Crossing by Night
by
David Aaron

Fact and fiction create a winning combination in former deputy national security advisor Aaron's ( Agent of Influence ) romanticized account of real-life spy Elizabeth Thorpe Pack, the young American wife of stodgy British diplomat Arthur Pack, during the Spanish Civil War and at the beginning of WW II. Elizabeth's honeymoon announcement that they're going to have a baby sooner than propriety dictates makes Arthur fear for his career. After using Elizabeth's beauty and social status to meet Vita Sackville-West, Winston Churchill and others above his station, he puts their newborn son up for adoption and takes Elizabeth to Spain, where she behaves "like a mad debutante" and falls for Antonio Zaragoza. In the summer of 1936, she catches the eye of the SIS by rescuing the besieged British embassy in San Sebastian. Flying into Madrid during the bombing, she locates Zaragoza and frees 18 men from a Valencia prison. When Arthur is later posted to Warsaw, the British recruit Elizabeth to steal Polish copies of the Enigma, the Nazi encoding device. Relishing her work, Elizabeth pursues handsome intelligence officer Count Michael Lubienski and uncovers Poland's complicity in Hitler's acquisition of Czechoslovakia. Then Churchill asks her to engage in yet another risky, heroic act of espionage, which brings the book to a riveting denouement. In Aaron's capable hands, Elizabeth is an irresistible heroine and her story is the stuff of highest adventure.

For Chloe

Foreword

This book is a work of fiction based on the
life and exploits of a real person,
Elizabeth Pack, an American woman whose
code name in the British Secret Service was
"Cynthia." Time magazine described her as
a blond James Bond who used "the boudoir
the way 007 uses a Beretta." The British
spymaster William Stephenson (A Man
Called Intrepid) hailed her as "World War
Two's greatest unsung heroine."
In dramatizing her story, I decided
to focus on her remarkable adventures in the world
of espionage in Europe in the 1930's and on
why, at great personal risk, she left the
comfortable world of a Washington debutante and
diplomat's wife to lead the life of a spy.
Although this is a novel, I have tried where possible
to be true to Elizabeth Pack's spirit and the
magnitude of her accomplishments. If this
approach sometimes makes it difficult to sort out
romance from reality, I apologize to the reader in
advance and console myself with the hope that this is
exactly as "Cynthia" would have wanted it.
In writing this book, I owe a particular
debt to her colleague the late H.
Montgomery Hyde for his many kindnesses and
insights. I also want to express my
appreciation to Corelli Barnett, director
of the Churchill Library at Cambridge
University, for facilitating access to her
papers, diaries and other materials that otherwise
remain restricted. And I must thank the many past
and present members of the intelligence community on
both sides of the Atlantic for their helpful and,
as usual, anonymous assistance. Finally, I
wish to record my gratitude to the late Count
Michael Lubienski for the opportunity to discuss
his relationship with Elizabeth Pack. To my
mind, he was a great Polish patriot without whom
the world might have become a very dark place indeed.

Part I

July 24, 1935
I think that I cannot quite understand
The depth of wanting unfulfilled desire,
And hating you to even touch my hand
When embers die where once there was a fire.
--The last entry in Elizabeth Thorpe's
childhood diary, written the day of her
wedding to Captain Arthur Pack.


Chapter 1

Windsor Castle, England--April 12,

"We can do business with Hitler, I assure
you." Lord Halifax smiled at the king
indulgently.
"You don't handle a bully by turning the other
cheek," Churchill growled. He had his thumbs
stuck in his waistcoat in the bulldog stance he
used to address the House of Commons.
They stood on opposite sides of the
fireplace in the library of the king's apartments in
Windsor castle. George VI frowned with
uncertainty and drew a lap robe more tightly
around his frail body. Outside a spring gale
howled. The tapestries shielding the windows and the
layers of oriental carpet covering the stone
floor could not keep out the damp.
It was an unusual group that the king had
assembled at Churchill's urging. The tall and
aristocratic Lord Halifax had recently
become lord president in the cabinet of the new
prime minister--Neville Chamberlain. As
such, he was the second most powerful figure in
Parliament. In contrast, Winston Churchill's
star had been falling. He had been First Lord of the
Admiralty in the Great War of 1914 and
widely expected to become prime minister, but his
opposition to the prevailing mood of pacifism in
Britain had relegated him to the back benches of
Parliament. Still, he retained influence with the king.
Two military men were also present. Sir
Cyril Deverell, chief of the Imperial
Defense Staff, sat to the right of the king, and
Admiral Hugh Sinclair who was C, head
of the Secret Intelligence Service, was on his
left. George VI turned to him.
"And what do-do our intelligence chaps say,"
the king asked.
"Your Majesty"--Admiral Sinclair
shifted his bulky body forward--"we estimate that
there is a grave likelihood of war in
Europe within the next eighteen
to twenty-four-months, certainly
by 1940."
The king's concern shifted to the chief of staff.
"Are will-we rather-rather-ready?" George VI'S
stutter always became worse when he was upset.
Sir Cyril's face tightened. His hard
angular features underscored his no-nonsense
reputation. "At the current rate of defense
production, we shan't catch up to Germany
until 1946."
"And that," Churchill intervened, "is only if
the Nazis make no greater efforts, which they well
could!"
"Now you all know will-why," the king explained,
"I asked you down from-for this child-child ...
talk."
"Speaking for the government, I don't think
we're quite so gloomy as all that." Lord
Halifax felt it was his duty to respond to his
sovereign's concerns. "We don't think war is
inevitable, and if it is, we don't believe
Britain is fated to become involved. Hence our
policy is to rearm at a pace that will not
provoke Hitler further."
"But will-what if you're wro-wro ...
mistaken?" the king insisted.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty"--
impatience had crept into Halifax's voice--
"foreign and defense policy are the prime
minister's responsibility, not royal
prerogatives."
An embarrassed silence followed this oblique
reference to the fact that the king had come to the throne
only three weeks earlier, after the abdication of
Edward VIII. The world believed that Edward
VIII had resigned to marry the American
divorcee Wallis Simpson, but everyone in
the room knew that the previous British monarch
had been pushed off the throne because he tried to force
his way into making foreign policy.
But George VI was not so easily
intimidated. "I that-take it that I still have some
authority over my so-secret so-so-service,
isn't that so-so?"
Admiral Sinclair hastened to nod his
agreement with the king. Halifax could not contradict
him. By tradition, British intelligence was
responsible first to the sovereign, only second
to Parliament and the Cabinet.
"Your Majesty," Churchill spoke up again,
"I may be only a lowly private
member of Parliament, but it's my view that if the
Prime Minister refuses to strengthen our
defenses, then our secret service becomes
all the more vital. Each day brings new German
threats. First it's reports of Nazi plans
to seize Austria, then it's Romania, or
Czechoslovakia or Hungary or Poland.
If we're to mobilize our meager resources
against the Nazi juggernaut, we must know where and when
the blow will fall!"
"Well, I wouldn't count on Sinclair's
chaps," said Sir Cyril. "Eighty percent of
his agents' reports prove dead wrong."
"That's what happens when you've been
brutalized by budget cuts," the chief of His
Majesty's Secret Service replied
angrily. He did not dispute Sir Cyril's
numbers.
"Then what about the German codes?"
Churchill asked. "If we could crack them, we
would have the best possible source of intelligence."
"Winston, you're living in the past."
Admiral Sinclair dismissed him. "The
Germans learned from the Great War. They have a
new coding machine that creates unbreakable
ciphers. We've tried everything to no avail."
"William Stephenson believes it can be
done," Churchill responded.
"I don't wish to take anything away from him
as an inventor or a businessman"--Admiral
Sinclair's jowels began to shake--"but Bill
Stephenson is a rank amateur in this
business."
The snap and pop of the fire filled the ensuing
silence. George VI raised his head and
looked at C.
"So-So am I," the king observed. "But for the
so-sake of the survival of the British
people-people, I will-want my secret so-service
to put on stronger go-glasses."

Pier 48, New York City--July
28, 1935
Elizabeth loved the waterfront. The
Forty-eighth Street pier swarmed with burly men
in caps and stained undershirts wrestling huge steamer
trunks up a gangway and into the side of the
Cunard liner Berengaria. Mounds of luggage and
clusters of voyagers, well-wishers, and
household staff created an obstacle
course for the limousines, touring cars, yellow
cabs, and Checker taxis that vied to deliver their
passengers closest to dockside. A small
brass band played on the promenade deck, which was
festooned with crepe paper streamers hanging down
to the dock. Overhead, tall booms lowered cargo
crates suspended in huge nets into the ship's
hold. The hot July morning smelled of
sweat, steam, and the sea. To Elizabeth, it was the
aroma of adventure.
At the age of ten, her Marine Corps
family had sailed from San Pedro,
California, to Hawaii, where she had climbed the
volcanoes and explored the rain forest. A few
years later, the U.s. Navy ferried
Elizabeth and her parents to Cuba, where she had
spent her days racing the Cuban boys through the
canebrakes on horseback until her mother
banished her to boarding school in Boston. After
graduation, a tramp steamer carried her family
to Europe, where they traveled for a year and where
Elizabeth studied French at the Institution
des Essarts in Switzerland.
Now, at nineteen, she was embarking on the
biggest adventure ever, her honeymoon in England
with Captain Arthur Pack, commercial officer in
His Britannic Majesty's Foreign
Service. Age thirty-nine, Captain Pack
was twenty years her senior, old enough to have caught
a dozen shell fragments in his left arm and
shoulder from a seventeen-inch German "Jack
Johnson" at the Battle of the Somme. He
held that arm gingerly to his chest as he struggled with
one of the trunks. Arthur Pack was far from any
young girl's romantic ideal. He was only
slightly taller than Elizabeth, with a
thickset body, receding hairline, and a
professionally unexpressive face that made him
look even older than his years. But
to Elizabeth, he represented both security and
excitement.
Most of the "buds" of her debutante season
had married into the dreary existence of Washington
society, summers on the eastern shore, winters
at the Greenbriar, bridge teas in the afternoon,
bridge parties in the evening. Elizabeth looked
forward to the romance of foreign capitals, the
swirl of diplomatic life, and above all,
starting a family. That she was already on the way was
a surprise that she would reveal to Arthur
when they were at last alone on the high seas. She
could not imagine a better wedding gift to offer him.
Elizabeth Pack was a striking young woman with
wavy strawberry blond hair framing an
intelligent face: large, deep-set green
eyes under a high forehead, prominent cheekbones,
and a bold mouth accented by a mischievous cleft in
her chin. Her traveling suit of shimmering green
duvetyn did not reveal that she was "with child," but it
still showed off her shapely and well-proportioned
athletic figure. She stood waiting happily
with her mother Cora, and her father George Thorpe,
in the shade of the elevated West Side
Highway, while Arthur counted their luggage for the
third time. Arthur loathed travel; it
interrupted his daily routine. But he relished the
logistics. Elizabeth was comforted at how
smoothly he had organized everything.
"You look awfully happy, dear."
Elizabeth's mother managed to convey the compliment
with a tinge of reproach. Dressed in a floral
print dress that hung like a drape from her ample
bosom, Cora Thorpe was still smarting from the way
that the Washington Evening Star had treated the
wedding. Her rage began when the event was ignored
entirely by the Sunday society section and reached
a fever pitch when, on the day of the wedding, the
only picture on the society page was that of the
daughter of the Nicaraguan ambassador.
"That's not even a real country," Cora had
thundered. "It's a Marine Corps training
camp!"
For a woman born before the turn of the century,
Elizabeth's mother had gained a formidable education:
a bachelor of arts degree from the University of
Michigan and a postgraduate degree from
Columbia. But after marrying George Thorpe,
she had focused all her talents on promoting
her husband's Marine Corps career and on the
thankless task of moving the family from post to post
around much of the Western Hemisphere. Now that
Colonel Thorpe had retired from the military
and become a Washington lawyer, Mrs. Thorpe
was conducting a campaign to advance the family
socially that was as relentless as Sherman's march through
Georgia.
Only the British, and prominent
Republicans, moved the mercury in Cora
Thorpe's social barometer. She had almost
burst with pride when President
Coolidge once came to dinner at their home,
but when Franklin Roosevelt and the Democrats
arrived in Washington, her social stock had
crashed along with the market. She not only considered
Roosevelt "a traitor to his class," but
she eagerly participated in syndicating rumors
that he was actually a Jew, descended from a
Colonel van Rosenfeld of Holland.
The ship's steam whistle let out an
ear-shattering blast, signaling fifteen minutes
to sailing. "If we're going to see your
stateroom," George Thorpe said, "we'd
better get on board."
Colonel Thorpe's enthusiasm for his
daughter's marriage was under careful control.
"Good God, Cora," he had exploded when his
wife first broached it, "the man hasn't
exactly set the diplomatic world on fire.
And he's a lot closer to my age than hers."
"Now don't you go get jealous about your little
girl. She's a woman now."
"And I'm sure she'll attract a lot of
admirers."
"That's precisely the point. She's too
attractive for her own good! Take that
Antonio de Zaragoza who's been skulking
around. He's married! I told him to leave off
or I'd complain to his ambassador.
Beautiful girls always end up with the worst men."
"I guess we're lucky we didn't have that
problem."
She ignored his sarcasm. "You have no
appreciation," she had continued unabated, "for the
lengths I've gone to to find a suitable candidate
like Captain Pack. He has dignity and a
pension."
Flashbulbs popped as the ship's
photographer caught the wedding couple and the
Thorpes climbing the crowded gangplank.
Cora was showing off the horsehair hat she had
bought for the wedding reception. Elizabeth,
perspiring in the heat, could not wait to get into her
cabin to take off her moleskin-trimmed
jacket. The steward showed them to an outside
stateroom on A deck. A magnum of
Veuve Clicquot courtesy of the captain sat
in a silver ice bucket. While Arthur opened
a porthole and Elizabeth turned on the fan,
George expertly popped the cork on the
champagne.
"To a long and happy life together," he toasted
them. George Thorpe was tall with hazel eyes
and a firm jaw with a cleft in his chin that he shared with
his daughter. Once tan and strongly built, her
father now looked thin and gray, Elizabeth thought.
She worried that having become a Washington
lawyer did not agree with him.
"And take your time having children," Cora was
saying. "I'm too young to be a grandmother."
Elizabeth could feel herself blush. She had been
right not to tell her mother.
The ship's horn gave two more blasts. They
all gulped down another glass of champagne,
then made their way to the promenade deck. Cora
gave her daughter a hug. George put his
arms around his daughter and kissed her on the
forehead. Elizabeth could not hold back her
tears.
"Betty, Betty." He rocked her back
and forth as if she were still his child. He looked like he
too might cry any minute.
"Thank you ever so much for everything," Arthur
interrupted their moment together. He held out his hand
and Elizabeth's father had to let go of her to shake
it. Then they all said good-bye again, and the Thorpes
made their way down to the dock. Elizabeth
pushed to the rail and tossed them several white
streamers. The ship gave a final three blasts
on its horn, and the gangway was hauled aboard.
The vibration under Elizabeth's feet increased as
the vessel edged away from the pier. As the mass
of the ship gathered momentum, Mr. and Mrs.
Arthur Pack and Mr. and Mrs. George
Thorpe held on to opposite ends of the streamers
until they bowed, stretched, and finally snapped
apart.
The ship swung out into the Hudson. George
Thorpe followed them out to the end of the dock.
Elizabeth could see him standing there in his handsome
white suit, waving his panama hat as the ship
moved down the river. When he disappeared,
eclipsed by the stern of the Normandie, she had the
sudden fear that she would never see him again.
Then the skyline of Manhattan opened up, and
she banished any gloomy thoughts from her mind. The
Empire State Building towered above everything
else, but other skyscrapers looked like they might
catch up. The sheer size and vitality of the city
thrilled her and somehow made her proud to be an
American. Despite the depression and
its problems, America was big and easy and open.
For all of England's rich culture, she knew
that it exacted a price in reserve and decorum.
Well, Elizabeth vowed, she was up to it.
As the closely packed spires of Wall
Street and the tip of the Battery slipped by,
Elizabeth impulsively threw her arms around
Arthur and gave him a kiss. He staggered
backward with an embarrassed smile.
Arthur Pack had to admit things were going
swimmingly. The wedding at Washington's Church
of the Epiphany, draped with the Union Jack and the
Stars and Stripes, gave just the right touch of
Anglo-American amity. His ambassador had
been very pleased. At the luncheon afterward, he
took full credit for the marriage. Rising
to propose a toast he said:
"A year ago I offered Captain Pack some
sound advice; it was time he found himself a wife."
"Hear, hear!" the British guests
responded.
"And do you know what Arthur replied?"
"Tell us!" several others called out.
"He said that he had never given much thought
to women!"
Laughter swept the room. Someone shouted,
"A gentleman of the old school!"
"Q. I, of course, commiserated fully," the
ambassador continued to more laughter, "but insisted it
would be good for his career. Now even Arthur could see
the point of that!"
The audience chuckled again.
"But he was bewildered as to what sort of woman
would be suitable. So again I advised him. Being a
diplomat's wife was a daunting
responsibility. We've always been proud that the
diplomatic corps gets two for the price of
one. I therefore urged him to find someone young who could
be properly molded. And so I lift my
glass to Elizabeth, Mrs. Arthur Pack,
our newest member of His Majesty's Foreign
Service!"
Looking at her now, standing at the rail with the
stiffening breeze pressing her clothes against her
body, Arthur had to admit he was proud of his
accomplishment. She had taken off her hat, and with
her hair blowing backward accentuating her
profile, Arthur thought she looked like a cross
between Gloria Swanson and Katharine
Hepburn.
"Let's go to the bar for a drink." He rubbed his
hands together.
"What about that wonderful champagne in the
cabin? I want to stay here until I can't see
land anymore." Champagne was just right for the news
she had for him.
To Elizabeth, the wedding had seemed a blur
and the ceremony a jumble of words. But this huge
ship, gaining speed as it headed out to sea, made the
change in her life feel irreversible. As
Arthur disappeared into the hatchway, Elizabeth
felt her affection for him rising. He could be
stiff and standoffish, but she liked nothing better
than breaking down his reserve. So what if he
didn't ignite a grand passion. Such a thing
scarcely existed outside of novels and the
movies, her mother insisted, and at that, it was not altogether
proper. Indeed, it was dangerous. Women who
indulged themselves in love, women who made fools
of themselves over men, ended up barefoot and
pregnant. With Arthur, she was pregnant and
safe.
The Berengaria steamed through the Verrazano
Narrows before Elizabeth realized that she had
missed the Statue of Liberty on the starboard
side. Arthur and a steward reappeared at her
elbow with the champagne. They clinked glasses.
"To the two of us," Arthur said. His normally
square and stolid face took on a smile.
Elizabeth was bursting with her secret. "I have
a surprise for you!"
"For me?" Arthur looked pleased. "Is it a
present?"
"Definitely, but I promised myself I'd
wait until we're on the high seas."
"Well, technically, we are already"--he
smiled again--"so come across."
"You're trying to trick me," she said coyly.
Elizabeth could still see land.
"Look at those ships, if you don't believe
me." He pointed to several merchant vessels
lying at anchor in the open sea surrounded by a
number of small, sleek corvettes.
"They're rumrunners sitting outside the
three-mile limit. Cheeky, what?"
"Wonderful!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "You
win!" She directed the steward to refill their
glasses. He emptied the bottle.
"You're sure I'm going to like this?" Arthur
laughed again.
"Are you!" She raised her champagne.
"We're going to have a baby!" She touched his
glass.
Arthur's smile froze, then became
uncertain. "When?" he asked. "When is it
due?"
"January, I think," she said happily,
downing her champagne.
Arthur put his glass down on the rail. His
face suddenly wore the look he had when dancing
--he was counting in his head.
"It must have been the first time," she explained.
"I can't believe you kept this a secret from
me." He was growing red. "Are you absolutely
sure?"
"The rabbit died," she said anxiously. This was
not what she expected.
"Oh my God!" He pressed the heel of his
hand to his forehead.
"Aren't you pleased?" Elizabeth was stricken.
"January!" Arthur hurled his champagne
glass overboard. "This could be an unmitigated
catastrophe!"
Elizabeth reached out to him.
He pushed her away.
"What's wrong?" she cried.
"Leave me alone!" he shouted and stalked off.
Numb, dumbfounded, Elizabeth stood at the
rail staring at the rolling sea until America
disappeared over the horizon.


