military issue. Vera opened it and ran the blade along the pencil tip, slicing away wood and making a sharp point, curled shavings littering the tablecloth. A waiter joined them.
“The usual?” he said to Vera.
“Thank you.”
“And you, miss?”
Virginia peeled her stare from the knife, glanced over the menu, and ordered the watercress soup.
“Feel free to order the roast and potatoes,” said Vera. “I’m treating, and I have extra ration coupons.”
“I can’t remember the last time I had meat. Roast and potatoes, it is.”
When the waiter left, Virginia leaned in. “How did you come by those?”
Vera gave a coy smile, folded up her knife, dropped it back in her purse, and began the newspaper crossword puzzle.
“I understand you volunteered for the French ambulance service at the beginning of the war, before coming to London after the fall of France,” Vera said. “Why did you volunteer?”
Virginia found it odd that Vera worked on a crossword while at lunch with her, asking personal questions, but sensed there was nothing the woman did without intent.
“In spite of my immaculate record at embassies across the world,” Virginia said, “the US rejected me for Foreign Service. France was happy to use me.”
“Were you rejected because of your leg?”
Virginia was taken aback that Vera knew. Virginia didn’t speak about her prosthetic with anyone, especially because it seemed to be such a roadblock to employment.
“Cuthbert?” Virginia said.
Vera lifted her eyes to Virginia’s. “You call your prosthetic leg Cuthbert?”
“Yes. It’s a joke. Saint Cuthbert is the patron of birds. Since I was hunting them when I shot off my foot, the name seemed fitting. And, to answer your question, yes, that’s ultimately why I was rejected.”
Vera turned her attention back to the puzzle.
“When you were stationed at Metz in the ambulance service,” Vera said, “did Cuthbert get in the way?”
Virginia never mentioned where she was stationed. Vera clearly already knew the answers to some of the questions she was asking. Still, Virginia decided to play along. She had nothing to lose.
“No, though he complains and tries to be troublesome, Cuthbert is stubbornly operative.”
Still not looking at her, Vera raised her eyebrows.
“What did your training for the French ambulance service entail?” Vera asked.
“Basic first aid,” Virginia said. “Automobile repair and operation. Physical fitness.”
“Good. I hear you’re a linguist. Which languages do you speak?”
“French, Italian, Spanish, and German, fluently. Passable Russian.”
If Vera was impressed, she didn’t show it.
“Tell me about war,” Vera continued. “What has surprised you?”
“Human capacity for evil.”
“What about yourself?”
“Endurance.”
As Vera completed the puzzle, the waiter arrived, placing two steaming, gravy-soaked plates of roast and potatoes before them. Conversation ceased while they ate. Virginia savored bite after bite of the tender meat and made quick work of devouring the feast.
“You eat with the fork in your left hand, tines down,” said Vera.
“I picked up the habit in France. It’s more efficient than switching hands after the meat is cut with your right hand, wouldn’t you agree?”
The waiter returned and whispered in Vera’s ear. She reached in her handbag, placed the ration cards on the table—which he whisked away—and began erasing random letters on the crossword. When she finished, she dropped the pencil in her handbag.
“Forgive me,” Vera said. “I must go. I have enjoyed this thoroughly, and hope we meet again soon.”
Virginia hardly knew if she could say she enjoyed the experience, but it was interesting, and the food was a treat.
“Thank you,” said Virginia. “I haven’t eaten this well in months. I hope I can repay you someday.”
Vera nodded and left her. Virginia watched her go, noting the pointed glance she gave the waiter. What a strange woman, she thought. Vera wanted something from Virginia, and she didn’t know if she gave it. There were many heavy things in the air that seemed unsaid between them. They existed like missing notes in a symphony. Like missing letters.
In a crossword.
Virginia sat up straight and glanced around the room, where she saw the waiter staring at her. He turned his attention to the table nearest him as if he were not. Her eyes returned to the crossword puzzle. She reached out, slid it so it faced her, and began to scan the words, noting the letters Vera erased.
N. O. R. T. H.
North. North what?
U. M. B. E. R. L. A. N. D.
The Northumberland Hotel in Charing Cross was a setting used in The Hound of the Baskervilles. Did Vera mean the Hotel Victoria on Northumberland Avenue, where members of the War Office often congregated in the pub? Her heart quickened. She searched the puzzle but could find no further clues as to when she should go there. While she thought, the waiter returned, placed the ticket on the table, and cleared the dishes.
Vera already paid.
Virginia’s heart continued to pound as she scanned the scribbled handwriting on the lunch ticket.