Chapter 2

Queen Anne's Gate, London--
April 20, 1937
"I want you to handle Bill Stephenson from
now on," Admiral Sinclair told his
deputy Stewart Menzies as they rode
squeezed together in the tiny elevator that slowly
rose to the fourth floor of his town house. "I'm
handing him off to you at this meeting."
"A burden, is he?"
"He's been a good source on the European
armaments industry, but he's full of harebrained
schemes. Last month I had to quash his offer
to shoot Hitler personally with a hunting rifle.
Now, it's this German code machine
foolishness."
The elevator stopped, and the two men passed
through a door and into a corridor that linked
Sinclair's residence to an office building in
the rear that faced on Broadway. They emerged
at the suite occupied by the Government Code and
Cipher School, GCCS, the code-breaking arm
of the Secret Intelligence Service.
British code breakers had achieved great
success in the Great War of 1914-1918, most
notably decoding the famous "Zimmerman
telegram," which had proposed a
German-Mexican alliance to attack the
United States. When it was published, the
public outcry helped bring America into the war,
guaranteeing a quick Allied victory soon
thereafter. But since then, British code-breaking
had slowed to a trickle owing to budget cuts, and
because the Germans had introduced an electrical
enciphering machine called the Enigma.
William Stephenson sat waiting in an
undistinguished conference room that had a
blackboard on one wall, and a frosted window on
the other. It smelled of stale pipe smoke.
Stephenson had come late to the world of
intelligence. Born near Winnipeg,
Canada, he had impetuously volunteered for the
Great War and gotten badly gassed for his trouble.
But instead of returning home a disabled veteran,
he talked himself into the Royal Flying Corps.
He was accepted for two reasons: Small and
wiry, he fit into the cockpit of a Sopwith
Camel, and he was needed--the average life
expectancy for pilots was only two weeks.
Stephenson not only survived, he managed
to shoot down two dozen German aircraft,
including the brother of the infamous Red Baron.
His pugnacious spirit also led him into boxing, and
by the end of the war he was the amateur lightweight
champion of the world--a title he held until
1923 when he retired undefeated. By that time he
was also well on his way to becoming a
millionaire after having invented the modern
radio photo that revolutionized journalism.
With the royalties, he bought an interest in
General Radio; helped found the BBC; and
invested in Sound City Films, the construction
industry, and Pressed Steel Ltd., the foremost
British manufacturer of automobile
bodies.
It was steel that brought him inffcontact with the
British secret service. Through his dealings in
Germany, he determined that the bulk of
German steel production was being used in the
manufacture of arms, in violation of the Treaty
of Versailles. He shared this information with a friend,
who put him in contact with Admiral Sinclair.
The secret service chief arranged for
Stephenson's reports to go directly to the
Industrial Intelligence Center of the Imperial
Defense Committee, where they came to the attention
of Winston Churchill. With his support and
influence with the king, Stephenson soon became a
force to reckon with in the halls of the Secret
Intelligence Service even though he was not formally
a member of it.
Sinclair and Menzies entered the conference room
accompanied by Alistair Denniston, head of
GCCS, and the chief cryptographer Dilwyn
Knox.
"Quex, it's good to see you," Stephenson
exclaimed.
Sinclair cringed slightly at the use of his
nickname.
"Good to see you too, Bill," he said
perfunctorily. "You know everyone, so let's
get started. We're intensely interested in your
view that the Enigma can be broken."
"Anything that a machine can make," Stephenson
declared, "a machine can break. Machines produce
cycles," he added, "telltale patterns that can
always be exploited."
A prolonged silence ensued.
"That's it?" asked "Dilly" Knox. A
gangly and youngish-looking man with unkempt
receding black hair, the chief British
code-breaker paced nervously and with an awkward
limp in front of a blackboard. "You've nothing
more to offer than that?"
As a Canadian who had not studied at
Oxford or Cambridge, yet who had the ill
grace to make a success of himself, Stephenson
was accustomed to being regarded askance by the British
establishment. "We've been doing a lot of work
at General Radio on signal processing,"
he explained. "Conceptually, it's a form of
coding and decoding. With a vigorous research
program, I'm convinced that we could get a
breakthrough on the Enigma."
"You think we haven't tried?" Knox did not
bother to conceal his irritation. C shot him a
warning look to ease off.
"Have you seen this?" Knox lifted a
small suitcase onto the table. Without waiting
for a response, he opened the lid. It resembled
a portable typewriter.
"Is this the Enigma?"
"Not exactly. This is the Scherbius machine.
It was a commercial encoding device invented by a
Dutchman and manufactured in Berlin to be used
by banks. It disappeared from the market in 1922,
shortly before we started intercepting unbreakable
German signals. We believe the Enigma
machine is a development of this design."
Stephenson looked at it closely. It had
a keyboard like a typewriter, but above it were
several rows of lights, each with a different letter of the
alphabet. Where the carriage normally would be
located, three cylindrical rotors were mounted
crosswise to the way the roller would have been
installed. The letters of the alphabet were inscribed
around the rim of each rotor.
"Type your name," Knox suggested.
Stephenson pushed B. The letter S lit up
and the rotor on the right turned one stop. Then he
pushed I, L, and L, the rotor advancing
with each letter. The lights that winked on spelled
SJXA. He was asked to do it again, and BILL
came out NFZY.
"How does it work?" He was fascinated.
"When you press a key, an electric
pulse travels through these rotors and comes out with a
different letter. The way the wires inside each
rotor are connected determines what you see. And
each time the rotor turns it produces a
different circuit for the pulse to go through, thus
lighting up a different lettered bulb even if you
keep pressing the same letter key." He then
pressed Q four times and got PENL.
"And how do they decode it on the receiving end?"
"Decrypt it," Knox corrected him.
"They use the same machine. They set up the
rotors in the same way and do just the reverse."
He turned the rotors back to their original
position and typed SJXA. It came out
BILL. "But if you're His Majesty's
Secret Service and you don't know how the
Enigma rotors are wired or how the Germans
install them, or set them up to begin with, the number
of possible combinations for each letter is twenty-six
factorial!" Dilly went to the blackboard and
wrote with relish: "That is the number
403,291,461,126,605,635,584,-
jjjeajjj!"
"Then you really do need a machine to sort through
all the possibilities," Stephenson pointed
out.
"But we don't know enough about how it works!"
Exasperated, he limped back to a chair and
sat down. "The Germans have made a number of
modifications, perhaps changing the rotors, or the
wiring, or scrambling the keyboard, anyway
making it vastly more complicated. They obviously
believe it can't be broken. And, despite your
blithe optimism, Mr. Stephenson, I
believe they're right!"
"Then I would think your highest priority would be
to lay your hands on one of these machines, or at
least the plans."
"From where, Nazi Germany?" Denniston spoke
for the first time. Tweedy and balding, the head of the
Government Code and Cipher School exuded the
calm air of a university don.
"Where else?" Stephenson replied. "I
assume you have spies in Germany."
Denniston looked over at C. Admiral
Sinclair frowned, and a silence again descended
over the room. "The plain fact, Bill, is that
we have no high-level penetration of any kind in
the Third Reich."
Stephenson tried to conceal his shock. "Well,
then, that has to be your top priority," he
allowed.
"It is"--C nodded--"and that's why we can't
afford to waste our efforts on the Enigma. If you
can show us that it can be broken, well and good.
Until then ..." He put on a smile that said
that the meeting was over. "But do feel free to stay
in touch with my deputy here, Colonel Menzies
...."

Bignor, West Sussex, England--
August 5, 1935
The baby was never mentioned again until they had
arrived at their honeymoon cottage in
Bignor. When the Berengaria had docked in
Southampton, no one had met them at the pier.
Arthur had sent his parents a radiogram from the
ship saying that he was canceling their visit
to London and would call them to arrange dinner
once they had settled in. He told
Elizabeth that he wanted time to arrange a
"proper" introduction to his family.
When she asked if he had mentioned the baby, he
looked at her as if she were quite mad.
That was it. He made no further explanations.
No apology. No excuses. He simply
lapsed into a void of silence that had enveloped him
for the eight days since she had told him that he was
going to be a father.
During the voyage, Arthur had become
utterly remote, retreating into the security and
sanctity of a nonstop bridge game in the men's
bar. Stunned by his reaction, Elizabeth coped
as she had in childhood when something awful
occurred; she had pretended that it wasn't
happening: She wasn't pregnant; she wasn't
married; her life had not been changed forever.
Elizabeth was on a holiday cruise. She would
deal with everything else once she reached solid
ground.
But inside, a smoldering core of panic would
not be wished away. Elizabeth tried to smother it
by eating six times a day, something she could do now that
her morning sickness was gone. Breakfast was served
from seven to nine A.m., bouillon on deck at
eleven, luncheon at one, tea at four, dinner
at eight, and a late-night buffet supper in the
ballroom. She threw herself into the ship's
social life. The captain had invited the
Packs to his table the first night, dancing with
Elizabeth into the small hours while Arthur,
looking morose, excused himself to retire early.
Thereafter, Elizabeth became the pet of many of the
ship's most prominent passengers.
The financier Bernard Baruch taught
Elizabeth to gamble at the baccarat and chemin de
fer tables in the starboard lounge. On the rear
deck, John Strachey, a leftish author who
had been hounded out of the United States by the
American Vigilance Association, showed her how
to shoot skeet with a Purdy twenty-gauge "over
and under" shotgun. The actor Leslie Howard and
his wife accompanied Elizabeth to tea dances and
fashion shows in the promenade lounge, while the
poetess Vita Sackville-West invited her
for swimming, calisthenics, and massage on D
deck, regaling her with gossip and scandal about the
other first-class passengers. The whole group
went to the movies, and attended lectures in the
forward lounge, and in the evening gathered again for the
orchestra, floor show, and to dance the "continental"
in the ballroom. By the time she returned
to her stateroom late in the evenings, Elizabeth
invariably found Arthur asleep in a cloud of
Scotch.

The little car that Arthur had hired, an
Anglia, looked like an icebox on wheels.
After piling it high with luggage, the stevedores had
warned that the car might tip over, so Arthur had
to arrange to ship the steamer trunks by train.
Their destination and home for the next several
months was to be Bignor, a small village
outside the West Sussex town of Petworth.
In an intermittent rain, they had set out from
Southampton's Ocean dock, traveling north
then east, along the edge of the South Downs.
Elizabeth had felt anxious at leaving the ship
behind. She and Arthur were now forced to be alone with one
another. But he rarely talked and hadn't touched
her since she told him of the baby. Tension
filled the inside of the car like the fumes from the
manifold. Both were giving her a bad headache.
They had to talk about the baby. She vowed to have a
showdown when they got to Bignor.
After more than two hours of driving,
Elizabeth had noticed the appearance of strange
flat-topped pines reminiscent of the south of
France. In the distance, a church spire rising
above the forest was the only sign of human
habitation. Both America and the exciting new world
she had imagined seemed equally far away.
At Petworth they crossed the Rother
River, then turned east again onto a dirt
road that led through the fields past the ruins of an
ancient Roman villa, finally disappearing into a
thicket of pine and beech that concealed the tiny
village of Bignor.
Consisting of no more than a few dozen houses,
Bignor had an oddly Mediterranean feeling.
Dwellings of light-colored stone crowded
closely upon one another reminding Elizabeth of
hilltop villages in Italy, except that
Bignor lay in a hollow of damp shadows cast
by the surrounding forest. The incongruity only
increased Elizabeth's apprehension.
Next to the church, Arthur turned left onto
an even smaller and more deeply rutted track.
It took them to the edge of the village where the
trees opened out into broad sunny green fields
of mustard. There, as if alerted by some unknown
rural telegraph, a heavyset woman
in a sweater and a tweed skirt was waiting for them.
Cheery and red-faced, she was Mrs. Willet,
their landlady.
From behind a low stone barn covered in a patchwork
of moss, a large man in rubber Wellingtons
appeared. She introduced him as Mr.
Willet. While he and Arthur unloaded the
car, Mrs. Willet took Elizabeth through a
wooden gate and up a path toward a small
cottage. Elizabeth realized that Arthur had
never exactly described their honeymoon
cottage; he had kept repeating that it was "in a
beautiful area known for its grand homes." She
felt a wave of claustrophobia as Mrs.
Willet proudly showed them the three small
rooms downstairs and the single bedroom upstairs
tucked away beneath the eaves. When she looked at
the tiny sleigh bed in which she would spend her nights
with Arthur, Elizabeth wanted to sit down on it
and cry.

She had most of the luggage unpacked when
Elizabeth heard a knock on the front
door. Mrs. Willet had returned with tea,
scones and clotted cream, biscuits, and little
sandwiches. It all looked delicious and
Elizabeth smiled, thinking how lucky she was
to be able to eat for two. Then she felt
depressed again.
"You look like you've had a long day, child,"
Mrs. Willet said. "I'll take this to the table
on the terrace. The light at this hour makes for a
lovely view."
"Won't you join us?" Elizabeth hastened
to ask as she followed her out the kitchen door.
She could not bear the thought of the coming confrontation with
Arthur.
"Oh no, I'm sure you lovebirds would like
a bit of privacy."
Arthur joined her under the grape arbor. As they
drank their tea, Elizabeth tried not to stare at
him. Finally, sick of his silence, she went to the
edge of the terrace and looked out. From there, she could
see across the open valley to the ridge several
miles away that stretched from horizon
to horizon. Not a house or a barn spoiled the
sight of fields of wheat and rye and mustard and
grass that rolled all the way down to the river
hidden in a line of willows. Nearby, in a
meadow, young lambs skipped and frolicked
with one another. She couldn't take it any longer.
She had to face him.
"Arthur, we must talk about the baby."
"Right." He got up and came toward her.
"I've been thinking."
Elizabeth backed away toward the edge. She
was ready to fight.
"I owe you a sincere apology," he said.
"I behaved like a cad on the ship, and I'm
terribly sorry."
Elizabeth dissolved. She threw her arms
around him and buried her head in his shoulder weeping
uncontrollably.
"There, there," he said awkwardly. "I
didn't mean to be cruel. Let me explain
myself."
He led her back to the table, where they sat down
on a rickety settee, knees touching, Arthur
holding Elizabeth's hands in his.
"You'll learn that England's a strange
country. Oh, we speak a similar tongue and
share a common history, but under the surface
similarities, you'll come to find that we are as
foreign to you as if we were Levantines. It's
merely more subtle."
Elizabeth did not want one of his
lectures. This was a time he could be silent. She
just wanted him to reach out and hold her.
"What I'm trying to say, if I may be
direct," he continued, "is that we're not as
morally relaxed as you Americans."
Elizabeth pulled away. She should have known that
he had an agenda, that a simple apology was not
the end of it.
"Don't be offended. It's true," he
insisted, "particularly in His Majesty's
Foreign Service and even more so if one is
Catholic. The Protestants look down on us
even more if we don't live up to our own
standards.
"It's no bed of roses, being Catholic in
England," Arthur continued. "In truth, we're
descended from very old families, landed
families, uncorrupted by the Protestantism
spawned by Henry VIII'S adultery and
Oliver Cromwell's ambition. But
prejudice over the centuries has deprived the
finest Catholic families of their means. And of
course it's not the least amusing to be asked
constantly if one is Irish!"
"I'm part Irish." Elizabeth considered that
her romantic side.
Arthur ignored her comment. "You might think that
His Majesty's Foreign Service would be more
sophisticated, since it must deal with foreign
cultures, but that only seems to make for more
suspicion, treating us as if we were secret
agents of the Pope. If you've ever asked yourself
why I've not advanced as far as some others, well
I'm sorry to say that bigotry plays a part."
Elizabeth looked at him with genuine concern.
"There's a group of us in the Foreign Office,
and we look out for one another. But to get ahead,
we always have to be better than the others, and never,
never make a mistake. My career is spent
walking on eggshells."
"Arthur, I forgive you about the boat, and I
don't care about all that."
"But I must make you understand. When you said the
baby was coming in January, I suddenly realized
what the others would say. Did you think they would be
happy for me as they might in America? Did you
think their wives would give you little parties with
gifts for the baby--what do you call them?"
"Baby showers."
"Right. Did you? Well, they wouldn't. My
chums would whisper and laugh behind my back. The
women would all be counting on their fingers." He
wiggled each one like he was playing piggy goes
to market. ""Three months premature and over
six pounds!" And they'd roll their eyes."
Elizabeth had to laugh.
"It's not funny!" Arthur said earnestly.
"It's deadly important! The worst thing that can
happen in the diplomatic service is to become
an object of ridicule. Do you know what a
gaffe is?"
"It's French for "mistake.""
"Not just a mistake, an embarrassing
mistake. Englishmen spend their lives
desperately avoiding embarrassment. Everyone in
Foreign Service lives in dread of the gaffe.
And not merely for ourselves, oh, no! It's far
worse to become an embarrassment to others. My
God, my ambassador was at our wedding!"
"People may talk, but are you seriously suggesting
that it will be a black mark against you that we made
love before we were married?"
Elizabeth's directness made Arthur
cringe. "I'm utterly serious. You
don't know what scandal means until you've seen
the English ...."
"Scandal?" Elizabeth couldn't believe her
ears. "We're married!"
"It's still a scandal! That's how my fellows will
see it! And I'll suffer. We'll all suffer!
Look at this appalling little house. If I have
to leave the service and become a clerk in some
miserable business office, this is all I could ever
afford. Abroad in the Foreign Service, one
gets allowances for decent houses, servants,
cars. I joined so that I might live beyond my
cla--" He stopped short of saying "class."
Instead, he said "means." He squeezed her hand
and stared at her. "I know it's hard for someone so
young to understand, but this baby could destroy all that
I've built and want for both of us."
"I'm terribly sorry. Is it all my
fault?" A sense of dread swept over her.
"Of course not, I'm responsible too.
That's why I feel I can ask you." Tears
filled his eyes.
"Ask what?" The dread turned to panic.
"We can have more children, but I only have one career."
"What?" she cried.
"I wouldn't ask you to do anything illegal, but
miscarriages happen all the time."
"You're talking about our child!"
"We have no choice! You must think of the
future. Our whole life together is in
jeopardy. So I've made a decision," he
said firmly.
"No, no, no." She began to moan and rock
from side to side.
"You must get rid of it!"


Chapter 3

Hotel Bar au Lac, Zurich--
October 11, 1932
From his breakfast table at the window of the
Rotunda, Captain Gustave Bertrand could
see the wind whipping up whitecaps on the lake.
That should be to the good, he decided. It would reduce
the number of passengers on the excursion boat and
hopefully give him an opportunity for a
private talk with his German agent "Asche."
Bertrand, a pudgy little man who was head of the
decryption unit of French intelligence, known as
Section D, had not recruited Asche.
And like most of his colleagues, he had been quite
suspicious of him at first. Asche was a
"walk-in" who had approached a French
intelligence officer claiming to work for the
Reichswehr Chi-Stelle, the German Army's
cryptographic agency. Originally, Section
D considered Asche to be a plant, an
agent provocateur, but in a series of
meetings in Holland, Belgium, Denmark, and
Czechoslovakia, anywhere Asche could get
away for a weekend, he had been turning over
secret material of increasing importance.
Thus far, he had supplied documents on the
organization of the Chi-Stelle, various military
codes including the German Army's code
"black," and keys to several ciphers used by the
army's signal corps. This meeting would be
Asche's most severe test. At their last
encounter in Marienbad, Bertrand had insisted that he
supply information on the Enigma.
Captain Bertrand patted his lips with his linen
napkin and signed the check. He picked up his
camera bag and stepped through the polished brass
doors into the hotel driveway. Waving away a
taxi, he began to walk through the garden toward the
lake, leaning against the wind. His watch told him
he had less than five minutes until the
steamer departed. He should not have taken the time for that
second helping of rosti potatoes.
Ahead he could see that there was no line at the
ticket window on the steamer dock. The ship's
whistle gave three sharp blasts, signaling that it
was ready to depart. Bertrand broke into a run.
Already, the crew was beginning to unwind the hawsers that
held the steamship fast to the dock. When the
Frenchman reached the ticket window, he found it
closed. The crew was starting to draw up the
gangplank. Bertrand heaved his corpulent body
over the gate and dashed for the ship crying "Stop!"
in as many languages as he could remember. The
crew hesitated, and in that second he leaped on
board, colliding with the purser and almost knocking them
both down.
Captain Bertrand apologized, paid his fare,
and apologized again. He went to the rail and took
several deep breaths to quell the nausea he
felt as a result of his exertion. That was quite an
arrival scene for a secret agent, he thought
angrily to himself. Handling spies was simply not his
line of work. He spent his days at a
desk breaking codes. Yet if Asche had what
they needed on the Enigma, even a heart attack
would be worth it.

Twenty minutes later, with the peaks of the
Oberland Massif rising in the distance, the lake
steamer pulled alongside the pier at
Mythenquai. Three passengers waited to board,
an older couple with bicycles, and a tall thin
man in civilian clothes but with the ramrod
posture of a German military officer. Bertrand
knew that Asche's real name was Hans-Thilo
Schmidt but little else about him. He was deeply
curious as to what would cause a man to spy against
his own country but had been told by the professional
spymasters never to ask that question of an agent.
The ship cast off again. There were less than two
dozen passengers when the steamer could have held
hundreds. At that midmorning hour, the burghers
who used the ship for commuting to the center of Zurich
were already in their offices, and it was late in the year
for most travelers. Because of the wind, most
passengers stayed in the lounge while Bertrand
remained at the rail. The steamer was under way for
ten minutes before Asche sidled up to him at the
rail on the foredeck. They were alone.
"Any sign of being followed?" Bertrand
spoke into the wind.
"I doubled back on the tram and walked for an
hour in the park. I saw no one except the
couple with the bicycles." His voice betrayed
impatience for the games that spies play.
"And were you successful in getting what we asked
for?"
"I don't think you'll be too disappointed."
His diffidence was irritating.
"France is extremely grateful." Bertrand
had been told to try to establish a personal
relationship with Asche.
"La France, c'est merde. France
is shit," he responded. "Do you have my
money?"
"There is a bank deposit receipt in
there." Bertrand glanced over at his camera bag that
was sitting on a bench.
Asche passed him an identical one, then
went to the bench and opened Bertrand's.
"Don't do that!" the Frenchman hissed.
"And the cash?" Asche demanded.
"After I develop the film. I'll
see you at the cathedral at five-thirty."
The steamer was approaching Utoquai where a car
would be waiting to take Bertrand to the French
consulate. "Where will you be?" he asked.
"Spending the afternoon with several young ladies."
Asche smiled for the first time.
Bertrand shook his head as he disembarked.
Only a German, he thought, would find Swiss
prostitutes amusing.

As he stood in the eerie red light of the
consulate darkroom, Bertrand could feel his
disappointment grow. The first roll of film
provided keys to the manual ciphers used between
military and civil authorities. The second
consisted of ciphers used by the railway police.
The third set of prints were more valuable,
providing the German armed forces B and D
codes. But suddenly Captain Bertrand became
excited as the prints from roll four swam
into focus in the developing tray.
The first set of pictures were labeled
Gebrauchsanweisung, H. Dv. go.
13, and L. Dv. 13. They were the
operating instructions for the Enigma! The next set
comprised the keying instructions and a monthly table of
army Enigma keys starting back in December
1931, and continuing through 1932, 1933, and into the
first six months of 1934! The final roll of
film produced an Enigma enciphered text with the
corresponding plain text. It was a coup of the
first rank! He would be a hero in his service!
All he needed now to break the codes were the
plans to the Enigma machine. And Asche could
obviously get them for him.

The Grossmunster Cathedral sat on a
hill on the right bank of the Limat River, not
far from where it emptied out of the Z@urichsee. As a
French Catholic, Bertrand had never been
inside a Protestant church and was reassured
by the sight of a statue of Charlemagne sitting
atop the south tower. Once inside, he looked
about for water to bless himself and found none. Otherwise
it looked like any other Gothic cathedral
except that some bizarre modern stained glass was
being installed in the windows.
There were few worshipers and Bertrand easily
picked out Asche sitting halfway down the
central aisle. He stopped at his pew
and genuflected before sliding in next to him.
"You don't do that in a Protestant church,"
Asche whispered. After a moment, he added,
"Were you satisfied?"
"It was a good start." Bertrand concealed his
excitement.
"I want my bonus."
"I'm giving you half in cash." He passed
over a leather pouch. "A thousand Swiss
francs. The rest is on deposit." The most
difficult problem with agents was their tendency
to start throwing around their money wildly, calling
attention to themselves.
"You don't need to worry about me," Asche
said as if he could read Bertrand's thoughts. "I'm
hiding the cash, not spending it."
"What for?"
"Terrible times lie ahead in Germany. You should
know that. Hitler could win a majority in the next
election."
"Will the army support him?"
"Most military men are just happy to be
employed. But everyone complains that the
politicians in Weimar give us no
direction. They want to take orders. Most of the
officers I know will vote for Hitler and his
hooligans."
"And you?"
The pews were filling up for the six o'clock
service. It was becoming more difficult to talk.
"Hitler means war," Asche sighed. "I've
had enough of it. I'm preparing my own
alternatives. That's why I want more cash."
Bertrand looked around quickly and dropped his
voice to a whisper. "I can promise you much more
if you can get me one thing."
"You want the plans to the new Enigma." He
smiled with no trace of amusement.
"Yes," said Bertrand, slightly surprised.
"There must be schematics, drawings, repair
manuals, something of the sort at your
headquarters."
"There are. In the commandant's safe. But I
cannot get them. He would be instantly
suspicious."
"Why is that?"
The answer, and his tone of voice, told
Bertrand all he needed to know about Asche's
motives.
"Because the commandant is my brother."

Bignor--September 1935
As a child, dreams were the place where Elizabeth
could hide from the pains and hurts of everyday life.
Now, life itself was like a dream, but a bizarre and
terrible one. The English days were unusually clear
and sunny. They were filled with the sights and smells
of the harvest: men moving slowly through the fields with
their hand scythes, hay being heaped up in the meadows,
women working through the orchards pulling down the
apples, children gathering the last of the blackberries
from the tangles along the roadside, and by the
river, anglers drawing to shore the silvery
salmon caught returning from the sea to spawn.
Elizabeth held fast to those images, trying
to blot out the reality of what she was doing every day,
riding hard across country, leaping ditches and stone
fences, deliberately cantering like a beginner
until she thought her bones would break. And when the
truth forced its way through, as it often did, she
fell back on blaming herself. She had let it
happen. She had taken no precautions. She was
the bad one.
Elizabeth knew the moment that she had become
pregnant by Arthur. Her mother had arranged for them
to go to a house party at the British embassy
lodge in the Shenandoah. A freak spring
snowstorm, however, kept the others away, leaving
them stranded and without power in the huge summer house
that was not insulated against the cold. Elizabeth
built a tent of bedsheets to trap the heat from the
fireplace while Arthur searched for food.
All he came back with was a couple of
bottles of 100-proof Scotch, one of which
Elizabeth used to start a small blaze in the
hearth; the other they drank to keep warm.
It was Elizabeth's suggestion that they take
off their wet clothes. Their luggage was in the
trunk of Arthur's Hudson Terriplane where
it had slid off the road a half mile away.
Clad in her underwear, Elizabeth had crawled
into the tent next to Arthur, who, out of a sense of
decorum, insisted on wearing his waistcoat and
tie even though he had removed his pants.
Warmed by the whiskey, she snuggled in his arms and
began to fall asleep. Then, without warning,
Arthur was on top of her yanking up her slip and
pulling down her brassiere. He had hardly ever
kissed her before!
"Arthur, no ...." She had started
to struggle.
He tore her pants away.
Elizabeth became very calm. She could fight
him, kick him, bite him. Or she could
envelope him, smother him, steal his strength. When
he forced himself between her legs, she had remembered
thinking, Mother, is this what you wanted?
He plunged inside. Pain shot through her.
He seemed desperate. And just as suddenly,
released.
Elizabeth saw him gasp then shut his eyes,
his power gone, overwhelmed with guilt. He tried
to pull away, but she held on tightly with thighs
now soaking wet. Finally, she rolled over on
top of him, staring into his face.
It was full of shame and bewilderment. Tears
gathered in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. In that
moment, her pain at being violated was suddenly
transformed. She'd found a new power. She
made Arthur, of all people, lose control. He
looked so humiliated she was moved to comfort him.
She bent down and tenderly kissed his tears
away. Never had she felt so close to anyone.
By the following morning she had persuaded herself that
she must be in love with him. The next week, she
agreed to be married. As the wedding approached
three months later, jittery doubts began
to arise in her mind, but she sternly suppressed
them. And when she discovered that she was pregnant,
Elizabeth rejected the troubling thought that her
feelings for Arthur were merely the afterglow of
conception. Now, she was imprisoned in a cycle
of denial and self-justification. Through
sacrifice she would convince herself that her marriage
was no mistake. She would prove her love for
Arthur by betraying her unborn child. So each day
Elizabeth would ride until her horse nearly
collapsed and she thought her insides would fall out.
It didn't work.
In early September, Arthur was called into the
Foreign Office to plan for economic sanctions
against Italy in the event Mussolini invaded
Ethiopia. Each morning before he drove to the
nearby train station for the commute to London, he
left Elizabeth with instructions on her daily
regimen. Growing increasingly anxious, he had
added bicycle riding, jumping off walls and
dips in the river, to the ordeal on horseback.
At night, when he returned, came the
interrogation. How many miles had she
pedaled? How far had she cantered? How long a
gallop? How had her body reacted to the icy
water?
It still didn't work.
At the outset, she had begged to go back
to America to have the baby. No one in England would
know when the child was born. Arthur refused, claiming
that everyone in Washington, including his colleagues
at the embassy, would know. His real reason came
out later; the passage, he said one night when
drunk, "would cost a fortune."
Once a week, he would become maudlin with
too much port and, through tears, beg her
forgiveness. He would sob that it was all for her
benefit. He was only insisting out of love for
her. And the next morning, he invariably demanded
that she push on.
Nothing worked, and she was glad. It seemed like the
baby wanted her, and she wanted the baby.
Elizabeth could feel the swelling in her
abdomen. Running her hands over her body, she
would sometimes stand in front of the mirror and examine
how the veins were beginning to show through her growing
breasts, and how the nipples were changing, and how the
skin all over her body seemed to glow. She would
feel joy and an awful vulnerability at the
same time.
A few weeks after he started going
to London, Elizabeth had begun to cheat by staying
in bed. At first she told herself it was because of the
pain. She would lie in bed most of the day, her
womb aching, while Mrs. Willet brought her
lunch and tea, looking concerned and perplexed but
never invading her privacy.
Then she progressed to a deliberate and
quiet rebellion. She had the groom ride the
horse. She soaked her bathing suit in the sink.
She even went so far as to give her bicycle
flat tires--pinching the inner tubes with a pliers
to make Arthur think that they had been cut by the rim
on a rough road.
But she was unable to confront him directly. So
weekends Elizabeth could not avoid the pounding of
riding and jumping and the shock of freezing cold
plunges in the river.
On Monday she would be back in bed and
overwhelmed by loneliness. Her terrible secret
kept her from reaching out to others who might help.
What would Mrs. Willet and the villagers say
if they knew what she was doing?
She thought of writing to her mother, but it was too
humiliating. Besides, what would her mother say?
Tell her to be practical. Probably
agree with Arthur! No, she would rather not know her
mother's advice.
She even thought of trying to contact Arthur's
parents. But she'd never even met them. What would
they do? Forgive him most likely. Furtive
fantasies of Antonio de Zaragoza coming
to her rescue, carrying her away to his castle in
Spain, aggravated her sense that she deserved
to be punished. So loneliness became her only
close companion, and her life a frightening and
horrible dream from which she felt she could not awake.

One rainy Saturday in October,
Elizabeth gained a reprieve. To Arthur's
surprise, they had received an invitation to a dinner
that evening at the country home of Harold
Nicolson and Vita Sackville-West, whom
she had met on the boat. Arthur felt put out
that Elizabeth had attracted the attentions of such
socially and politically prominent people, but he could
hardly refuse their hospitality.
The drive to Sissinghurst took more than two
hours over narrow, winding roads through Piltdown
and across the Weald. Cramped in the front seat and
afraid to move so as to not wrinkle her full
skirt, Elizabeth began to feel worse than
if she had been riding a horse. When they
arrived at their destination, she could barely stand up
straight, but having escaped Bignor, she was
determined to make the most of the evening.
Sissinghurst proved to be a restored castle
with a brick tower crowned by two cupolas rising from
a central courtyard. The butler showed them into a
drawing room with a high vaulted ceiling where a
baronial fireplace was ablaze with huge logs
and the cocktail hour well under way. Vita
Sackville-West appeared immediately to greet
them. In her early forties, Vita had the fine
skin and delicate features of a poetess, but the
deliberately languid posture of the English
aristocracy.
"How good of you to come on such short notice,"
she said, seizing Elizabeth's hand and ignoring
Arthur.
"We're quite honored by the invitation," he said
stiffly.
"Let's get you some cocktails,"
Vita responded. "We're all consuming these
deadly tequila stingers. It's a cactus
whiskey we discovered on our recent trip
to Mexico. Then, if the rain has stopped, I
want to show Elizabeth my gardens while there's
still a touch of light in the sky."
They left Arthur standing with a glass in his hand
outside a circle of men who were discussing the
day's hunting.
"I've tried to make each garden like a room
of the house," Vita explained as she and
Elizabeth stepped outside. There was a chill
mist and she called for the butler to bring them shawls.
"This is the White Garden. It was quite literally
a refuse dump only five years ago."
In the twilight, Elizabeth could see that it
had been planted with a variety of white
chrysanthemums.
"Each of my "rooms" have flowers of a
different color. The hedges will grow up
to enclose the space. In fine weather, we live
out here in a sort of roofless existence."
"That must be very seldom," Elizabeth could not
help saying.
Vita laughed. "I see you're already
familiar with English weather."
As they walked through the other gardens, Vita
took Elizabeth's elbow. For the first time in
months, she felt safe, and as Vita continued
chatting, it required all of Elizabeth's
self-control to keep from breaking down and throwing
herself into her hostess's arms.
Suddenly, Vita paused and stared intently at
Elizabeth. "Do you mind if I ask you a
personal question? Normally, I wouldn't, but
Americans don't seem to mind."
"Go ahead." Elizabeth tried to sound
casual.
"What is it like, marrying a man so much older
than yourself? How does your husband treat you?"
Elizabeth was taken aback. Did she know?
Could she tell? "He treats me fine," she said
defensively.
"It's just that Englishmen like your husband," she
persisted, "can be very set in their ways. A young
lady of my acquaintance married just such a
gentleman. Right on their honeymoon he wanted
to start coordinating their schedules. He told her
that on Monday and Wednesday night, he always
went to his club. And on Tuesday he
attended evening lectures of the Ornithological
Society. Thursday evening was set aside for
business dinners with his solicitors and bankers,
and Friday he liked to get away early to the
country to dine with his fellows at the Hunt."
My God, was Vita telling her a joke?
Elizabeth felt relieved.
"Now this gentleman considered himself very modern,
and so he acknowledged that his new bride might have a
schedule of her own. "Do tell me your
plans," he said after his little presentation.
""Well, they're really very simple," she
replied. "At ten o'clock each evening, I'm
going to be in bed making love--whether you're there
or not!""
Elizabeth burst out laughing. It had been so
long she found it hard to stop. Vita smiled
back at her. "I want you to know"--she took
Elizabeth's arm firmly--"if that should happen
with Arthur, you can always come to me."
Before Elizabeth could fathom what she meant,
dinner was announced, and the other guests began
trooping across the courtyard to what Vita called
the Priest's House. They entered a gallery
set with a long table. The candlelight glinting off the
silver was almost blinding.
To her surprise, she had a seat of honor
near the center of the table across from Vita, while
Arthur was placed down at the end below the salt.
The meal was sumptuous, and Elizabeth devoured
everything in sight: the oysters, the oxtail soup, the
turbot, the champagne ice, the venison, the
potato croquettes, the green salad, the
chocolate-covered profiteroles, and several
glasses of white burgundy and claret.
Conversation with the gentlemen on either side of her was
not required. The member of Parliament to her
left and the earl of "Somethingshire" on her right
entertained themselves by talking through her about the day's
shooting, last week's shooting, last year's
shooting--paying her occasional notice only
by glancing down her d@ecolletage.
With the last course, the conversation turned more
serious and inclusive. Addressing a
cherubic-looking man next to Vita, Harold
Nicolson asked him to comment on recent
articles by an American journalist sitting
farther down the table, who had reported that in a
new war with Germany, Britain would surely face
defeat.
The round-faced gentleman had been largely
silent during dinner. He blinked slowly several
times, and to the evident surprise of most of the
guests replied, "It may well be true."
He then picked up an unlit cigar and began
to stab the air for emphasis.
"It may well be true," he began again in a
formal and declaratory manner, "that this country will,
at the outset of this almost inevitable war, be
exposed to dire peril and fierce ordeals. It
may be true that steel and fire will rain down upon
us day and night, scattering death and destruction far
and wide. It may be true that our sea
communications will be imperiled and our food
supplies placed in jeopardy. Yet these
trials and disasters will but serve to steel the
resolution of the British people and enhance our will for
victory."
Elizabeth nudged her companion from
Parliament to ask who the speaker was.
"Old Winston," he said in a bored tone.
"Winston Churchill."
"No, the gentleman of the American press
should not have used that dreadful word defeat."
Churchill aimed his cigar at the journalist.
"Yet supposing that you were correct in this tragic
utterance. It will then be for you, for the Americans,
to preserve the great heritage of the English-speaking
peoples. Nor should I die happy, were I not
convinced that if we in this dear, dear island succumb
to the ferocity and might of our enemies, over there in
your distant and immense continent, the torch of
liberty will burn untarnished and--I trust and
hope--undismayed."
There were a few polite "Hear! Hearff"s,
but mostly coughs and silence. Elizabeth felt very
moved. She had an urge to stand up and say, you can
count on us, but realized that this would mortify
Arthur. As the general conversation started to pick up
again, her companion from Parliament said, "Such an
old windbag and warmonger. I don't see why
Harold and Vita put up with him."

On the long drive home, Elizabeth told
Arthur that she had had a wonderful time. He
responded by saying, "Yes, I noticed that you
talked with everyone." She had seen him standing around
in an embarrassed silence most of the evening.
By the time they reached Bignor, Elizabeth again
felt cramped and sick. Arthur had
to help her out of the car, and she was grateful to sink
into her feather bed. As they turned out the light,
Elizabeth mentioned that she might have found a friend in
Vita Sackville-West.
Arthur snorted. "Of course she likes you.
She's a notorious lesbian."
"You're joking!"
"Do you know Virginia Woolf?"
"The novelist?"
"They were lovers for years, still are for all I
know."
"What about Vita's husband?"
"Harold? He's a famous poof."
Elizabeth lay silent for a while, pains
shooting through her abdomen. "All that scandal," she
said finally, "doesn't seem to have hurt them any.
He told me he's standing for Parliament."
Arthur sat up. "You don't understand." There was
anger and bitterness in his voice. "They're
upper-class. They can do anything they want."
* * *
The next day, Sunday, was Elizabeth's
birthday, and Arthur proposed a picnic. He
dressed in corduroy pants and a tweed jacket
and she put on a heavy sweater and a wool
skirt. She was still in pain but decided an outing
would do her good; whereupon Arthur drove the Anglia
as fast as he could over the stony and rutted
remains of an ancient Roman road that ran
by Bignor. The car bumped and bottomed so hard
that Elizabeth had to press her hands against the roof
to keep from banging her head.
"For God's sake, Arthur," she finally
shouted, "you're going to destroy the car!"
Their destination was an archaeological dig where
a first-century Roman villa was being unearthed
on a nearby hill. When she had been riding,
Elizabeth had often stopped there to rest. From the
archaeology students, she had learned that
Bignor's peculiar Mediterranean look
came from the stones of the villa, which over the
millennia, the townspeople had taken to build
their houses. The villa itself covered several
acres, its outlines now marked by stakes in the
ground connected by twine.
They carried the picnic baskets
to Elizabeth's favorite spot, a large
mosaic tile floor with the figure of a dancer.
The students thought it was Terpsichore, the muse of
dance.
While Arthur spread the blanket,
Elizabeth took in the panoramic view of the
golden valley and the ocher autumn hillsides.
The silver band of the Arun River glinted in the
distance. She could smell the chimney smoke that
curled up from the wooded village. It all
seemed so gentle and soothing, momentarily easing the
pain she felt in her legs from the climb and the
persistent ache that seemed to come from her soul.
Despite her trials, Elizabeth realized that
she had come to love this English landscape. She
had the strange feeling that something here had
protected her and her baby. Perhaps the power of
Hermes, who once guarded wayfarers on the
Roman road to Londinium, still safeguarded
fools like her who were merely passing through.
She looked down at the mosaic of the young girl
in her long pink gown, turning with her arms
upraised in a classic arabesque. The pain in
Elizabeth's legs had returned and now spread
to her belly and her back. Was the dancer
Terpsichore or a favorite slave girl in
the service of the Roman viceroy? Elizabeth
began to feel light-headed and feverish. She
imagined being a slave at the villa in the court
of the King Cogidubnus: free only when she
danced, only when her robes flowed around her as
she turned ever faster to escape the cruelty of the
world, a world that was spinning and spinning and spinning
....
Elizabeth collapsed. Rushing to her, Arthur
looked down to see the blood staining her skirt and
spreading slowly onto the mosaic floor.


Chapter 4

French Intelligence Headquarters, 2
Bis, Avenue de Tourville, Paris--
November 11, 1932
Captain Bertrand adjusted his cap and collar
for the tenth time, as he sat waiting outside the
second-floor conference room. They should have
called him in by now. Senior members of the Army
Council were reviewing the budget of the
Intelligence Service and in particular his
proposals for the exploitation of the Enigma
materials. Bertrand's unease was magnified
by the knowledge that not one of them, including the head of his own service,
knew a damn thing about
cryptography. He had even once heard the
Army Chief of Staff, General
Gamelin, remark that reading the enemy's
messages was somehow not galant.
The large double doors opened up, and an
orderly signaled Bertrand to enter. He tucked
his cap under his arm and mentally ran through the key
points in his presentation. Modern warfare would
involve coordinating aircraft, infantry, and
tanks in fast-moving operations. That could only be
done by radio and the enormous volume of
messages would have to be encrypted by machine. The
Germans understood that, hence the Enigma. In
response, France should create a specialized
Radio Intelligence Service and, with the help
of the materials from Asche, make a major effort
to break the Enigma.
Bertrand anxiously stepped into the former music
salon of the eighteenth-century ch@ateau that served
as Intelligence Headquarters. In deference to its
serious current purpose, all the rococo
moldings and boiserie had been painted army
green. Bertrand found himself confronting Marshal
P@etain, and three generals--Weygand,
Gamelin, Dufieux--and Colonel Bouffre,
who was the chief of intelligence. They sat at
separate Louis XV desks arranged in a
crescent with a single armchair facing them. After
saluting, Bertrand was directed to sit in the
chair.
As the officer in charge, General Weygand
spoke first.
"We have been discussing your proposal to create
a special Radio Intelligence Service
to try to break the German Enigma machine"--he
shuffled through some papers--"at a cost of thirty
million francs annually."
"The two ideas do not necessarily have to go
together," added Colonel Bouffre.
Bertrand could feel the ground being carved out from under
him by his own chief of service. "With all due
respect," Bertrand ventured, "the scale of the
effort must be such that a dedicated organization would
seem appropriate."
"I was coming to that." Weygand's tone reprimanded
Bertrand for speaking without being asked. "Is it so that
the materials you have received from this agent are not
sufficient to break the Enigma?"
"If we had an actual Enigma machine,
yes. But we do not, so we must reconstruct
one."
"Can that be done?" General Gamelin asked.
He was an artillery officer with a
reputation for a mind as subtle as a canister of
grapeshot.
"It will require very intense work. We shall need
the finest mathematicians, and there will be considerable
trial and error."
"But can it be done?" Weygand insisted.
"Some consider the Enigma unbreakable,"
Bertrand admitted. "I do not. But there are no
guarantees ...."
"So we could spend thirty million francs
for nothing," said General Gamelin, "while my
men are short of cannons."
"Why not simply steal one from the Germans?"
asked General Dufieux. He pushed a
Sobraine into his cigarette holder and lit it.
"Their physical security is formidable,"
Bertrand noted.
"But not, I trust, beyond the capacity of our
secret services." General Dufieux pointed
his question at Colonel Bouffre.
"Certainly," he replied stiffly.
Bertrand wondered what his chief had in mind.
Asche was their only good German agent, and he
had refused further help on the Enigma.
"But there are, of course, risks," the
intelligence chief added.
Marshal P@etain nodded his agreement. "We
do not need an embarrassing incident with the
Germans"--he spoke for the first time--"that could
strengthen the hand of Adolf Hitler."
"Hitler is a crackpot," Weygand declared.
"The Germans may be a warlike race, but they
are too sensible to make him their leader."
"I fail to see the point of this Enigma
folie," General Gamelin insisted. "The
Maginot Line will be impregnable. What do we
care what the Germans plan to do? Military
science is making intelligence irrelevant!"
"Intelligence insures against the unexpected,"
Colonel Bouffre declared.
"But do we need another thirty million
francs of insurance?" asked General Gamelin.
"It's not even insurance," added General
Dufieux, "it's a gamble."
General Weygand nodded his head. "If you wish
to start a special Radio Service within your
existing budget, fine. But no more monies."
"We cannot exploit the Enigma without additional
resources," Bertrand protested. He could not
believe that they could be so foolish. "Perhaps
you would permit me to work out joint funding with the
British?"
A series of frowns swept across the faces of
his superiors.
"What do we know of their efforts in this field?"
asked Weygand.
Colonel Bouffre replied, "They assume
the Enigma is unbreakable."
"It doesn't sound like they'd make much of a
contribution," Weygand said.
"If I know the English," remarked General
Dufieux, "they'll be going through our pockets
before they're done."
Bertrand found this discussion incredible. His great
coup was going to come to nothing!
"Gentlemen!" he risked speaking out again.
"Perhaps I could at least share the Enigma
material with the Poles. They must be concerned with the
Germans."
"With the Poles?" Weygand sniffed.
"Why not," said Marshal P@etain. "They
might be stupid enough to give us something in return!"
And they all laughed heartily at the marshal's
joke.