Tea 1.10. Roast and potatoes, 2 × 7.00.
January 10. Fourteen hundred hours.
When the tenth arrived, at the appointed time, Virginia had shown up at the Victoria, had asked for Vera at the pub on the first floor, and was led to the hotel upstairs. When the door to room 238 opened, Vera had beamed at her from behind a veil of smoke.
“I knew you’d come,” Vera said.
“It was simple to figure out,” Virginia said.
“For you. You’d be surprised how many have failed that exact test. And that just gets you in the door.”
The room wasn’t a hotel room at all, but a dingy, smoky, paper-filled office. Heavy blackout curtains framed boarded windows. Virginia scanned a long table littered with ashtrays, pencils, and dirty teacups. A photograph of her own face stared up from a thick file folder. She felt both flattered and violated.
“Who are you, really?” asked Virginia. “And what do you want from me?”
Vera motioned for Virginia to sit across from her while closing Virginia’s file.
“As you have deduced, I do not work for the War Office. Not exactly,” Vera said. “In July of last year, Churchill found out about a network of clandestine, nonmilitary groups across Europe who had been gathering intelligence and sabotaging Nazi efforts at advancement by any possible means. He organized the forces and set the wheels in motion for them to grow, officially creating the SOE.”
“SOE?”
“Special Operations Executive. In charge of coordinating and supplying local Resistance groups and engaging in espionage and sabotage in enemy territory. I am with F Section, for France. We work with the RF—de Gaulle’s Free French forces—to undermine and make the Nazis in France as miserable as possible. We also provide safe houses along escape lines for downed pilots, wanted Resistance members, and Jews. I am recruiting you to join us.”
After years of treading water at American embassies, banging her head against a secretary’s typewriter, desperate for someone to give her a chance to make a real difference in the world, Virginia felt as if a weight crushing her chest were released.
“I see your elation,” Vera had said, “but you must understand the magnitude of what I’m asking and know that nothing after today will be simple again. Only twenty-five percent of recruits make it through training. You will be expected to take orders without question or explanation. You must become a link in a chain, only aware of those immediately around you, doing work you might not understand but that somehow connects a vital network. It’s also best if you sever personal relationships.”
Already done, she’d thought.
Her beloved father, dead from a cardiac arrest brought on by the Depression. A mother who had never understood her. A brother with a life and family of his own, half a world away. A niece and a nephew too young to remember her if she never returned. A broken engagement with Emil, a Polish junior officer from her time at the Warsaw embassy, just before her accident. For all intents and purposes, she was unmoored.
“You will receive no praise or accolades for your service,” Vera continued. “Without military uniform, if captured, you will not fall under Geneva protection. As a woman, you will be doubted and resented, even by some men within our ranks. You’ll be lonely—far more so than you can imagine—and in constant danger. We are the smallest organization of war services with the highest casualty rate.”
Still, Virginia was certain. As she was about to accept, Vera pushed a pile of folders across the desk.
“Open these. Look at the faces.”
Virginia opened each file, looked at the man or woman, noted the stamp.
KIA. MIA. KIA. KIA. MIA.
“That’s only a sample, and it’s just the beginning,” Vera said. “Their relatives have vague letters of lies. There will be no parades in their honor. If they are lucky, their deaths came swiftly—a bullet to the head. If not, they were raped, tortured, hung from a tree near a town square as a warning.”
Virginia could imagine the knock at her mother’s door, Mother opening it, receiving the news with stoicism—her unease betrayed only by her hands fluttering along her pearl strand. Her mother would say to her brother, “I told Dindy. I knew it. Why couldn’t she stay home like a good girl?” But Virginia knew her mother would crack in the night. She would sob in bed all through the dark hours, the way she sometimes did when the facade became too much.
Nauseated, Virginia stood and walked to a window with no view. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Half the lights in the room weren’t working. She had the sudden certainty she was being watched. Her eyes settled on the closet door.
“Paranoia,” Vera continued. “Malnutrition, exhaustion. Also, you can expect Nazi retaliation on innocent civilians for every act of sabotage you incite. Cruel, brutal retaliation. Guilt will be your constant companion. But if we in the SOE are to ‘set Europe ablaze,’ as Churchill directed, these are the necessary casualties of war.”
There was still no question in Virginia’s mind. She was convinced everything she had experienced in her life—everything she had suffered—was preparing her for that moment. She hadn’t felt this alive since she’d watched the sun rise over Paris, all those years ago. Virginia glanced once more at the closet and turned to look Vera in the eye.
“I accept,” she said.
“Then welcome,” said Vera, “to the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare.”