Wellbeck Maternity Hospital,
London--October 2, 1935
Wellbeck Street housed the offices and
clinics of the second tier of the London medical
profession. Number 27, where Arthur rushed
Elizabeth on October 2, was a narrow
four-story town house with a crisp white plaster
facade that had been converted into the Wellbeck
Maternity Hospital.
After her collapse, Elizabeth had awakened
in her own bed in the cottage with Mrs. Willet
hovering over her.
"Have I ... Did I ...?" Elizabeth
could not bear to say it.
"I don't think so," the older woman had
said. "I've had a few miscarriages myself."
The next morning, her fever had increased, and
Arthur brought Elizabeth with him on the train
to London. When they arrived at Wellbeck
Street, she was bleeding intermittently and could
barely climb the three stairs to the front
door. A battery of doctors took turns
examining her as she lay with her feet stuck up in
stirrups. The pains were so great that she felt no
embarrassment.
Afterward, the head of the clinic talked
to Elizabeth alone in his office. Dr.
MacCall was a fine-featured, sandy-haired
man of fifty with a soft Scots voice. She was
resting on a sofa next to the fireplace.
"Before I talk to your husband," he said coming out
from behind his desk, "I wanted to hear from you what's
been going on with this pregnancy."
Slowly, the tears formed in Elizabeth's
eyes. He gently put his hand on her shoulder.
That was all it took for Elizabeth to confess
everything.
Dr. MacCall invited Arthur to join them.
Elizabeth could not look at him. She focused
instead on the electric fire in the grate.
"You've got to stop it," the doctor said without
bothering to explain what he was talking about. "If
you don't, you'll have a death on your conscience."
"There's a danger of losing the baby?" Arthur
asked coolly.
"Aye," Dr. MacCall replied, "and your
wife too."
"Surely you exaggerate."
"If you're such a fool then, I'm keeping
her here until, God grant, the baby comes.
You'd do well to light a candle, or whatever you people
do, to pray for the both of them." He fixed Arthur
with an angry stare. "And light one for your own
soul while you're at it!"

In later years, Elizabeth would often think that
this time was the happiest of her life. She felt
safe and secure, well taken care of by the
nurses and protected by Dr. MacCall.
Even as she was on the verge of becoming a woman
in the fullest sense, she allowed herself the luxury
of being a child again.
Not that she failed to worry about the health of the
baby and the risk to herself. Dr. MacCall had
told her frankly that the baby could be born
dead. If the baby lived, it could be deformed. And
she could die in labor. Still, she often felt
inexplicably serene. She would hug her stomach
at the mystery of another life growing inside her
body. As a girl, in Sunday school, she could
never comprehend the concept of duality--that God was
both spirit and flesh, that Jesus was man and God.
But now she instinctively understood: She was one;
she was two.
The unborn child had become her friend.
No matter how pointless and cruel life might
seem, the struggling life inside her stomach
gave her days a purpose and drove away the
sense of isolation that had haunted her as long as
she could remember. Once when she was a child,
Elizabeth had told her mother about those feelings.
Her response had shut off all discussion.
"It's natural," Cora declared. "We're a
military family and we move a lot." But when
the baby was born, Elizabeth would never be
lonely again.
She spent much of her time poring over
newspapers and magazines. Elizabeth loved the
fact that The Times, the most prestigious paper
in the world, devoted its entire front page
to classified ads. She clipped out several
gems:

Unwanted false teeth urgently needed
....

Nervous horsewoman wanted for magnificent
mare ....

She also collected recipes for the latest
fads in cooking such as tournedos Rossini and
beef Wellington, and kept advertisements for
household equipment and baby paraphernalia.
One extolled the benefits of Bengers Food,
a nursing supplement that could be mixed with milk--and
as the ad said, "give the breast a rest." Another
was for "Caradium." Her mother had told her
stories about women who went gray overnight from
childbirth. This product offered an answer:

RADIUM VS. GREY HAIR

Regrows the original color straight from the
roots quickly and safely. Prepared with wonderful
Radioactive water, Caradium gives a
new lease on life.

Arthur's dismay and obvious unhappiness that her
pregnancy might come to term cast a cloud on the
future. He continued to insist, for example, on
keeping the baby a secret. "What if something
should happen to it," he would say. "I don't
want anyone's pity."
As a result, Elizabeth had few
visitors. Mrs. Willet came
only once, just before Christmas, armed with a
homemade fruitcake made not only from
unrecognizable nuts and berries, but seemingly
the twigs and branches they had grown upon.
To Elizabeth's delight she stayed the whole
afternoon describing all the events that had befallen the
horses, dogs, cats, plants, and only
incidentally the people of Bignor.
She finally met Arthur's parents. Arriving
by bus from London's southern suburbs, they
proved to be anything but the sophisticated people who
might look down on her that she had feared.
Arthur's father was a wraithlike man who had
retired from the postal service and spent his time
building model train layouts. He was
particularly keen that the baby should have one of the new
Lionel sets with locomotives that puffed
smoke. Arthur's mother called on her twice a
week. Short and stocky like Arthur, she spent
most of her time talking about her work with the
Amphibian Society, a group devoted
to persuading the highway authorities to bury
pipes under the roads so that frogs could cross them
safely. Her visits invariably climaxed with a
plea to have the baby immediately baptized Catholic
so that if it died, it would not have to spend eternity in
limbo.
Elizabeth's mother proved to be a poor
correspondent. She said she was pleased for
Elizabeth, but her true feelings came out in
one of her infrequent letters: "Rather than call me
grandmother," she wrote only half in jest, "perhaps
the child could be trained to address me as
"Countess.""
George Thorpe sent two letters: The first
worried that the child might grow up a stateless
"Foreign Service brat" with no sense of
patriotism. His second letter addressed the
"boy's" education. "I fear that you might send him
to one of those English schools where they beat them with a
cane so often that they get to like it. A lot of other
unspeakable things go on at such places too,"
he warned.
Elizabeth was not too impressed with British
education herself, particularly when she read the pledge
by students at Oxford and Cambridge never
to fight in any war, even if England were to be
attacked. She read Churchill's columns in
the Evening Standard religiously, as well as the
Daily Mail, which blasted Churchill
for criticizing the Nazi rearmament program in
terms that "unnecessarily irritate the
F@uhrer."
Elizabeth found the news from Germany
appalling. Hitler, in power for two years, had
recently reinstituted beheadings, and two women
accused of being communists were the first victims.
Alfred Rosenberg, the Nazi ideologist, had
proclaimed Easter a day to worship the
Teutonic gods Thor and Woden. Catholic
priests, Protestant ministers, Jews, and
socialists were being rounded up and placed in
"concentration camps" for their own "safety."
She discovered it was no use trying to talk
to Arthur about these things. "The Bolsheviks are the
problem, not the Nazis," Arthur insisted, echoing
the prime minister. "Hitler's helping to keep the
Reds in line."
Arthur had moved from Bignor into the Union
Jack Club near Waterloo Station, and came
by every evening after work. Mostly he sat in silence,
as if his duty was simply to put in a specific
amount of time at her bedside. Once,
Elizabeth asked Arthur to put his hand on her
stomach so that he could feel the baby kicking. He
seemed so uncomfortable and reluctant that she never
asked him to do it again.
Although she spent most of her time in bed,
Elizabeth was not really bedridden. The bleeding had
stopped after a few weeks, and for a couple of hours
in the afternoon she would be allowed to take the tiny
elevator to the solarium on the top floor.
There she worked on a scrapbook of pictures
cut out of the London Illustrated News:
photos of faraway and romantic places; the
Tonga Islands; the Indian Raj;
Tanganyika and British East Africa.
She had a special section on Spain, and as
she glued in the pictures of bullfights and the
boulevards of Madrid she could not help thinking of
Antonio de Zaragoza.
They had met only briefly in Washington
shortly before her engagement to Arthur. He was an
assistant air attach`e at the Spanish
embassy, tall with straight dark hair and a fine
mustache under an aquiline nose and bright hazel
eyes. She had noticed Antonio at several
gatherings of the Young Diplomats Circle but they
had never spoken until the night of the Junior
Bachelors' Cotillion at the
Willard Hotel.
The evening had grown hot and muggy, and someone
had opened the French doors onto the balconies
that overlooked Fourteenth Street. Most of the
chaperons were sitting in a line of gilded chairs
as far from the bandstand as possible. Without the music as
a solvent, the boys and girls had again divided
into clusters according to gender. Arthur, her escort, was
at the bar where he seemed to be fortifying himself with
another Scotch.
Elizabeth took a cup of punch and drifted
out onto one of the balconies. The night had a
stillness that anticipated a spring thunderstorm. The
streets were dark and largely empty except for
an occasional automobile or pushcart.
Elizabeth remembered feeling a strange sense
of anticipation. She had attended dozens of
dances since her debut, why should this one be
different? I'm on the brink, she recalled
thinking to herself, waiting for something to happen to my
life. I want someone to give it shape and form.
Like Fioretta, the heroine she had invented in a
novel that she had written and that had been
published when she was only eleven years old.
A motherless waif, Fioretta supported her
poor father by singing for coins in the streets of
Naples. One day in the Piazza de
Martiri, she was discovered by the great Scarlatti,
who made her an opera star!
"O Cessate di piagarmi!"
Elizabeth had sung softly to herself like
Fioretta bidding good-bye to Naples in the
final scene of her story. "O will you cease
to love me!"
I had more gumption then than I do now,
Elizabeth thought helplessly. It's
ridiculous. I can do whatever I want. But
what? I've been bred to wait. To be ready,
never to act. She always had thought herself different from
the other girls, but was she? Weren't we all
waiting for a man to come along and change our
lives?
The music had started up again and Elizabeth
watched the other girls gliding happily onto the
dance floor. No, she was different. Most of
them were waiting for someone to come along who wouldn't
change their lives.
"Please continue. I enjoyed your singing."
Her chest had contracted. Antonio de
Zaragoza stood on the next balcony
smoking a cigarette.
"That was Scarlatti, no?" he tried again,
exhaling blue smoke.
"Yes." In the ensuing silence she
desperately searched for something else to say.
"It's so close tonight."
He nodded as if he too found speaking
difficult. The music drifted out from the
ballroom, and she could feel him looking at her.
"Could I have a cigarette?" she finally
managed, glancing over her shoulder to make sure
her mother could not see her.
"But of course." He quickly opened a gold
case and held it out to her. She leaned across the
space between the two balconies but could not reach it.
"So sorry, se@norita. I will come around."
"No! I'll lose you to one of the others," she
said impulsively, then sensed herself growing red.
Even in the shadows, she could see his eyes brighten.
"Then I will fly to your side," and he leapt
up onto the stone railing.
"No, it's too far!"
He stood poised for a moment, then holding his
arms out for balance, vaulted across the gap that
separated them, landing gently on the
two-foot-wide balustrade.
Before he could jump down, Elizabeth cried,
"Wait!" She hoisted herself onto it, swung
her feet around and held out her arms. He swept
her up. To the refrain of "Night and Day," they
twirled along the balustrade, her dress
billowing, his tails flying. Down below, a fruit
peddler pushing his cart home, stopped and let out a
whistle. A passing car honked its horn.
Elizabeth was lost in a dream as Antonio
whirled her around. He told her of flying by night
across the Spanish Sahara, and with her eyes
closed, the glinting motes of light reflected from
the ballroom's crystal chandeliers became stars
in a desert sky. His voice vibrated through her
body like the hum of an engine. She felt
transported, lifted by the power of his arms, his
strength guiding her toward an unknown destination
....
"You are intoxicating me," he whispered in her
ear. "I cannot fly in this condition." Seizing her
by the waist he leaped to the floor of the balcony,
holding her aloft then slowly drawing her down.
He pulled her close, and she let herself brush
against his body in a way never allowed at
cotillions.
His medals pressed against her breasts. His
smile gleamed in the light from the ballroom. She
felt ready to be kidnapped, to be bundled into a
carriage and taken through the night to his castle.
Touching the floor, she arched her back, stretching
onto her toes, her heels coming out of her
pumps. As their lips came together, she opened her
mouth so she could taste him, devour him as she
wanted to be devoured.
Abruptly, he stepped back.
"We must not do that, Miss Thorpe."
She turned away, mortified. "You must think
I'm a tramp."
"No, I am the one who is wrong. I let
my feelings get the better of me."
She raised her hand to his cheek to comfort him, but
he seized hold of it.
"You must understand, I am married."
Everything seemed to stop, the music, the dancing,
the chatter, her heart. She pulled her hand back
and dashed into the ballroom.
That was also the night that Arthur had first asked her
to marry him.

On Christmas Day, Arthur joined
Elizabeth in her room for a hospital dinner of
goose and bread pudding. The next afternoon, Boxing
Day, his parents came for an exchange of
gifts. The Packs, looking more stiff than
usual, surprised Elizabeth by giving nothing but
a sterling silver rattle for the baby. She had
hoped for baby clothes, a bassinet, and a
bottle sterilizer. Arthur gave her an
utterly peculiar present--a swimsuit.
New Year's Eve, he arrived with a bottle of
champagne. The nurse said she could have one
glass. Arthur finished the bottle and went back
to his club before midnight.
As the time for the birth approached,
Elizabeth's condition turned ominous. Her
spotting started up again, and she was stabbed
by occasional contractions. Dr. MacCall's
professional demeanor could not mask his concern.
He moved Elizabeth to a ward near the
delivery room so that the nurses could keep a
closer watch over her.
After the isolation of her own room, she enjoyed
the company of the other women. They joked about what was
happening to their bodies. Those who had
given birth before urged Elizabeth to rub her
breasts and belly with cocoa butter to avoid
stretch marks. "You've got a beautiful pair
now, dear," one of them warned, "but you could wind up
lookin' like me. I've got a couple of fried
eggs that I have to roll up to put in me
brassiere."
Strangely, the women who had given birth before
seemed quite vague about the pain involved. Either they
could not remember or did not want to talk about it.
Elizabeth thought that there must be some mechanism of the
mind that made them forget. Only one patient in
the ward was candid. "Dearie," she said, "it's like
passing a watermelon, and it hurts like hell!"
On the afternoon of January 19, the spasms
began in earnest. At first they seemed like severe
menstrual cramps. Soon, they proceeded to a
feeling of hot needles piercing her insides and from
there to medieval torture. If she closed her
eyes, Elizabeth envisioned some hideous iron
apparatus gripping her about the stomach and bolted
to a hot metal probe thrust up her vagina, the
two parts alternately crushing and stabbing her
insides. Between bouts of pain, she desperately
wondered how the baby could survive it.
Then came humiliation. Two nurses arrived
at her bedside with a pan of water. With everyone in
the ward looking on, and the nurses chatting about their
boyfriends, one spread her legs, while the other
shaved her. Presently, her water broke,
sending the nurses scurrying for more towels, which she
had to hold between her legs as she was hoisted onto
a gurney. As she was wheeled toward the delivery
room, she saw Arthur, ashen-faced but trying
to smile. She thought she heard him say,
"Cheerio!"
Then everything became more fragmented and frightening.
Waves of contractions piled one upon the other in a
storm of pain. Her feet were pulled up
into stirrups. Huge lights blinded her eyes.
Dr. MacCall loomed over her.
"What's wrong?" she gasped. She couldn't
understand his answer. Was the baby stuck? Was it coming
out backward or sideways? Would they have
to operate? She felt delirious with the pain.
"Help me," she groaned as the anesthetist's
mask closed over her face.

She did not know what had happened. She did
not know where she was. The pain was gone.
After a while, Elizabeth was aware of being in a
room with others, some moving about, some lying on
cots as she was.
"Nurse," she called out weakly.
"Nurse."
"How are you feeling, Mrs. Pack?" A
ruddy-faced woman bent over her.
"The baby ..." She struggled with the words.
"It's a boy. Seven pounds, two ounces."
She reached down and touched her stomach. It was
gone!
"Is it all right?" she murmured, already
drifting back into sleep.

Elizabeth woke up a few hours later.
She was back in her room.
"My baby! My baby!" she cried.
A nurse took a little bundle out of a
canvas basket attached to the foot of her bed and
gave it to her. Elizabeth immediately began
to unwrap him, counting his fingers and toes,
inspecting every part. She found an ugly red mark
on the back of his head.
"What's this?"
"The little fella did na' want to leave. They
had to drag him out with forceps. It's only a
bruise," the nurse assured her. "He's a
fine baby!"
Tears came to her eyes. He wasn't
deformed or damaged! He was all right! It
seemed miraculous!
Looking at him, Elizabeth had the amazing
sensation that she had divided into two parts. But she
had not merely replicated herself like the protozoa
in the science films at school. The great mystery
was that it was a boy! Elizabeth inspected his tiny
penis and testicles. She, a woman, had brought
forth a little man from between her legs.
Exhausted and feeling extremely satisfied,
Elizabeth wanted to sleep, but her breasts were
swollen and throbbing. And the baby had started to cry.
"It's very simple," the nurse said. "You put
his wee mouth up to your breast and he knows the rest."
"Does he get them both?"
"It'd be terrible painful for you if he
didn't. Don't worry about when to switch.
You'll feel it."
What she felt was the most sensuous experience
in her life. The pressure eased and pleasure
flooded through her as she sensed life flowing
from her breast and into her child. She marveled that her
body not only could produce this new being, but also
provide its food! For the first time ever, she felt
love for her own body, and then was overwhelmed
by love for the small creature in her arms. Is
this, she wondered, what it means to be complete?
The next time she woke up, Arthur was sitting
beside her. He looked tense and concerned.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Wonderful. And tired. Tired and wonderful.
And sore. Have you seen our son?"
"Yes, in the nursery."
"Isn't he beautiful?" She rang for the
nurse.
"Well, they all look rather ugly at this
stage. I'm told he'll improve."
The nurse brought the baby in and gave him
to Elizabeth.
"How can you say that? Here, have you held him?"
"No! No!" Arthur backed away. "He's
too tiny. I might drop him or something."
"Take your son," Elizabeth said
angrily. "Hold his head so it doesn't fall
over."
Reluctantly, Arthur took the infant and
held him awkwardly away from his body. In that
moment, Elizabeth realized that she secretly
had been hoping that a child would bring them together.
Instead, she saw the baby driving them further
apart.
"He looks like you," Elizabeth said,
desperate to encourage him.
"Actually," said Arthur, peering at his son,
"like most infants he looks like Winston
Churchill."
* * *
The nurses called it "postpartum."
Depression, they said, was natural three or
four days after childbirth. Elizabeth knew it
was Arthur. He hadn't allowed his parents to see
the baby. He had refused to have the baby named after
himself or his father. From his reaction, Elizabeth
thought bitterly, you'd have thought I'd borne him a
freak! Well, she wasn't going to put up with his
attitude. She'd had enough.
"If you won't name the baby," she said on his
next visit, "we'll just call him Master
Pack until you get used to the idea that you have a
son."
Arthur looked more grim than usual.
"Are you all right?" she asked in a gesture of
conciliation.
"Sick of that club, but otherwise all right."
"Everything okay at work?"
"Swimmingly, actually."
"So let's decide on the baby's name."
Elizabeth rang for the nurse. Her breasts
hurt. She was overdue to nurse the baby.
"I have something I must tell you," said Arthur.
"Don't change the subject, please! How
about Antony?"
The nurse came in and handed her a strange
device. It was a suction cup with a bulb
attached.
"What's this?" Elizabeth asked.
"You use it on your breasts to relieve the
pressure," the nurse explained.
"Why do I need this? I'm still nursing my
baby."
The nurse looked uncertain, then glanced at
Arthur.
"Where is my baby?"
The nurse, embarrassed, started backing out of the
room.
"Where's my baby?" Elizabeth shouted. "I
want my baby!" She started to climb out of bed.
Arthur took hold of her. "You must calm
down. It's all for the best."
"What have you done with my baby?" she screamed.
"I told you it was impossible! It would
destroy me!"
"You can't take away my baby!" She started
beating on his chest.
"The baby will be fine." He said sternly,
grabbing her wrists. "I've found a very decent
foster family."
"You can't! You can't! You son of a bitch!"
"Pull yourself together! Nurse! Get her a
sedative." He pushed her back onto the bed.
"You'd better get some rest. You're going to need
it. I've a new assignment. We leave in a
fortnight for Spain."

Part II

July 18, 1936
I remember the intense colors of the new day
and also the stillness. The sky was Murillo blue
and cloudless; its only inhabitants seemed to be
magpies that harvested here and there in
scattered groups within the fields; and the fields
themselves spread endlessly beneath the gold of their grain
where great crimson splashes of red poppies
looked as if the bright blood of fallen
Spaniards was already spilling over the land.
--Notes of Elizabeth Pack,
traveling from Madrid to France on the first
day of the Spanish Civil War


Chapter 5

B.s.--4, Polish Cipher Bureau,
the Saxon Palace, Warsaw--December
15, 1932
Captain Gustave Bertrand smiled
nervously. were the Poles interested in the Enigma
materials? He couldn't tell.
Major Gwido Langer sighed. "Perhaps this
could help us," he said diffidently. "We have
been studying the Enigma since 1927, but in
five years ..." He let the phrase trail
off with a shrug. The heavyset chief of the Polish
Cipher Bureau was dark-complexioned with a
friendly and pleasant face. Bertrand liked working with
Langer. He felt that despite his Germanic
name there was something Latin about him.
"I am authorized to suggest a division of
responsibility," Bertrand said, venturing to the
heart of his mission.
They were seated in Langer's baroquely
ornamented office, where they had been joined
by Langer's deputy Maksymilian Ciezki.
Outside, the snow that was falling into Staski
Square quieted the noise of the city.
"We would provide intelligence," Bertrand
continued, "from our agents in Germany that might be
helpful in breaking the Enigma."
"And our responsibilities?" Ciezki
inquired.
Bertrand pulled down the corners of his mouth and
raised his eyebrows in a typically Gallic
way. "Presumably, you would continue your study
of the Enigma, sharing the results with us, of
course."
Langer pursed his lips in uncertainty.
"We could also provide intercepts of the coded
German messages," Bertrand hastened to add.
The Pole glanced at his deputy, who nodded
slightly.
"France's offer is more than generous,"
Langer finally replied. "I hope that we can
adequately repay you."
The Frenchman felt a surge of relief.
This was more than he had dared to hope for; not only
would the Poles do all the work, they already had five
years' experience. He realized that it might
take many more years before they achieved success, but
if and when they did, France would have earned a
historic return on a small investment.
"I will give you the code name "Bolek" in
our joint efforts," Langer was saying.
"And I will call you "Luc."" Bertrand
stood up and embraced his Polish counterpart.
"D'accord!" they said to one another.

Three weeks later, Langer and Ciezki
hurried down the third-floor corridor of the
Saxon Palace toward the tiny offices of
Marian Rejewski, a brilliant
twenty-seven-year-old mathematician who had
only joined the cipher bureau the previous
September.
"He's broken an Enigma message?"
Langer asked.
"I think it's more than that."
They climbed a flight of steps and went through a
set of locked double doors into a wing that in the
eighteenth century had contained the maids'
rooms. Instead of paintings or frescoes, the
walls were covered with blackboards so that when the
cryptographers met in the halls and talked about
their problems they would have a convenient place
to write their equations.
To enter Rejewski's office, they had to push
aside the heavy curtain that afforded privacy when
the door stood open to glean heat from the hallway.
Rejewski was a short, stocky,
professorial-looking man with wire-rim
glasses and thick, sandy-colored hair. He
stood distressed and expectant in the middle of his
bare office. The walls were covered with more slate
blackboards full of diagrams.
"I wanted to make a proper presentation
...."
"And you shall," Langer assured him, "but I
wanted to come and see for myself what you had
accomplished."
"Well, this is it." He gestured at the
walls. "This is how the Enigma is built, how
all the wires and keys and rotors are
connected."
"And you learned all this just from the messages?"
"We had a general idea of the machine from the
commercial Scherbius, but knew nothing of how the
Germans had changed it. Fortunately, they always
transmit the message key twice. That tells
how to set up the machine. And they encrypt it both
times. With enough messages we were able to use
permutation theory to tease out the connections in the
rotors and ultimately the schema of the entire
machine." His face beamed behind his thick
glasses.
"The material from the French that I gave you, it
was useful?"
"In a manner of speaking. It confirmed our
theory that the Germans had added a plugboard
to further scramble the letters, and the list of keys
allowed us to immediately begin breaking messages. We
can now break the keys ourselves. I was also having
difficulty figuring out how the keyboard was
connected to the rotors. I thought we would have
to collect a year and a half of messages
to crack that problem."
"So the French material was crucial?"
Langer pressed.
"I found the answer to that the day before you gave me
the French material."
"How?" Ciezki wondered.
"By guessing."
Langer gave a short laugh. "Good. We
did it on our own."
"It is a Polish triumph!" declared
Ciezki.
"Certainly," Langer agreed, "but just as
important, we are not obligated to say a thing
about it to the French."

Biarritz, France--July 23, 1936
If they go on about their servants for one more
minute, Elizabeth thought, I'll scream. The
dinner was over and according to diplomatic protocol the
women had gathered in the salon while the men
retired to the library for brandy and cigars.
Elizabeth had been looking forward to the summer in
France as a break from the stiff formality of
diplomatic functions in Madrid. But this was just
as bad, if not worse.
Each June, for three months, the Spanish
government moved its capital to the northern
coastal city of San Sebasti@an on
the Atlantic, and the foreign embassies moved with
them. Most of the British embassy staff,
including Arthur, had rented villas across the
border in France for the summer months. Now it
appeared that they might remain a good deal longer.
Civil war had broken out in Spain. Fierce
fighting raged around Madrid between the legally
elected Republican government and the insurgents
led by Generalissimo Francisco Franco.
Democrats, Socialists, Communists, and
Anarchists sided with the Republic while
Franco had the support of most of the military,
the Fascist Falange, the Monarchists and the
Church. Hitler and Mussolini were backing
Franco and Stalin the Republic. Many people thought
the conflict might be the start of a new world war. But
at polite British dinner parties in
Biarritz, it was considered tiresome to mention the
subject.
The conversation among the ladies had turned
to children. Elizabeth could not bear it. Arthur had
refused her any information about her son, nothing
concerning his whereabouts, not even the name of the foster
family. She fought, she argued, she pleaded, she
cried. Nothing moved him. His only concession had
been to accept her suggestion for the boy's name--
Antony.
Elizabeth had thought of divorce, but discovered
that she needed legal grounds, and she had none.
She could simply leave him and go back
to America, but that would bring her no closer to her
son. She could try to remain in England, but she
had no money, and as a married woman,
Elizabeth could not even open a bank account without
Arthur's consent. She telephoned her mother, who
said she was sympathetic but told her she would have
to settle her problems with Arthur herself. When she
called her father, he counseled patience. There was
no practical alternative but to go to Spain and
try to put her baby out of mind.
So from the moment Elizabeth had arrived in
Madrid, she had behaved like a mad
debutante, filling up her dance card to prevent
even a moment's reflection. She accepted
invitations to every cocktail party, dinner, ball, and
theatrical event, soon falling in with a crowd that
often ended the night at a club, Jimmy's
Place, dancing until dawn. Arthur only
accompanied her if he thought it would bring him new
contacts, and even then would usually go
home halfway through the evening. The love and
tenderness and wonder that she experienced giving birth
to her son had been walled off, consigned to the
deepest dungeon of memory. But every once in a
while, when she saw a woman in the park with a
baby in her arms, or a governess pushing a
toddler in a pram, or like tonight, overheard women
exchanging intimacies about their children, she would
struggle to keep from bursting into tears.
Shouts and laughter from the library saved her.
The women all rushed to see what was going on.
They found the men standing in a semicircle around
two others who were down on their stomachs on the
carpet. They had been blindfolded and lay head
to head with their left hands clasped together, gripping
rolled up newspapers in their right. One of the men
was the host. The other was Arthur.
"Oh, God," her hostess sighed. "They're
playing "Moriarity, where are you?"'"
"From Sherlock Holmes?" asked
Elizabeth.
"Not exactly. Watch."
Arthur called out, "Moriarity, where are you?"
"Here," his host responded, and tried to twist
away as Arthur reached out timidly with the roll of
paper to tap him on the head.
"No! No!" cried the men surrounding them,
laughing and puffing on their cigars. "Strike him a
proper thwack!" shouted one. "Hear, hear!"
called out the others.
"Moriarity, where are you?" the host now demanded.
"Here," Arthur replied, and his host smashed
him on the head with his newspaper.
"One point!" someone noted.
"Moriarity, where are you?" Arthur responded
angrily, flailing around blindly with his paper before his
adversary could even answer.
Elizabeth stood open-mouthed. Here were some of the
most prominent members of the British community,
drunk as lords--some of them were lords--rolling around
on the floor in their tuxedos hitting one another
on the head with rolled-up newspapers.
Her hostess saw her surprise. "It's
really very simple, my dear," she explained.
"Englishmen will go to inordinate lengths for an
excuse to touch one another."
"Arthur, there has to be more to life than these
airless dinner parties." Elizabeth was behind the
wheel of the Talbot as they drove down
the coast road back to their villa in
St.-Jean-de-Luz. The tires slapped
rhythmically on the asphalt joins in the concrete
highway.
"I suppose you'd rather have been dancing at the
casino." Arthur was slumped unhappily against the
door. He had scored the least points, and had the
most scored against him. He had also drunk too
much brandy.
"I'm talking about real life," she said
earnestly. "Isn't it time we became serious
about having a family?"
"Oh, don't start up again!" He was becoming
cross. "We can't suddenly have a
six-month-old child appear in our midst."
"I'm not talking about the baby. I'm talking
about starting again. We could have another child. You
promised!"
Arthur could not understand why she was not content with things
the way they were. He had found Madrid
disconcerting, the Spaniards always standing too
close and touching you when they talked, their conversation
full of passionate intensity on the most
trivial matters. But he had felt immediately
comfortable and happy in St.-Jean-de-Luz. For
almost a hundred years, the sleepy and
picturesque Basque fishing village, and the
area bordered by Biarritz on the north and Pau
to the east had been a playground for British
aristocrats fleeing the English damp. Queen
Victoria had made the place fashionable
by summering in Biarritz in the middle of the
nineteenth century, and not long after, the first
steeplechase on the Continent was built at Pau
and the second golf course in Europe laid out
near St.-Jean-de-Luz. After the turn of the
century, the port town became a haven for
pensioners from the British Army and the Colonial
Service who took up permanent residence
along the strand in sober residential hotels that
boasted appropriate names like Britannia and
Angleterre.
Arthur took pleasure in rubbing elbows with the
retired admirals at Lloyd's insurance
office down in the port and loved the fact that he
could read the Times and the Daily Mail at the
tea shops along the Rue Gainetta. Since the
embassy was cut off from the rest of Spain
by territory held by Franco's insurgents,
Arthur's job was not very taxing. It
mainly consisted of driving across the border thirty
minutes each way to San Sebasti@an where he
spent most of his time arranging lunch at one of the
city's celebrated dining clubs, followed
by eating lunch, and then trying to recover from lunch.
Everything was as he wanted, except for the delay in
his admission to the English Club in Biarritz,
and he thought he knew the reason for that.
"Do you really think," he finally replied
to Elizabeth, "that you're ready to settle down?"
Arthur did not try to hide the snide tone in his
voice.
"I'm sick of the madcap, and I'd give it
all up if you're willing to be a real father."
"And you'll give up Antonio de
Zaragoza as well?"
Elizabeth was stunned. "What are you saying?
I haven't seen him since we left
Madrid."
"But you've been trying to contact him. You've
been asking everyone about him. Don't think I
don't know!"
She could not deny that she was worried about
Antonio. He had promised to write, but she
had heard nothing for weeks, and phone calls
to Madrid had been cut off. "He's been a
good friend to both of us," she insisted defensively.
"But people are talking about the two of you! Why do you
think that my admission to the English Club has
been delayed?"
"I can't believe you're serious!" But she could
see from his sullen silence that he was. Patches
of fog drifting in from the sea were now glaring brightly
in the headlights, forcing her to slow down.
Ironically, it was Arthur who had brought her and
Antonio together again. Arriving late as usual
for a reception at Puerta de Hierro Country
Club, she had been surprised by the sight of
Arthur having drinks with Antonio on the
terrace. The scene was still vivid in her mind. It
was late afternoon, and the moon hung like a bright paper
lantern over the purple wall of the Guadarrama
Mountains.
Arthur had called out to her. "Elizabeth, you
remember the Marqu`es de Zaragoza," he
waved her toward them. "He was one of the carefree
young lads at the Spanish embassy when you were a
debutante."
She held out her hand feeling strangely shy as
he kissed it. "It seems awfully
long ago," she managed to say.
"I remember you were a beautiful dancer,"
Antonio said gravely.
He looked exactly as she had remembered in
her daydreams. The fine high-born features, the
penetrating hazel-blue eyes, the strong jaw
framing a tender mouth. And yes, the magnetism
had been there too, undiminished.
Arthur went to get her a stinger. Antonio had
smiled oddly, almost reluctantly.
"Se@nora, what can I say? You arrive here a
married woman. What is more, a married woman
with a certain, shall I say, reputation."
Elizabeth had felt a flash of
embarrassment that left her speechless.
"I'm sure," he continued stiffly, "that you
feel you are merely experiencing all that my
country has to offer. But it is not the Spanish
way, and you are sure to be deprived of the essence
of this culture if you continue to lead a life that
is frivolous, and to respectable Spaniards,
bordering on the shameful."
"Antonio," she said slowly, her shock
turning to anger, "at least I do not go around
encouraging young men to fall in love with me ..."
Antonio's eyes flickered.
"... and then crush them by revealing that I'm
married!"
It was Antonio's turn to blush. "What in
honor can I say?" He had no excuse; he
was being a boor. "You know what is said of
Spaniards--everything in the extreme--everything to the
death. We are passionate; we are prudes. And
here I am forced into the prosaic role of husband
and scold. Forgive me."
All she had wanted to do was kiss him.
Arthur came back with the drinks. "Well,
what are we talking about?"
"Your Spanish education," Antonio had
replied. "I shall get my wife, Maria, and we
will drink to the old days and new ones too, and then
you both must join us for dinner. You'll find Spain
an interesting classroom, and Arthur, perhaps with your
permission, I could fulfill the requirements as
a teacher?"
Arthur had gotten a canny look on his
face. "Very well. Could you start"--Arthur
pointed toward a distinguished gentleman on the other
side of the terrace--"by introducing me to Viscount
Terragona? I've been trying to make
his acquaintance for months."
So for Arthur's "education," Antonio invited
the Packs to shooting parties, bridge parties, and
dinner parties where they met the titled families
of Spain. Pleased and grateful for the
professional access, Arthur seemed
unconcerned with how Antonio was conducting
Elizabeth's "Spanish education."
Her "school day" usually began with lunch at
a traditional restaurant such as Lhardy, where
at their first meeting, Antonio had demonstrated
how to draw the celebrated consomm`e from its
silver samovar. Elizabeth wanted to set the
ground rules at the outset.
"Antonio, it's wonderful to see you again."
She picked at her fried artichoke. "But if
we're going to see each other, it has to be
strictly as friends."
"That's not possible with a Spaniard. No
sea macho."
"You're the one who said I have to protect my
honor."
"How can I refuse you?" He looked
distressed but tried to smile. "This is in the
nature of our culture. Order and control on
the surface, seething emotions below. It will be part
of your education."
"And we'll not talk about ourselves, our personal
lives."
"Arthur is turning you into an Englishwoman,"
he sighed.
After lunch, while most of Madrid took its
siesta, they would walk along the hot and empty
streets glowing with wine, trying not to touch one
another while Antonio told the city's
history through its Moorish, baroque, and
neoclassical buildings and squares. One day,
he took her to the cliff above the Manzanares
River where Madrid had begun in the ninth
century as a fort built by the Moors from North
Africa. On another, they made an excursion
to El Escorial, the severe monastery palace
of Philip II, who made Madrid the
capital of a worldwide empire in 1561. Often
they merely wandered down the narrow streets,
staircases, and vaulted alleys of Madrid's
old town, lingering at the permanent open-air
book fair at Cuesta Moyana. Occasionally,
Elizabeth brought a picnic basket and they
lunched in a boat on the lake in
Retro Park with its formal gardens,
colonnades, temples, and avenues lined with
statuary. Through it all, they managed to keep a
discreet distance despite the powerful attraction
between them.
They had found it easier to maintain their distance
during the late afternoon tertulia, Madrid's
ritual exchange of gossip about the day's
political outrages. They spent hours in one
of the caf`e terraces on the Paseo de
Recoletos, Antonio sipping a caf`e
cortado, Elizabeth spooning a blanco
you negro, iced black coffee with ice cream,
while Antonio's friends would stop by to tell of the
latest shooting of a Republican by the
Anarchists, or the murder of a Socialist by the
Falange. Elizabeth wondered how any work
ever got done in the city.
At night, when Arthur was busy and Maria de
Zaragoza was away at the ranch as she often
was, they frequented bars like Gijon, Lion,
and El Espejo near the Plaza de
Cibeles, which catered to aristocrats and their
reactionary political opinions. One night
on the way home, Elizabeth said that she loved
the fervor that Spaniards brought to politics.
"But it's mad the way you're shooting each other
over utterly ridiculous theories!"
"I'm afraid that most Spaniards only
agree on one thing," he said sadly, "that your
idea of democracy is a dreary, boring,
middle-class, Anglo-Saxon idea that must be
stamped out."
"And what do you believe?" she had asked him.
His reply was to take her the next day to see
Goya's etchings at the Prado Museum. His
Disasters of War filled room after room with
pictures of soldiers with their genitals
mutilated, farmers with their arms and heads cut
off; men, women, and children eviscerated, burned,
hacked to pieces; guerrilla partisans impaled
on the stumps of trees.
"Our passion for life is exceeded only by our
passion for death," Antonio observed. "I am
afraid this is where my country is headed once
again."
She had taken his hand and leaned against him as if
she could shield him from the coming tragedy. Their
meetings, which had started out at twice a week,
had become daily events, making their
vow of not touching almost impossible to bear. If war
was coming, she had thought, Antonio might be
killed. What would be the point of their fidelity
then? After a strained moment, Antonio had
stepped away, honoring his pledge to her.
Damn it all, Elizabeth thought, she was not
going accept Arthur's accusations!
"You didn't seem to mind Antonio"--she
momentarily took her eyes off the road to look
over at her bibulous husband--"when he invited
you to shoot pheasants with the aristocracy and
entertained us at dinner with industrialists you
wanted to meet."
"Don't be crass!" he answered angrily.
"That's what diplomatic life is all about.
We don't make friends. We make contacts."
Up ahead the headlights picked out a sign
indicating that St.-Jean-de-Luz was only two
kilometers ahead. "You're right of course," she
said to be conciliatory. "I've flirted, and
gone out, and danced with other men and spent time, lots
of time, alone with Antonio."
"Spare me the gruesome details." Arthur
turned away to look out the window at the inky
emptiness of the night.
"But I've always been faithful to you!
Doesn't that mean anything?"
"Your self-restraint is admirable," he said
dryly. "However, appearances also count. And on
that score you're hardly an ideal wife, let
alone mother." He had turned bitter. "You'll
simply have to prove beyond question that you can be a
responsible diplomat's wife before I'd even
consider starting a family."


Chapter 6

Warsaw, Poland--June 19, 1937
"We were so obsessed with radio," Leonard
Danilewicz was explaining to William
Stephenson, "that the other students in Warsaw
Polytechnic called us Radiots."
Their car was making its way south out of the city
toward the suburb of Mocotow. Danilewicz was
describing the origin of the AVA Radio
Manufacturing Company. "Later, my brother
and I made crystal sets and two tube receivers
which we would take to science fairs and sell to the
unwary."
Stephenson's visit to Warsaw had
two purposes: to look for business and collect
intelligence. He was extraordinarily
impressed with Poland's industrial and
scientific dynamism. Stephenson saw little
sign of the Great Depression that had decimated the
economies of the rest of Europe. Commercial
opportunities, however, were limited.
Construction cranes dotted the skyline, but the
language barrier put his engineering firm at a
disadvantage. Automobile factories were
turning out cars at maximum capacity, but the
business was dominated by Chevrolet and Fiat.
Poles flocked to the movies, but English
language film distribution was controlled
by MGM.
So far, Stephenson had also learned little that would
be of interest to His Majesty's Secret
Service. That could change, he told himself, now
that he had persuaded Dr. Danilewicz to allow
him to visit AVA'S new factory south of the
city.
Initially, his interest in AVA Radio had
been to work out a possible licensing arrangement for
General Radio. AVA had surprised him with the
sophistication of its transmitting and receiving
equipment. But as he became more familiar with the
company, he began to wonder how the small
Polish commercial market could sustain AVA'S
sizable research laboratories. The company
did not export, so the Polish government had
to be subsidizing them on a lavish scale. But
why?
Stephenson found that the new AVA production
facility located near the Warsaw airport
consisted of a modern two-story office building that
had already been completed, a four-story windowless
manufacturing plant next door and a third, and
much bigger, structure under construction in the rear.
In the lobby of the office complex, Danilewicz
proudly showed Stephenson a display of some of their
newest products. One in particular caught his
eye, a tall cabinet containing a powerful radio
receiver capable of picking up signals across the
full spectrum of frequencies. He also
noted that it was painted army green.
Danilewicz then took him on a tour of the
plant that was under construction. Inside, his host
described the layout of the production lines of the
various equipment Stephenson had seen in the
lobby. But he failed to mention the big
olive drab radio receiver.
Over lunch in the conference room of the office
building, Stephenson asked where that particular
piece of equipment was being manufactured.
"That's a very profitable item," Danilewicz
boasted. "The production line is in the plant
next door."
"Could I see it?"
"I would like to accommodate you, but that building
is off limits, I'm afraid. It is where we
do our work for the Polish general staff."
Stephenson then changed the discussion to the
subject of mass production of home radio
receivers. Dr. Danilewicz did not seem
particularly interested. As a business
proposition, Stephenson's visit to Warsaw
had been a washout. But from the standpoint of
intelligence, he believed he now had convincing
evidence that the Enigma could be broken.

St.-Jean-de-Luz, France--August

Elizabeth took up Arthur's challenge
to become a model embassy wife. She
faithfully attended teas with the other diplomats'
wives and volunteered at the local Anglican
library. For a reception given by the charg`e's
wife, to which she was pointedly not invited,
Elizabeth nonetheless supervised the wrapping of
five hundred prunes in bacon and their
delivery to the charg`e's back door. She
participated in the diplomatic ladies' afternoon
bridge parties, which began with pitchers of martinis
at each table and ended with the ladies stumbling home
tipsy before the cocktail hour had even started.
At the mindless round of balls in Biarritz and
suffocating dinners hosted by expatriate
Englishmen, Elizabeth obediently hovered at
Arthur's side, hanging on his every word.
She stayed fit by riding and playing tennis and
golf with others in the diplomatic circle. Her
most frequent partner was Barbara Brasswell,
who, though eight years older, was the next youngest
wife in the embassy. She was married to Arthur's
deputy and worked part-time in the Passport
Control Office.
As the summer waned, Elizabeth increasingly
took to long walks on the beaches that lay beneath the
grassy cliffs guarding the town. Barefoot and
dressed in fisherman's pants and a rough
sweater, she would trudge along the shore for
miles, feeling the wind on her face and the waves
washing against her legs.
She had given up seeking news of
Antonio. She stopped frequenting the caf`es
in the port, where the spies, journalists,
adventurers, smugglers, prostitutes, gun
runners, and refugees who had flooded
St.-Jean-de-Luz gathered to trade rumors
about what was going on in Spain. Elizabeth
wanted to avoid being seen in such company and also could
not bear hearing about any more atrocities; such as the
slaughter of the soldiers in Madrid's
Montana Barracks by the Anarchists, or the
extermination of whole villages--down to the pigs,
chickens, dogs, and cats--by Franco's
Moorish mercenaries. Such tales only made
her fear all the more for Antonio's safety.
She could not forget him. In the late afternoon,
while waiting dutifully for Arthur to come home,
Elizabeth often stood on the terrace of her
villa watching the lights wink on, outlining the
coast as it turned west away from France toward the
glow of San Sebasti@an on the horizon.
She would stay there until the moon came out,
illuminating the mountainous wall of the Pyrenees that
cut off Spain from the rest of Europe. And she
would wonder if she'd ever see Antonio again.

One evening late in August, Arthur did not
return from San Sebasti@an. When
Elizabeth tried to telephone him, she was informed
that the lines were down. By midnight, she was
worried. By two A.m. she was frantic.
What had happened to him? Rumor had it that
General Mola's Nationalist insurgents had
been sighted in the hills between the border and San
Sebasti@an.
Checking with Barbara Brasswell and the wives
of other embassy officers in
St.-Jean-de-Luz, she learned that they too had
heard nothing from their husbands. When none of them had
any suggestions on what to do, she decided
to call the Foreign Office in London to see
if they had direct contact with the embassy. The
night duty officer answered. His voice, tinny
and laconic, was barely audible.
"No contact ..." he was saying. "No
telephone ... no cable traffic."
"What's happening?" Elizabeth
shouted.
"No idea ..." And then whoops and howls on
the line punctuated by static.
"I'll send my driver over the border tomorrow."
Static and then a faint "Do call us ..."
At nine the next morning, Elizabeth's
driver set out for San Sebasti@an. By ten he
was back. His diplomatic plates were not
sufficient to get him past the Spanish border
police.
"They said that there was fighting along the road
to San Sebasti@an," her driver explained,
"Mola's making a major push. His Moors
are shooting everyone in sight. No one is allowed
through."
By noon, the embassy wives had gathered on
Elizabeth's terrace. "It's simply
outrageous," said the blimpish wife of the second
secretary, "treating a British embassy car
like that!"
"So our poor dears are trapped in San
Sebasti@an," whimpered a waif of a woman who
was married to a vice-consul. "Maybe we should
notify the Red Cross."
"I know what I'm going to do," announced the
formidable spouse of the charg`e. As the most senior
woman there, they were supposed to look to her for
leadership. "I'm going to lodge a protest with the
Spanish consul in Biarritz!"
"But it's the Fascists, not the government,
who've cut communications," Elizabeth pointed
out.
"It's no good taking sides," the charg`e's
wife admonished her. "We must hold the
responsible authorities responsible." It was
unclear whether she was more upset about her husband's
fate or the fact that the wives had naturally
gravitated to Elizabeth's house.
The ringing phone saved Elizabeth from an
intemperate reply. The connection was poor
to nonexistent.
"... get through?" the duty officer asked.
"San Sebasti@an is surrounded, cut
off."
"... call back if we're cut off."
"No, you don't understand. San Sebasti@an.
Terrible. Cut off." She began to speak as if
the phone did not understand English. "People being
executed. Killed. Atrocities."
"... quite agree, atrocious. Any
message?"
"Do something!"
"Recommendations ... War Office."
Elizabeth thought furiously. What should be
done? If she asked the women in the other room for
advice, they'd probably recommend bombarding
the rebels with tea and crumpets.
"Are you there?" the Foreign Office voice
demanded.
"Yes. Yes."
"... need the ambassador's recommendations
or the cabinet won't act."
Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Tell
them to send the navy."
"You're sure ... ambassador wants that?"
She looked at the women in the room. They were
now debating whether to take their concerns to the local
bishop. Barbara looked at her helplessly and
shrugged.
"Absolutely," Elizabeth said.
The Foreign Office called at four in the
morning. A destroyer was on its way. If at
all possible, she should get that message to the
ambassador so he could prepare to evacuate.
The other wives thought she was mad, but by ten,
Elizabeth was on the road to the Spanish
border. Her chauffeur, who had earned a
Croix de Guerre in the Great War, had
stacked the trunk with cans of gasoline in case
there was none in San Sebasti@an. He had also
attached a British flag across the hood of the
car. In twenty minutes she was crossing the
two-lane iron bridge over a wash that formed the
mouth of the R@io Bidassoa and marked the
frontier. The border guards on both sides
urged her to turn back. The Spanish
officials at Ir@un confirmed fighting along the
highway to San Sebasti@an and warned that she would
need a special pass to even try to get through.
Elizabeth ordered her driver to go on.
Ir@un seemed quiet, too quiet her driver
said. It was a substantial town with tall and
narrow balconied apartment buildings set tight
against one another stepping up and down the hilly
streets. The few people out of doors hurried along
as if they were afraid to be caught in the open.
Outside of Ir@un, they passed Basque
farmhouses with their characteristic thick white stucco
walls, solid stone casement windows, and
timbered roofs. Elizabeth thought they
had a quaint Swiss alpine quality, but she
could not help imagining that they also would make good
fortifications. Near Ventas, a crossroads
flanked by a scattering of such houses, her car was
stopped by a roadblock.
An old man with a hunting rifle asked her for
her pass. She showed her British passport.
He shook his head and ordered her out of the car. She
refused. He said, "Bueno, I won't
hurt you, se@nora. But you will force me to put a
bullet in your driver's head."
Elizabeth got out. She found that despite
her defiant feelings, her legs were trembling.
"Where can I get a pass?" she demanded.
He pointed his gun toward one of the farmhouses
set into the hillside. "From the jefe."
The old man turned her over to a boy no more
than twelve who had a revolver stuck in his
belt that looked like it weighed more than he did.
The boy led her up a flight of log steps dug
into the hill to a door on the second floor of the
farmhouse. Inside, a fat man with a greasy
week's growth of beard sat at a kitchen table
eating a chicken, drinking brandy, and cursing two
subordinates. Elizabeth noticed that he was
wearing the black-and-red handkerchief of the
Anarchists.
"What's this?" he said in Basque, then again in
Spanish.
"I am from the British embassy,"
Elizabeth began.
He slammed his hand down on the table. "You
see!" he shouted at his cowering troops.
"Another spy!"
"I'm not!" she said angrily "I'm a
diplomat's wife, trying to reach my husband in
San Sebasti@an ..."
"Spies everywhere!" he continued, heaving himself out
of his chair. "That, my stupid comrades, is why
we are here! To stop these spies! How do you think
Mola's Fascist pigs are winning? Spies!"
He hit the table again and the plate jumped into the
air.
"If you'd just listen," Elizabeth started again,
trying to be calm, "all I want--"
"You don't make demands here!" He put his
face into hers. "You English think you rule the
world! Our Republic fights for its life and
England cuts off arms while Mussolini and
Hitler pour men and machines into the lap
of that bastard Franco ...!" He was swaggering
around the room and Elizabeth realized that, although it
was not yet ten-thirty in the morning, the jefe was
quite drunk.
"You're being ridiculous," she said firmly.
"Look and learn, comrades." He pointed at
her. "This is the attitude of a spy. All
full of arrogance. If she were not, she would be
cringing in fear like the rest. Her papers are
forgeries!"
He smiled and his teeth were the color of his
gums. "Put her down with the others," he ordered.
"I will interrogate her later. Personally!"
"Down" turned out to be a barn under the kitchen.
The "others" proved to be a sad assortment of
unsuspecting travelers. The atmosphere
reeked of sweat, urine, excrement, and fear.
One man tried to comfort another who bled from his
nose and kept sticking his fingers in his mouth sobbing,
"My teeth, my teeth." Elizabeth's mind
found it difficult to absorb what was happening
to her. It was a beautiful cloudless day. Her
home was only twenty minutes away. The other
embassy wives were having coffee at that very
moment. Her body began to tremble
uncontrollably. In the gloom, she saw
another man in a good suit who seemed to be
sleeping carelessly in a pile of cow dung. Then
Elizabeth realized he was unconscious.
Deeper in the shadows, several men chained to the
stalls had bloodstained shirts torn where they had
been whipped. They moaned as they breathed. She was
the only woman. She knew what to expect in the
interrogation.
To avoid sitting on the floor, she took a
bucket off the wall and used it as a stool. The
place looked like something from Goya's etchings. The
well-dressed man in the pile of dung was
hauled out and then she heard a gunshot. Her
driver was dragged in. She could see that he had
soiled himself. As she wiped the blood from his
swollen lips with his handkerchief, he lisped,
"Forgive me, madam, but they took the car."
Then he passed out.
Fear and despair washed over her. She
remembered one evening when, for a lark, she and
Antonio had dressed in blue overalls
to visit the Caf`e Comercial in the Glorieta
de Bilbao in search of Anarchists.
Elizabeth wanted to know if they really
believed in "free love."
In the noisy, smoky room, they had found
two chairs at a table already occupied by a young
tram driver and a fresh-faced young girl who said
she was a teacher. They acknowledged being Anarchists
and lovers, but insisted there was nothing immoral about
"free love."
"We have a greater obligation to be faithful
to each other," he said solemnly, "precisely
because we do not allow the Church or the government
to enforce morality."
The tram driver had been very serious about the
revolution too. When it came, his task would be
to take over the central telephone office and
destroy it.
"There will be no telephones or telegraph.
We will tear up the railroads and burn the
trams. Automobiles will be forbidden. People will
live and work only within the distance that they can walk."
"If complete freedom is the basic
principle of anarchism," Elizabeth had
asked, "what will happen to those who disagree with
you--the businessmen, the civil servants, the
military, the landowners, the nuns and priests?"
The answer had come from the young woman who had
been studying Elizabeth's fine haircut and
manicured fingernails. "They will be
liquidated."
As Elizabeth sat in the stench and the dark of the
barn, more people were brought "down," including a woman
and two children, one of them an infant. She looked
like a simple farmer's wife. A concerned-looking
young man in a military hat with a red star came and
gave them water. The red star meant that he was not
an Anarchist but a Communist. From time to time,
others would be taken away and there would be gunshots.
Elizabeth realized that she could not sit there
passively. She would be shot after being raped.
Her driver would be killed too, because of her ...
her what? Restlessness? Bad judgment?
Foolishness? But what could she do? When she tried
to speak to the others, the boy with the pistol waved it
at her. She had to look for an opportunity.
Only the young man with the red star seemed to have a
streak of decency, at least regarding the children. The
third time he came to check on them she called out
to him.
"S@i, se@nora?"
"This is all a mistake!" she said in her
most intense voice, summoning all her
energy to drive her message of innocence into his
mind. "I am with the British embassy in San
Sebasti@an."
"I can do nothing." The young man's face was
blank with the pain of having seen too much.
"But I live just across the border. I have to go
back and forth. I'm accredited to the Republic,
don't you understand? The side you're fighting on!"
She almost broke down. She had to remember his
concern for children. "I just want to go back to France.
I have a baby there. He needs me!" She
grabbed his hand and put it to her breast. "He'll
starve!"
Her eyes seized his with a passion burning from a
determination not to be polluted by el jefe. The
young man appeared to think for a moment, then shook his
head.
"You must excuse me, se@nora." He
pulled back and hurried out.
Her hope drained away. She could hear el
jefe shouting and stamping on the floorboards above
her head. She tried to keep from imagining how his
fat, fetid body would feel on top of her.
Her driver was taken away. She dreaded to think
what would happen to him.
Elizabeth found herself remembering Madrid
on a warm evening in June when Arthur was busy
and Maria at the ranch. She and Antonio had
attended a performance of La Boh@eme at the
opera, and on the way home had been stopped at
a roadblock. An Assault Guard stuck his
face in the chauffeur's window.
Antonio knocked on the glass separating
them. "What's going on?"
"The big strike, se@nor. Someone killed the
leader of the Union."
"And now they're out for revenge," Antonio
muttered. Elizabeth grabbed his arm.
A flashlight probed into the backseat and
glinted off the medals on Antonio's uniform.
"Out of the car!" The door flew open and
Elizabeth could see a man holding a rifle with
others crowded behind him.
Antonio stepped out. "You stay inside," he
had said to Elizabeth.
"Papers!" someone ordered.
"Ah! A marqu`es!" came another voice.
In the glow from the flashlight Elizabeth had
seen them break into menacing smiles. Two men
grabbed Antonio's arms and a third
began to tie his thumbs together behind his back with
twine.
Elizabeth jumped out of the car. "What are you
doing? Who is in command here?" she demanded.
A half-shaven man in overalls, an
officer's cap, and a black-and-red Anarchist
bandana around his neck stepped forward.
"Don't make trouble, rich and beautiful, or
you'll wind up in jail too."
"I'm from the British embassy and this man is
my military escort!" She dug her
passport out of her purse and threw it at him.
"If you don't let him go, you'll be creating a
major international incident."
"Take it easy, rubia. We'll give you
some men to protect you." The others had laughed in
the dark.
Their leader was holding her passport upside
down. He gave it to a young man to read. He
nervously nodded his head, confirming her claims.
The chief's eyes flashed in anger. He
snatched away the passport and handed it back
to her. "Lo siento, se@nora. I'm
sorry." He did not sound sorry. He began
to finger Antonio's medals then yanked them off his
chest.
"Some military hero." The Anarchist boss
motioned for Antonio to be released. "You are
supposed to guard the lady, but she has
to protect you!" He laughed at him. "I
deserve these," he said and started to pin the
decorations on his overalls.
Antonio stepped toward him. The boss poked
him with his rifle. Elizabeth caught
Antonio's shoulder and pulled him back into the
car. As they drove off, they heard one of the
guards complain, "Too bad, I wanted to see
his blood ruin that fancy uniform."
"Write his name down on our list," the chief
ordered.
Antonio was furious. Elizabeth felt
shaken. She took hold of his hands.
"Is this what Madrid has come to?" She
shuddered. "An evening at the opera and then you're
arrested and shot for dressing properly?"
She insisted that the driver take Antonio
home first; she would be safe. He urged her
to stay at his apartment. No one would be secure on
the streets that night. Entering the Barrio
Salamanca where they each lived, they
saw a vehicle stopped on a side street
by another armed band with black-and-red scarves.
Hesitantly, she agreed to stay with him.
A tiny elevator, barely big enough for the two
of them, rose slowly through the middle of a circular
staircase toward his apartment on the sixth floor.
She could smell the cologne, Chicote, that she
had given him for his saint's day. It mixed with a
deeper aroma, the musk of a man ready to fight.
He stood so close that she had to breathe lightly
or her breasts would brush against his chest.
The elevator opened onto a landing in front
of his door. The parquet floors creaked as they
stepped inside the dark and empty apartment. The
servants were in the country with his wife. Antonio
turned on a light in the salon. The curtains
were drawn. Elizabeth pulled one aside and
looked out while Antonio disappeared into the
recesses of the flat. The streets were vacant,
now. Word of the reprisals must have spread.
Normally, the calles would be full of people and cars
until at least three in the morning. Antonio
came up behind her with two brandies.
"I think we both could use this."
"I hope that incident didn't hurt your
pride." She could see from his face that it had.
"If you'd done anything else, you'd have put me
in danger."
"I know." He took a sip of the
Fundador. "But you showed such courage, it made
me ashamed."
"Don't." She put her hand on his chest
to sooth him. He took it, and she could feel his
heat. She was drawn to him. In an instant, their
mouths were almost touching.
Elizabeth dropped her glass.
"Don't," she said again, not knowing if she meant
it.
He stopped. She tasted his breath on her
lips.
"If we go any farther, I will only dishonor
you," she whispered.
"Everyone in Madrid already talks about us.
We belong together."
"I knew that from the first moment I saw you in
Washington. But you've said it's hopeless."
"I can't stand being honorable anymore. It's
cowardly! We talk politics instead of
exchanging love. We worry about violence when
what we fear is our own passion. I'm
sick of art and culture and the dead past. When I
see a Rubens at the Prado, I imagine how
your body would feel in my hands. When I look
at the peasants in Flemish paintings foolishly
running about with their erect codpieces, I see
myself."
Elizabeth could feel the truth of his words grow
against her. She had wanted to reach down and take
hold of him, caress him, envelop him. But she
stepped away.
"If I stay a moment longer, it will change
our lives forever."
"Forgive me. I've been shameless." He
dropped his head to his chest.
"I can't control my feelings any longer,
Antonio. Maybe we should stop seeing each
other, at least alone, at least for a while.
Otherwise"--she tried to make a joke--"my
Spanish education will go too far."
"That will be a walking death!" he had protested.
"Give me the keys to your car, I beg you.
I must go."
"I'll take you."
"No. Please. I'll be safe. But if
something happened to you ..." Elizabeth had wanted
to say that she would kill herself, but that was wrong.
Antonio was right. Walking out the door that night,
she had felt she was already dying.
Looking around the barn, Elizabeth wondered
how she could have rejected his love. There were fewer
prisoners now after all the gunshots. Was this the
sum of her life? A lonely childhood, a
vacant marriage, absent motherhood, a love
denied and then rape, and oblivion beside a road in
northern Spain? At least she wouldn't have
to explain to the ambassador about the Royal
Navy destroyer. The effort to tell herself a
small joke only brought forth tears of
despair.
One of the jefe's subordinates came for
her. He led her around the house to the other side
where the ground was flat and two poles had been
stuck into the ground. She averted her eyes from the
man who hung lifelessly on one of the poles with a
sack over his head. Fresh graves had been
dug near a vegetable garden. Several men with
old rifles stood in front of her smoking.
El jefe was not one of them. Just shoot me, she
prayed stepping toward the vacant pole.
"Stop, se@nora!"
It was the young man with the red star. He held her
passport in his hand. "I have given you
safe-conduct pass." Her driver was waiting beside
the car.
"My God, how can I thank you?" she said,
surprised and exhilarated.
"By returning to France immediately."
"But my husband's trapped in San
Sebasti@an!"
"That pass won't keep you from being blown
to bits by an eighty-eight. I did not save your
life to have Mola's Fascists kill you."
"I'm acting under the orders of the British
government. I absolve you of all
responsibility."
"So you are a spy." He turned serious.
"If you believe that, then shoot me!" She
impulsively turned toward the waiting pole.
He grabbed her arm. "We have many women like you
fighting on our side," he said with admiration.
"All right, I will give you an escort. And I
suggest you take this too." He handed her a
homemade red flag.
Elizabeth gave him a half smile of
appreciation. "What happened to el jefe?"
she asked casually. She did not want to run
into him at the next roadblock.
"He has murdered his last innocent."
The young man pointed at the other pole where a
lifeless body slumped to one side with its arms
twisted behind it. The boy yanked off the bag on
its head. It was el jefe.


Chapter 7

San Sebasti@an Road--August 31,

There were no other vehicles on the road over
the pass to San Sebasti@an. Black-and-white
Merino sheep with their thick, braided coats
grazed contentedly in the golden hills to the left
while Mount Jaizkibel climbed steeply on
the right. Everything seemed quiet, and Elizabeth
began to relax enough to start worrying about what she would
say to the ambassador. The aroma of burning
grass filled the air, a common smell in late
summer as farmers cleared their fields. But this
odor had a peculiar acrid edge. Just as
Elizabeth also began to wonder about the little white
clouds that seemed to grow out of the
hillsides, her chauffeur drove the car into a
ditch.
"Out! Se@nora, out!"
The militiamen escorting her scrambled out of the
car. She managed to get her door open and put
one foot on the ground when the concussion hit. It
hurled her forward into the grass in a shower of
glass. She lay clinging to the earth until her
hearing came back. The first sound was that of rifles
and a machine gun, and they were very close. As she
started to lift her head, she heard her driver
cry out.
"Keep your head down. Try to move away from
the car. The gasoline!"
"I can't do both, damn it!"
"Be quiet."
Elizabeth ran her hands over her face;
blood trickled down her forehead from a cut on
her scalp. She was covered with shards of glass.
In time, the firing died down. She raised her
head enough to see her driver and the militiamen
crawling farther down the ditch. Slowly,
painfully, with burrs, thistles, and glass
sticking to her hands and knees, she followed them,
grateful that she had worn slacks and a jacket.
Suddenly, up ahead she saw a half-dozen
men with rifles cross the road. One of them
seemed to stumble and fall, but he did not get up.
Then she heard the clatter of a machine gun.
By rolling on her side, she could watch the
attacking group work its way up the hillside
against the machine gun. They moved forward in short
rushes, but each time they advanced, there seemed
to be one less, until the attack petered out.
A few moments later, two survivors fled
back across the road.
Elizabeth lay in the ditch with her head
pressed against the ground for more than an hour as the
intermittent battle continued. She did not think
her heart could beat so fast for so long without
bursting. Trying to erase one fear with another, she
forced herself to imagine what the ambassador would do
to her when he found out that, in his name, she had
mobilized the British Navy and proclaimed the
evacuation of the British embassy. She might be
better off if a shell landed on the car.
Three times, artillery bombardments hit the
road and exploded on the hillside in a blind
search for the machine-gun nest. Minutes later, a
squad of men would cross the road and
assault the hill. Within a quarter of an hour,
the remnants were fleeing back to the other side.
Elizabeth felt sick at the boys and men who
lay dead and dying on the pavement and in the tall
grass.
Finally, there was a long lull in the fighting.
Her chauffeur crawled toward her.
"Let's go for the car."
"They'll shoot us!" Elizabeth could feel the
hysteria in her chest.
"No, it's over for now."
"How do you know?"
He tapped his watch. "It's lunchtime."

Elizabeth felt relieved by the healing sight
of San Sebasti@an. Tucked between three
mountains and the scalloped curves of two
crescent beaches, the city's ocher and ornate
Belle Epoch buildings, wide boulevards, and
oceanfront esplanades had made San
Sebasti@an the favorite of Spanish kings for
almost a century. Once past the last
roadblock, the war suddenly seemed far away.
The streets were full of traffic, and the
sidewalks thronged with commerce. On the beaches,
families picnicked beside the gaily striped
tents on wheels that were moved back and forth on the
sand according to the tide in the bay. The only suggestion
of the war in the surrounding hills were the flags that
draped the public buildings and the patriotic
Basque banners that hung across the major
thoroughfares.
And the lobby of the Hotel Continental. It was a
madhouse. The British embassy had installed
its summer chancellery on the second floor of the
famed and richly decorated hotel that overlooked
the Bah@ia de la Concha. Normally, the
palm-lined lobby was as sedate as an English
drawing room, gentlemen reading their ironed
newspapers, ladies sipping tea. But
Elizabeth found it packed with men in white
suits, shouting and waving little pieces of paper at
hotel employees while distraught women
fanned themselves as they perched on all the available
wicker furniture and on their stacks of
luggage.
Pushing through the crowd, she headed toward the
staircase to the embassy offices, but it too was
clogged with people evidently desperate to get
visas. The foyer in front of the
elevator was equally jammed. Frustrated,
tired, and perspiring from the heat, she decided
to try to get something cold to drink in the bar.
Despite the leaded glass windows looking out on
the sea, it was dark, so Arthur saw her first.
"My God! Elizabeth! You're here!" he
said in wonder. He awkwardly threw his arms
around her, spilling his sidecar down her back.
"So sorry." He backed off.
"It was refreshing. Could I drink the rest of
it?"
"I'll get you another."
"No, I've got to see the ambassador right
away. I've got a message from
Whitehall."
Arthur blinked and tried to pull himself together.
He was not drunk, but he was not sober either.
Gesturing for her to follow, he made for a pair
of doors at the end of the bar that took them into the
kitchen. "The hotel's mobbed with these Frog
vacationers who can't get home. This is a
secret access route." Arthur began climbing
a narrow circular staircase usually reserved for
room service. "How on earth did you get here?
We heard there's a raging battle on the road
to Ir@un!"
"Let's put it this way. You said you wanted a
convertible."
"What's happened to my car?" he asked
anxiously.
"Nothing drastic, but all your windows are
gone."
Ambassador Sir Henry Chilton had one
of the hotel's Royal apartments. Three of the
rooms were used for embassy business and the rest
served as his residence. The walls and ceilings of
his office, a converted dining room, were covered in
ornate moldings and florid frescoes.
Elizabeth suddenly felt a mess. Her
slacks were covered with grass stains and she had
blood clotting her disheveled hair. She was
certain that her face must be as dirty as her hands,
which she wiped on her jacket before holding them out
to greet the ambassador.
Large and calm, Sir Henry smiled quite
graciously as he rose from his escritoire.
"My dear Elizabeth, what a surprise. You
look like you've had quite a time of it." He placed
her in the chair next to him. Then he simply
waited.
Everything she planned to say went out of her
head. She couldn't just blurt out that she told the
cabinet office that he wanted to be rescued.
"The Foreign Office asked me to contact you,"
she finally managed to say.
"We are rather out of touch, what with the telephone and
cable interrupted. I hope they're not blaming me
for that." He chuckled.
"No, they're just worried."
"Well, you can tell them we're quite all right.
Isn't that so, Arthur?"
"Q." He nodded obediently.
Elizabeth's heart sank. What could she
tell the Foreign Office now? That the
ambassador had changed his mind? He'd find out
and be even more furious for making him look like a
dithering fool. But damn it, he was a fool!
She had to find a way to make him appreciate
the danger.
"Would you mind if I also told them about the
situation between here and Ir@un?"
"I'd be fascinated to hear myself."
So Elizabeth recounted her efforts to get
to San Sebasti@an, leaving out nothing except the
way it felt when the young man with the red star in his
cap had his hand on her breast. As she described
the executions, the shelling, and the firefight, the
ambassador grew more and more pale.
"And so I think General Mola's strategy
will be to take Ir@un so as to cut off any
supplies from, or escape to, France. Then
he'll go after San Sebasti@an," she
concluded. "As far as I can see, neither side is
taking prisoners."
The ambassador sat in silence for several
minutes, then picked up the phone. She glanced
at Arthur. He wore a mask of concern, but about
what, it was impossible to read. A moment later,
a military attach`e unknown to Elizabeth
came in and she had to repeat her story. As she
did so, Arthur appeared increasingly irritated.
"I think she's right," the attach`e said when she
finished. Arthur frowned. "Except for one thing,"
the officer said. Arthur brightened.
Sir Henry raised an eyebrow, signaling
the attach`e to go on.
"Two Nationalist warships have been sighted on
the horizon." He went to the window and pointed out
to sea. "If they follow the pattern at
Santander and Bilbao, they'll
blockade the port and begin shelling us at
night."
"Good Lord, we're trapped!" The
ambassador displayed emotion for the first time.
"What on earth should we do?"
"From what Mrs. Pack reports," the
attach`e noted, "a land convoy to Ir@un is out
of the question. Too tempting a target."
"I quite agree." The ambassador turned
to Arthur. "Any thoughts?"
"A bit out of my line, sir." He shot an
angry look at Elizabeth for having put him
on the spot.
They all sat in silence. The sounds of
hawkers on the esplanade and cries of children
playing on the beach drifted in on the ocean
breeze. Even if Arthur didn't like it,
Elizabeth knew she had to speak.
"Well, I'm going to try to get back
to St.-Jean-de-Luz this evening."
"Isn't that rather risky?" the ambassador
objected.
"I know everyone at the roadblocks, and
I've an escort."
"I do admire your courage. If you arrive
safely, please phone the Foreign Office and
tell them of the fix we're in."
This was her chance. She had to take it. "Do you
think they should send a destroyer?"
Sir Henry's eyes widened. Arthur looked
aghast at his wife. Clearly, she had gone too
far.
"Yes indeed!" the ambassador exclaimed.
His glance chastised the others. "What a splendid
idea! Tell them to send one." He tapped the
table for emphasis. "Most urgently!"

Just before Elizabeth and her escorts pulled
away from the hotel, the military attach`e
arrived with two more passengers: himself and a personal
friend of the ambassador. The attach`e explained that
the other man, a known Franco sympathizer, would
be executed in retaliation when the Nationalists
began to bombard the town. Elizabeth agreed
to take him along despite the fact that her
militia escort would shoot them all if they
discovered the man's political leanings. Her
only condition was a bottle of brandy to keep the
militiamen content.
Everything went smoothly. They saw
no more fighting. She dropped the ambassador's
Fascist friend at a hotel in Fuenterrab@ia
and the Communist militiamen at the commissariat in
Ir@un. Elizabeth took the military
attach`e across the border and left him off at the
Lloyd's office in St.-Jean-de-Luz. He
thanked her for the ride, then noted that they really
hadn't been properly introduced.
"I'm Captain Lance." He held out his
hand. "I'm sorry you've gotten dragged into all
of this. It must have been quite an ordeal."
"Actually," said Elizabeth, shaking his hand and
smiling, "I had the most wonderful time."

Three days later, a destroyer brought
Ambassador Chilton, Arthur, and the entire
embassy staff into the harbor at
St.-Jean-de-Luz. Elizabeth and the other
wives were there to greet them at the dock. Everyone
was in a holiday mood except Arthur. She
finally confronted him when they arrived home.
"Aren't you the least proud of me, Arthur?"
"Do you think the embassy staff doesn't know
what you did?" He poured himself a whiskey.
"The ambassador seemed very happy about it."
"Did you think for even one moment of the position
you might put me in, not to mention how the other
wives would regard you? You've made an enemy
of the charg`e's wife."
"Well, the hell with her," Elizabeth
exploded. "It was no time to play the demure
diplomatic spouse. If it wasn't for me, you
all could have been captured or killed."
"I realize it's been an effort for you
to behave yourself for the last month," said Arthur,
unmoved, "but I'm afraid that this escapade
simply proves that you're an irredeemable
adventuress." He drained his glass. "You'd
have taken those same irresponsible risks if you
had children, wouldn't you?"
Arthur stomped off to take a nap before she could
reply. But she knew it didn't matter what
she might say or that she had saved him. He had
made up his mind against children.

The following morning, Arthur rented quarters
for the new embassy-in-exile above a grocery
store in the French border town of Hendaye. From
there, on September 5, Elizabeth along with
thousands of other spectators stood on
a hill overlooking the international bridge and
watched Mola's Fascists assault Ir@un.
A torrent of refugees poured across the bridge
as the French customs guards fled in panic.
Then the fires started. The local Republican
committee, believing that defense of the town was
futile, decided to burn it down.
As Elizabeth watched the city go up in
flames, she could not help wondering and worrying
about Antonio. Below, on the international bridge
Republican machine gunners were holding out to the
last. Someone in the crowd said they were not even
Spaniards, but French Communists eager to have a
chance to kill Fascists.
For the first time, Elizabeth began
to appreciate the depth of the hatreds fueling the
civil war and spreading across the face of
Europe. The Left and Right would rather destroy their
homeland than see it controlled by their enemies.
Elizabeth returned to the villa that night
feeling sad and depressed. Now, the British
embassy was completely out of Spain. Arthur was
dead set against starting a family. And
Antonio, wherever he might be, was beyond the
mountains, beyond the line of Franco's bayonets
that now ruled the frontier.
She was met at the gate by her housekeeper.
She looked worried and upset.
"There is someone here for you."
"Who?" Elizabeth asked.
"She claims to be a noblewoman but you can't
trust these refugees. I didn't know what to do
with her."
"Where is she?"
"I took her in the back way. She's in the
kitchen."
Her curiosity aroused, Elizabeth hurried
in the front door and straight down the hall. The
woman had her head on the table. Her sweater was
torn as were her stockings and the hem of her dress.
A battered suitcase sat at her feet.
"She claimed to be a friend of yours ..." the
housekeeper explained.
The woman raised her head. Through the dirt and
exhaustion on her face, Elizabeth
recognized her. It was Maria, Antonio's
wife.
"I didn't know where else to come. They took
Antonio away in the night. Please, I beg
you, help me find him."

White's, London--June 29, 1937
The captain expertly filleted the steamed
turbot, peeling back the spine and serving one
half of the fish to William Stephenson and the other
to Stewart Menzies. Stephenson was proceeding
obliquely; telling him about his experiences in
Poland, but approaching the subject of the Enigma
with caution.
Menzies had an intimidating reputation. It
was not merely that he was C's deputy, or that he
was rumored to be the illegitimate son of
Edward VI, closely resembling the late
monarch down to his sandy brown hair and bright
blue Windsor eyes. It was rather that he
epitomized the casual ruthlessness of the English
ruling elite, egotistical and utterly
unfettered by middle-class notions of fair
play. Stephenson knew he must lead him to his
own conclusions rather than sell him.
"The science of radio is as advanced as
anything I've seen in America or here,"
Stephenson was saying. "And curiously, their army
is heavily engaged in supporting it."
"Why "curiously"?" Menzies ventured.
"Well, the air force and the navy have a
natural interest in radio for communication. But the
Polish Army is unique for its stubborn
dependence on horse cavalry."
"Then what's the explanation?"
Stephenson refused to be hurried. "I was
particularly impressed with their radio receivers.
They're sensitive enough to pick up every signal
transmitted in Germany. And they've built a
number of stations along the border."
"That seems logical. Germany is certainly
a potential danger to them." Menzies signaled
the waiter for more wine. He appeared to be growing
bored with the subject.
"But why, I wondered, would they make such an
extensive effort to intercept signals that they
couldn't read?"
"What do you mean?" His interest quickened.
"As we know, German signals are encrypted
by the Enigma machine. So why would they work so hard
to intercept them, unless ..." Stephenson let his
voice fade.
Menzies finished the sentence for him. "...
unless the Poles had cracked the Enigma."

Later that afternoon, Dilly Knox was throwing
cold water on the idea. "Maybe they're doing
what we do, listening to a lot of gibberish in
hopes of finding a few messages in the clear."
He limped about Menzies's office while
Alistair Denniston and Captain Lance from the
operations section sat on the sofa.
"Still, it's an outsize effort for such a small
country as Poland to make," Denniston remarked,
"and for such little gain. We can hardly afford it
ourselves."
"We're not in imminent danger of being invaded
by the Huns either," Knox responded peevishly.
"I can't just ignore the possibility," said
Menzies. "Stephenson will simply go
to Churchill and we'll have a row. What does our
man in Warsaw say?" He directed the question at
Captain Lance.
"That he hasn't the time, resources, or
agents in place to penetrate the security around
the Poles' cryptological program."
"So he wants another body?"
"Yes. And took pains to remind us that
Warsaw is a very dangerous place. They've
got the Gestapo, the Abwehr, the Soviet
NKVD operating there along with the Polish Defa,
and they're no slouch either."
"Well, we have to send someone." Menzies
frowned.
"One of our best men then?" asked Captain
Lance.
"Not exactly." He tapped his teeth with a
pencil. "I should think we'd be better off with
somebody expendable."


Chapter 8

British Consulate General, Valencia,
Spain--July 15, 1937
"So Arthur Pack has let you come here on a
fool's errand, and without consulting me," the
British charg`e angrily said to Elizabeth.
"You'll take the first airplane out of here.
I'll have nothing to do with you!"
She was sitting in the office of John Leche,
the senior British official accredited to the
Spanish Republican government, which had moved
to Valencia when Madrid came under siege.
Antonio was reported to be still in Madrid, and
Elizabeth was seeking help to get there.
"You're quite wrong, Mr. Leche."
Elizabeth pronounced his name in the Spanish
style--leche meant "milk."
"It's pronounced "Leech,"" he
responded.
"Would "Your Excellency" do?" She kept
her voice low and sincere.
He regarded her sternly, rejecting the joke.
In his late forties, tall, rugged, with a lined
face and thick dark hair graying at the
temples, he had the air of a
gentleman-adventurer about him. Elizabeth
imagined that he would be most handsome in a military
uniform. Unlike most of the British
diplomats she had met, John Leche looked
like he had done something in his life, taken risks
and paid the price.
"Arthur has nothing to do with this." Elizabeth
used her warmest and most soothing voice. "No
doubt he is even more furious with me than you are!
I ran away to go to Madrid. And I'm going
to Madrid."
Leche looked skeptical. So had Arthur
when she insisted that she must go back to Madrid.
Ever since Maria de Zaragoza had arrived in
St.-Jean-de-Luz, she and Elizabeth had
been seeking information on Antonio. Maria's
devotion to her husband had surprised
Elizabeth, for the proud and taciturn marquesa
had left Antonio alone in Madrid much of the
time, apparently preferring to stay at the family
ranch with the children. Arthur surprised Elizabeth
even more by inviting Maria to stay with them as long as
she liked. As it turned out, he was merely trying
to give the lie to rumors about Antonio and
Elizabeth, and as soon as he was admitted to the
English Club, he began hinting that Maria should
leave.
By the time that the marquesa moved back to Spain
in early 1937, they still had heard nothing about
Antonio. As she departed by car, Maria had
embraced Elizabeth.
"He was a pilot and a soldier. I always
knew that someday I would lose him." She had
begun to weep. "Was I wrong to keep my
distance, to hold back my love?"
"You were only trying to protect yourself."
Elizabeth had tried to be sympathetic.
Maria had pulled away and drawn herself up.
"Bueno, I must go on with my
life."
Elizabeth, however, had refused to give up
on Antonio. In late spring, while working with the
Red Cross across the border in Spain, she
heard from Franco's foreign minister that
Antonio was held in Madrid. She could no
longer deny her unthinkable thoughts. She and Arthur
were merely roommates; not even that, since Arthur
had taken a separate bedroom. The world was being
turned upside down by war and revolution. Right and
wrong were changing places. Why couldn't she and
Antonio break the bonds that held them apart?
If she could find him, save him, why couldn't they
find a way to build a life together?
So Elizabeth came up with the idea of going
to Madrid to collect the furniture and
household effects she and Arthur had left behind
when they thought they were just leaving for the summer.
"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur had
responded as he dressed for one of his
black-tie dinners at the English Club.
"Madrid is virtually surrounded."
"You're always complaining about money,"
Elizabeth argued. "Everything we own is in
Madrid. A bomb could wipe us out tomorrow!"
That gave him pause. "No. You've become
quite notorious for delivering medicines to the
Fascists. Red Cross or no, if the
Republicans realize who you are, you could be
shot. I absolutely forbid it!"
Two weeks later she was aboard an
Iberian Airlines Ford Tri-motor bumping
through the air over the snowcapped Pyrenees on her
way from Toulouse to Valencia. Since Arthur was
formally accredited to the Republican government,
its consulate gave her a visa with no
difficulty. On the day of her flight, she
left a note on Arthur's breakfast tray and
sneaked outside to a waiting car and her loyal
chauffeur. Once in Valencia, however, she
realized she had no contacts other than the
British consulate general. But her reception was
turning out to be anything but cordial.
"Do you have any idea," Leche demanded,
"what's going on in this part of Spain? Up in
Barcelona we've just had a civil war inside
a civil war! Stalin's stooges have slaughtered
thousands of their Anarchist allies. People are shot for
subscribing to the wrong newspapers! These
so-called Republicans are more intent
on killing each other than on killing
Fascists. I spend half my time saving the
lives of hare-brained English schoolboys who
think it's a lark to come down here and pot Gerries
and Mussolini's I-ties. They're the ones
who end up getting potted, up against a wall
by their chums."
He paused to take a breath. "And
Madrid's even worse. It's being bombed and
shelled every day and night. There's no one at the
embassy. If you go and are killed I shall be
responsible and there'll be one bloody row. No,
back you go to where you came from!"
"I saw Ernest Hemingway at the airport
with a group of other writers," said Elizabeth.
"They're going up to Madrid by road."
"Ernest Hemingway's traveling under the
sponsorship of the Kremlin Communists to distract
the world's attention from the fact that the Reds are
slaughtering their former friends. Ernest Hemingway's
going to have an escort of bloody Russian
tanks!"
Elizabeth opened her green eyes wider and
softly said, "Then perhaps I should go with him." From the
way Leche had been inspecting her face and
figure, Elizabeth had no doubt that the charg`e
believed she could arrange it.
"You place me in an intolerable position!"
he raged. "You're traveling with British
diplomatic papers. You can't take part in a
wretched propaganda show!"
"I'm sorry." She picked up her luggage
and turned to leave his office. "Mr. Leche,
I'm going to Madrid whether you help me or not.
Since you'll be held responsible either way, I
merely thought you'd prefer to help."

The taxi carrying Elizabeth entered Madrid
at daybreak. Since the early months of the war, the
city had been surrounded on three sides by the
Nationalists and driving the road from Valencia was
like running a gauntlet. To provide maximum
safety, Leche had arranged for her to leave
Valencia in a nighttime military convoy. But
outside of Tarancon, as she lay in a ditch
trying to escape the strafing "Blackbirds" of the
Condor Legion, while flares lit the sky and
vehicles burned around her, Elizabeth thought
perhaps the whole idea was a big mistake.
Antonio would blame himself and curse
her if she got herself blown to bits. And she was so
scared her bones ached. She decided that traveling
in a caravan of targets at forty miles per
hour without lights and with the drivers looking more at the
sky than the road was not safer than traveling
solo.
With the dawn, the familiar streets of Madrid
came as an immense relief. Still her feelings
were in turmoil: excitement and apprehension at the
thought of drawing ever closer to Antonio; shock
at what the war had wrought in the city she loved.
Above all, Madrid was a city of life. People
filled the boulevards at all hours, including
la madrugada--the early morning--when the
partying often continued from the night before. Now,
Elizabeth saw no caf`es open. The few people
on the sidewalks were not revelers but women in
rags lining up outside of the almacenes for
food. Whole blocks of the city were bombed and
burnt out. Fires still raged from the night before, and
rubble blocked several streets. La
Telef@onica, the forty-story telephone
exchange that was Madrid's only skyscraper,
had always been lit like a wedding cake. It now
loomed dark and brooding.
In Elizabeth's beloved Plaza del Sol
the flower beds were planted with something that looked like
potatoes, and the beautiful rococo and
neoclassical buildings were defaced with huge
portraits of Marx, Lenin, Stalin, and La
Pasionara, a miner's wife who had become a
celebrity by exhorting the masses on the radio.
The history of the civil war was recorded on the
torn banners that hung from the lampposts and the
slogans that covered the walls.
LONG LIVE MADRID WITHOUT A
GOVERNMENT, the faded Anarchist slogan was
partly covered by NO PASAR@AN!--THEY SHALL
NOT PASS--LA Pasionara's famous call
to halt Franco's advancing troops. That now
seemed superseded by a newer banner with a far less
confident declaration from La Pasionara: BETTER
TO DIE ON YOUR FEET THAN LIVE
ON YOUR KNEES.
Elizabeth reached her flat at Castellana
63, just as the air raid sirens started up again.
She felt grateful that the building was still standing and
that her keys still worked in the gate. Entering the
courtyard, she was surprised to find it full of
refugees, some living in boxes and
shanties, others out in the open surrounded by ragged
bundles. A dozen families appeared to live
there along with an assortment of pigs, chickens,
and even a cow crammed into an area no more than
seventy-five feet on a side. As the air
raid sirens wailed, they simply looked
skyward with resignation, the older ones crossing
themselves and praying.
"Se@nora Pack!" An old man waved from
across the courtyard. He was gaunt, and as he
moved toward her, she could see he had a terrible
limp. His face looked like battered plaster.
Elizabeth was shocked to realize that it was
Enrique, the guardian of the building.
"What happened to you?"
"Una ochenta you ocho also frente."
He shrugged. An eighty-eight shell at the
front. "Come quickly to the basement. You will be
safer."
"What about these people, all the children?"
"There isn't room."
Once in the basement, she saw why. It was
jammed with refugees too. "The families
take turns," Enrique explained.
Elizabeth sat on a box near the furnace.
Soon she heard the bombs thudding far away,
then nearer and nearer. Dust danced out of the bricks
and the earth shuddered beneath her feet. With the whistle of
each approaching bomb, the people around her moaned
louder and louder. Only the children were strangely
silent.
Elizabeth was silent too, gripped by the fear
she had felt during the drive from Valencia.
Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on
Antonio and the happiness they would find when he was
free.
In time, the sounds of explosions moved off, and a
siren sounded an all-clear. Still trembling,
Elizabeth, accompanied by Enrique, climbed
the three flights to her second-floor apartment.
He apologized that the elevator was no longer
working.
"There is no electricity. Also no water."
The seal that the embassy had placed on the
door when closing the apartment had been broken.
"We had some troubles with the Anarchists at first,"
Enrique explained, "but I think almost everything
is safe."
The air in the apartment had the familiar
closed-off smell of an attic.
Morning peeked through the shudders of the darkened flat,
sending shafts of light stabbing through motes of dust
shaken to life by the recent bombardment. As she
wandered through the rooms, Elizabeth marveled at
how long ago it seemed that she had lived there,
almost as if it were in another life.
"Why has the se@nora come back
to Madrid?" Enrique interrupted her thoughts.
"The furniture. I need to move it
to France."
"So you abandon us for good?"
"I'm sorry."
"I will help the se@nora as much as I can."
"We'll need to make a lot of crates."
She began to range through the apartment, imagining what
would be required to pack it all.
"That will be very difficult," Enrique said
apologetically. "Everything must go for the war and for
necessities. You need someone who is
authorized to have wood. If I try to make
crates, I would be shot."
"Then what can I do?" She stopped pacing.
He thought for a moment and then brightened. "I know
one person who has such a priority."
"Who?"
"The coffin maker."

As soon as she had made arrangements for
packing her household effects, Elizabeth
headed directly to the Montana Barracks,
located in the center of the city. During the initial
uprising, it had offered a refuge for insurgent
troops and Fascist sympathizers. Besieged
by the populace, the barracks became the scene of the
first bloodbath of the civil war. Now it was a
maximum security military prison.
Elizabeth was full of anticipation, hoping
to see Antonio soon, yet fearing that she might
fail. Approaching the fortress on foot, she
could see the hundreds of pockmarks scarring every
window and door and the gaping hole in the wall where the
Asturian miners dynamited the gates. The
entrance was guarded by a squad of women, none more
than twenty years old, with Mausers slung
around their necks. They would not let her pass.
"You must have permission," one of them said eyeing
her linen slacks and silk blouse. They wore
blue overalls, boots, and red stars on their
caps.
"Where do I get permission?"
Elizabeth asked, trying not to sound impatient.
They shrugged and turned away from her.
"I want to speak to someone in charge!"
They raised their weapons.
"I must find a way to get in!" Elizabeth
insisted.
"We could let you in," said the one who had done
the talking. "But then maybe we wouldn't let you
out."
* * *
Elizabeth resigned herself to a long siege
of the Republican prison authorities.
John Leche had arranged for her to live with the
Scottish Ambulance Corps, run by a
flush-faced little Scotswoman by the name of Miss
Robertson. Elizabeth made clear that she would
not be a guest and would carry the same burdens as the
other volunteers. So instead of sleeping, she
spent each night ferrying wounded soldiers back
from the front or pulling people from collapsed
buildings while dodging bombs and the
antiaircraft shrapnel that rained back to earth
during air raids. In the smoking early-morning
hours, she would return to one of the bombed-out
buildings where she would persuade the survivors
to help her load wood scraps into the ambulance
so she could take them to the coffin maker. Every morning
she would ask him about her crates, and each time he
would admonish her with the same reply: "The dead
cannot wait."
During the day, the nightmare of bombing was
replaced by the nightmare of bureaucracy as
Elizabeth pressed her inquiries about
Antonio. She devoted a full week
to waiting in line and being shuffled from one office
to another at the Gobernaci@on in the Plaza
del Sol. When she was finally able to tell her
story to the allegedly responsible official, she
was told to go to the Ministry of War.
There lay chaos. After days of fruitless
pleading with underlings, she learned that she had to have a
"priority" merely to talk with someone with authority
over Antonio's case--not that anyone admitted
to having heard of him. And it was several more days before
she learned that only SIM, the secret police
of the Spanish Communist party, could grant access
to the Montana Barracks.
When Miss Robertson heard that Elizabeth
was trying to get in touch with SIM, she made her
sit down for a talk. They faced each
other over an oil drum in the middle of the garage
that served as the Ambulance Corps headquarters and
dormitory. A bare bulb hung over her head
as if she were in an interrogation room. The look
on Miss Robertson's face made clear she
wasn't buying her explanation of why she was
searching for Antonio de Zaragoza.
"I admire your spunk, dear," she said in
her burred Scots brogue, "but nobody
tries to see the SIM. They find you! They're
thugs controlled by the Russian NKVD. Asking
them to help you locate some high-born flyboy
who's under arrest is a sure way to be getting
yourself in jail. That fine diplomatic passport
of yours won't mean tuppence."
"What can I do then?" She was frustrated and
tired and near to tears.
"Have you no friends or acquaintances who can
intercede on your behalf?"
"I've been through my address book. I've
called and tried to visit people. Not a single one of
them is still in Madrid."
"You traveled in a smart set."
"I even asked the guardi@an of my
building. He told me he could find out about
Antonio right away. His friends are guards at the
barracks."
"What did he learn?"
"I don't know." Elizabeth shook her
head. "He's disappeared."
"See what I mean?" said Miss
Robertson.

After several weeks, all of Elizabeth's
household effects were packed up and Miss
Robertson had arranged for everything to be shipped
in an empty Scottish Ambulance Corps
truck that had to go down to Valencia for
supplies. As the day of departure approached,
Elizabeth felt increasingly desperate. She
still had no information on Antonio and Enrique had
not reappeared. All of the horror she had seen
had washed over her as she kept herself tightly
focused on finding Antonio. But now, as it
seemed she might fail, Elizabeth began
to react to the brutality she had witnessed--the
mangled women, the crushed children, the old people
decapitated by flying glass, the families
huddled under staircases and burnt beyond
recognition, men sitting in bathtubs
looking perfectly normal except for the gray
matter leaking out of their noses and ears from the
effect of concussion. She began to have
uncontrollable tremors at odd moments.
Loud noises filled her with panic. She had
virtually stopped sleeping, because her dreams were
even worse than the nightly bombardments.
Miss Robertson told her that it was time that she
left Madrid.
A few days before the convoy to Valencia was
to depart, Elizabeth learned from one of the
refugees at Castellana 63 that Enrique
had been arrested for showing his POUM identification
papers at a Communist checkpoint. He was being
held at the Iglesia San Pedro, one of the
churches in the old town that had been turned into a
jail for minor offenders. Miss Robertson
managed to arrange for Elizabeth to see him.
"I will do all I can to get you out," she
assured him through a chicken wire fence strung
across the nave of the church. "Have you heard anything
about Antonio?" His expression changed, but
Elizabeth could not read it. "Have you?" she
insisted.
"He was taken to the Montana Barracks as you
thought."
"How is he?" Her voice rose with
excitement. "Can I get word to him?"
"Months ago, all the military prisoners
were taken to Valencia."
"That's wonderful!" Elizabeth shouted. The
guards looked at her sharply.
"Wait, se@nora, I must explain."
Elizabeth went silent.
"When they reached Paracuellos de Jarama,
something happened. No one knows why."
Elizabeth watched him struggle to speak with
growing terror in her heart.
"It was a massacre. The Anarchists killed
their prisoners."
"No!" she said in a whisper. "No, it's not
possible. No." But as she heard herself repeating
"No" over and over, Elizabeth remembered one
of the rumors that had swept St.-Jean-de-Luz.
Anarchist guards escorting detainees
to Valencia had gone on a drunken rampage,
shooting their prisoners at point-blank range
as they sat in the trucks. And when their bullets
ran low, they made the survivors run, bent
over, head down, with hands tied behind their
backs, while the guards battered the prisoners
brains out with the butts of their Mausers like cattle
hammered down in a chute to a slaughterhouse.
"No!" Elizabeth screamed. She ran out the
door and into the blinding sun of the square. Dazed,
she wandered the winding tortured streets for hours.
At the entrance to a small square, a dead
horse killed in the morning bombardment was
sprawled on the stones still attached to its wagon.
A half-dozen women in black shrouds were
hacking pieces of meat from the emaciated
carcass. In a narrow, rubble-strewn alley,
children with homemade red cross armbands and a stretcher
of sticks and blankets played at being rescue
workers. Had she really cursed them and thrown stones
at them?
By the time Elizabeth returned to the Scottish
Ambulance Corps that afternoon, she felt spent,
empty of all feeling. Miss Robertson
asked her whether Enrique had been of help, and
she shook her head.
"Is there any way you could help him get out of
jail?" Elizabeth asked. "Could you say he
worked for the corps?"
"I'll do what I can, dear," Miss
Robertson assured her.
At dinner she was uncharacteristically quiet, eating her beans and rice in
silence. "You don't look well, Elizabeth,"
Miss Robertson observed. "I think you should
stay in tonight and try for a good sleep."
"No!" she said sharply, then apologized.
"I'm sorry, but I'll feel better if I
go out with the rest."
When the air raid sirens began, Elizabeth
pulled on her tin hat and climbed aboard one
of the ambulances as she always did. At their first
stop, a three-hundred-pound bomb had landed in the
street creating a huge crater, blowing out all the
windows up and down the block, and collapsing a
small building. While the others concentrated on
first aid for the scores of people slashed by flying
glass, Elizabeth was drawn toward the fallen
apartment house where several women and children were climbing
out of the cellar.
From a part of the building that was still standing she heard
a voice.
"Ayuda! Dios m`io ay@udame!"
She climbed a shaky staircase that was still
partly attached to a wall and made her
way down a second-floor hallway that ended in
the open air. The voice came again from a nearby
room. Finding the door stuck, Elizabeth had
to kick it open. Half the room was gone, fallen
into the street. At the edge of the precipice, she
could see someone pinned under an armoire and a ceiling
beam. Only an arm and a leg in overalls were
visible. The voice had sunk to a strangled
whisper.
"Hold on!" Elizabeth tested the floor
to see if it would hold her. Near a window, a
heavy wrought-iron curtain rod hung from the
wall. Using her weight and pulling with all her
might, she broke it free. In a moment she had
it jammed under the armoire and began levering the
massive wardrobe off of the prostrate and twisted
body.
That was when she saw it. The telltale
red-and-black cloth. The ubiquitous handkerchief
that identified a person as an Anarchist. The people
who murdered her Antonio.
She stopped lifting. Elizabeth knew she
could simply set the armoire back down and walk
away. Or she could yank out the rod and let the
huge piece of furniture fall back and
crush the figure lying there. As the fury rose
inside her, Elizabeth could imagine the sound of
bones breaking ....
"Here, let us help ...."
Miss Robertson and one of the young corpsmen
rushed to her side. Elizabeth staggered away.
They leaned on the rod, and the armoire went
tumbling down to the first floor. Miss
Robertson rolled the body over. It was a
woman. She was still alive. And she was
pregnant.
Reaching for the door frame, Elizabeth
collapsed.

She had a fever that lasted for three days.
Miss Robertson fed her lentil and barley
soup between bouts of delirium. Once when she
awoke, Elizabeth sobbed, "The dreams, the
killings, I can't take it. ..."
"You've seen too much, lass." Miss
Robertson took her hand.
"I'm doing it!"
When the fever subsided, Miss Robertson
told her that the truck could wait no longer. She
and her crates must leave for Valencia
the next day.
"I'm sorry I've been such a trial
...."
"You've been nothing less than a heroine,
lass. But this is not your calling, and we've got
to be getting on with ours."
Elizabeth turned away to hide her tears.
"You must love this Antonio very much."
"He's dead."
Miss Robertson took Elizabeth into her
arms. "It's good to mourn." She rocked her almost
like a child.
Elizabeth could feel the strength in the tiny
Scotswoman's sinewy body. "You've had the
rare privilege to see how precious human
life is," she went on. "Now you're obliged
to live it fully."

The next afternoon, Elizabeth watched as the young
men from the Scottish Ambulance Corps and
several of the refugees loaded her crates onto
the truck. As the last pieces were being stacked in
the back, she saw the shutters to her apartment being
opened. The refugees in the courtyard of
Castellana 63 had found a better home.
The sun was setting as they moved off down the
street. Elizabeth turned for one last look and
saw a figure waving his arms and limping after them.
"Enrique!" she cried out. She told the
driver to back up.
Gasping for breath, Enrique climbed onto the
running board. "Gracias a Dios,
se@nora! I found you in time!"
"You're out of jail! I'm so glad!"
"How will you ever forgive me?"
"Don't worry about the apartment. I'm happy
for them to use it."
"No, se@nora. I'm talking of
Antonio."
"It wasn't your fault." The pain was still in
her voice.
"You don't understand. I was wrong!"
Elizabeth's heart contracted. She was not
sure she could bear what he might say next.
"Antonio is alive!"

CROSSING BY NIGHT

Part II (cont.)


Chapter 9

54 Broadway, London--August
14, 1937
"A woman?" Menzies asked. "An
American?"
"She's married to a British diplomat,"
Captain Lance said to be reassuring. "That would
give her excellent cover."
"Hundreds of women are married to British
diplomats. That's hardly a recommendation."
They were sitting in Menzies's office at
SIS headquarters. The brown walls needed
paint. His wooden desk was battle-scarred, the
rug frayed, the leather sofa cracked and worn.
It looked like a typical English club.
"I saw her in action myself," Captain Lance
responded, "when our embassy in Spain was
evacuated from San Sebasti@an." Menzies
always seemed quite casual in laying down
requirements, but in the event, he was maddeningly
hard to satisfy. "She engineered the whole thing,"
Lance added, "worked her way back and forth across the
front lines. She was almost killed."
"We want someone brave, not reckless. She
may be expendable, but we don't want a
blowup."
"Miss Robertson with the Scottish
Ambulance Corps in Madrid gives her high
marks for composure. They were shelled and bombed every
night."
"What was she doing back in Madrid?"
"Ostensibly packing up her household effects to get them out of harm's way.
But in point of fact, she seems to have been searching for
Antonio de Zaragoza."
"Do we know him?"
"His dossier is right there."
Menzies flipped through the files
impatiently. "Well, I can't put a rank
amateur on Stephenson's Enigma project.
She'll have to go through some sort of operational testing.
I want to know if she's loyal and can take
direction. Without her knowing, of course."
"That shouldn't be too hard." The relief was
plain in Captain Lance's voice. "It took
a bit of digging, but I've finally
located her. She's on her way to Valencia.
I'm sure our man there, John Leche, will be
happy to put her through her paces."
"She's stopping there?"
"I think so. She's still looking for the Marqu`es
de Zaragoza."
Menzies was looking through his dossier again. "Are
they lovers?"
"Only rumors. But she's very beautiful."
"Then I want that aspect tested too,"
Menzies ordered. "If it's to be a woman,
she can't be an American prude."
"John Leche is divorced," Captain
Lance said confidently. "I should think he'd be
only too happy to oblige."

British Consulate General, Valencia,
Spain--August 15, 1937
"You look exhausted," John Leche said,
putting down his pencil and pad. "Let me fix
you a gin and tonic."
"It's hardly three in the afternoon," Elizabeth
replied. Since she hadn't slept for
twenty-four hours, she wondered why she was being so
particular.
"Think of the tonic as medicine," Leche
replied, "and the gin as concentrated juniper
juice." He handed her a drink and took one for
himself. "It's a pleasure to see you."
Elizabeth enjoyed the sweet tingle of the drink
going down. She was struck by the change in his
attitude: the warmth of his greeting and his interest
in her activities in Madrid. She liked the
way he sat on the edge of his desk while he
listened to her. It reminded Elizabeth of her
father.
For his part, John Leche was surprised to have
received a cable from SIS that morning about
Elizabeth Pack. She seemed a bit wild
for the sober tastes of the secret service. Still she
was an eyeful. Like most people who had spent a month
under constant bombardment in Madrid, she looked
haunted and war-weary. Yet sitting on his sofa
with her legs crossed, she remained remarkably
attractive, somehow seeming to fill the room with
her intensity. He felt an old and familiar tug that had always meant trouble.
"Don't worry about your household
effects," he was saying. "I'll get them
transshipped on a British
destroyer. It may be a while before you see them,
but at least you'll not have the lot end up on the
bottom of the Med courtesy of an I-tie
torpedo."
She smiled wearily. Too tired to relax,
the gin was at least taking the edge off her nerves.
"Thank you. I'm so grateful to you." She
finished the rest of her drink in one swallow.
Leche's eyebrows raised slightly.
"Well, I suppose I ought to think of getting
you home now."
This was just what Elizabeth had feared. She
felt suddenly depressed, then became furious.
"Your Excellency"--she handed back her glass
--"I wish I knew why you are trying to chuck
me out again. I need three or four more days in
Valencia before I can even think of going home!"
He took the glass from her hand and drew her
to her feet. "I haven't any intention of chucking
you out." He smiled. "When I said home, I
didn't mean France, but home with me!"

"The entire staff stays in Las
Palmeras," Leche explained to Elizabeth as
his car made its way south out of the city, "to avoid
the nightly bombings by the Condor Legion."
"I appreciate your putting me up," she
said, hoping it meant he was softening toward her.
Leche smiled back. Being a diplomat, he
was not, strictly speaking, a member of the secret
service. Rather, he was a "cooptee," someone who
from time to time did the odd job for "Broadway,"
as the headquarters of SIS was known. But with
Spain in the midst of a civil war that involved
Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin, working for
Broadway had almost become his full-time
occupation.
As they drove along toward Las Palmeras,
he pointed out the strange Chinese-looking houses
with peaked tile roofs that sat in the middle of vast
rice fields that stretched to the distant hills.
On the other side of the road, miles of orange
groves ran down to the sea.
"Notice something odd about the trees?" he
asked.
They were not at all like those Elizabeth had seen
as a girl visiting southern California. The
Valencian orange trees were short, no
taller than a man.
"They've been bred and pruned to be
picked without ladders."
They passed over several single-file sluice
bridges that crossed canals linking the sea with a
vast freshwater lagoon on their right.
"That's the Albufera," Leche explained.
"It makes the rice fields and paella
Valenciana possible."
Elizabeth was enjoying the tour. She stole a
glance at Leche as he steered the big Humber
down the highway. He was quite handsome in a raffish
sort of way. In another time or another life
she might even have fallen in love with him.
Instantly, she felt exasperated with herself. How
could she even have such a thought? She must be
exhausted.
He had caught her look. It caused a
small involuntary smile that she took as a
certain shyness. He took a hand off the wheel and
put it on hers.
"Tell me what's on your mind,
Elizabeth."
She wasn't certain what he meant. "I
may need a little help in locating an old friend,"
she replied, "the Marqu`es de Zaragoza."
Leche looked at her skeptically. "What
makes you think he's in Valencia?"
"In Madrid, I was told he had been
transferred here from the Montana Barracks."
"You're looking for someone under arrest?"
She had simply smiled back without
explanation.
Leche didn't need one. He knew something
about Antonio de Zaragoza and the cable from
Broadway had mentioned her interest in him. That's
what Arthur gets, he thought, for marrying a girl
half his age. You keep that in mind too, Leche
admonished himself. That might not be easy, now that
he had orders from Broadway to "test" her.
Of course, he had broken the Seventh Commandment
before, but this would be his first for king and country.
"Will you help me find him?" she pressed.
"I would be ever so grateful."
He let the question hang without a response.
She looked disappointed. He was toying with the idea
that her quest for Antonio de Zaragoza gave
him leverage to get her help with another
important problem--if he could set her and the
situation up properly. He turned the
possibilities over in his mind.
Where the orange groves gave way
to sand dunes covered with Spanish pines and tall
grasses, Leche said, "That's Palmeras."
In the distance, Elizabeth could see a stand of
thick and sturdy date palms rising on the
horizon like a mirage. They turned down a
sandy road lined with palm trees and whitewashed
walls surrounding houses with railings on their
flat roofs like widow's walks. The car stopped
at a large compound of bungalows scattered among
the dunes near the sea.
In ten minutes, Elizabeth was splashing through
the soothing clear water of the Mediterranean, washing
away her worries about failing Antonio along
with the grime of travel. She had not bathed in such
warm soft seas since she was a little girl in
Hawaii and her father took her to Waikiki
Beach. As Elizabeth floated on her back
beyond the gentle shore break, she felt a sense of
being alive that she had not known in years. The war
seemed far away.
John Leche suddenly burst to the surface
next to her. The droplets standing on his skin
glistened in the afternoon sunlight. He was deeply
tanned and surprisingly well muscled in an
opulent sort of way, not at all like the hard
crisp contours of Antonio's body. It had
been a long time since Elizabeth had felt
herself respond to a man's presence. Even in the
coolness of the water, she grew flushed and ashamed
of her wayward thoughts.
"I could let you stay here for a few days to rest
up," he said, treading water, "before sending you
home."
"I'm not looking for a vacation, Mr. Leche,"
she said brusquely and struck out for the shore.

The mission staff dined under a grape arbor
attached to the minister's house. Leche had changed
into a loose-fitting pair of pants, an open
shirt, and rope-soled fisherman's shoes. He
could not help staring at Elizabeth, who wore
only a halter top and slacks.
As he worked his way through a first course of
shrimp and garlic, Leche kept trying to assess
her. He had heard that Arthur Pack's wife was
something of an adventuress, but who wouldn't be
looking for a little excitement if they were married
to Colonel Pack. Whenever Leche looked at
her, she met his gaze frankly and boldly.
He told himself to be careful. Of
course, if he'd ever been able to take that
advice, he'd be luxuriating as ambassador
in Paris instead of dodging bombs in Valencia.
Elizabeth complimented him on the meal.
"You won't find such seafood in Madrid,"
she said, dipping her bread into the earthenware bowl of
olive oil in which the shrimps and garlic had been
cooked. "The shells there are full of
cordite."
After dinner, Leche invited her for a walk by the
sea. The dunes were covered in iceplant with
purple and yellow flowers that had started to close
as the sun began to set.
"Here, let's take a seat." Leche took
her elbow for a moment as she sat on the sand. "This
is the best view for the evening fireworks."
In the distance Valencia was strung along the
northern horizon under a line of mountains. The
sea was calm. All looked peaceful. Soon a
dozen little dots forming a string of four triangles
appeared against the evening sky.
"Those will be either Henkels or Italian
Savoia bombers," Leche noted.
"They don't care what they hit, do they?"
"Franco simply wants to demoralize the
populace while the Gerries and I-ties are
practicing up for future attacks on
London and Paris."
In a few minutes, clouds of smoke began
to rise above the city. The line of bombers moved
out to sea, then broke apart as each little triangle
turned on a different course to come back over
Valencia in search of new targets. In the
growing darkness, they could see the antiaircraft
shells rising upward and exploding like
skyrockets illuminating the nearby hills. In
time, the bombing stopped and the fires began giving the
city and the surrounding mountains an unearthly glow.
Sitting far away in Las Palmeras cooled
by the onshore breeze from the Mediterranean, they
had never heard a sound.
"How can death and destruction be so beautiful?"
Her voice was soft and melancholy.
Leche had been attracted to many women in his
life, and always it had been a matter of tension, a
brittle sense of electricity that had crackled
between them. Elizabeth was completely different.
He felt her presence like gravity. She
engendered in him a deep tidal calm. Leche
could hold in check the familiar rise
provoked by the curve of her leg against her
slacks or the way her halter top cupped her
breasts, or the soft sheen on her bare shoulders.
But her warm voice and her deep green eyes that
flickered with sadness gave him the helpless sensation
that he was actually falling toward her. He reached
out and put his hand on her shoulder.
The expression on her face told him she had
expected it. "You have been very kind in inviting me
here, Mr. Leche." He heard her take a
deep breath. "But that is as far as my
gratitude goes," she said with resignation. "Not
so very far, is it?"
Leche withdrew his hand as if it had been
slapped. "It's Antonio, isn't it? Is
he the only man you have cared for deeply in your
whole life so far?"
"Yes," she said with sudden intensity. "Oh
yes, I can say that with all my soul."

John Leche managed to obtain Red Cross
papers for Elizabeth that enabled her to make
direct visits to the local jails. They
proved to be more chaotic than in Madrid. The
struggle for power between the Communists and everyone
else had filled the jails to overflowing and new
ones were being created overnight in schools, office
buildings, apartment houses, and sports halls.
There were so many new political crimes and so many
arrests, one guard had explained, that the
prisoners had to be constantly sorted, moved, and
resorted.
And she had heard about the Checkas, the
clandestine jails run by Stalin's secret
police, the NKVD, where prominent political
figures like the Anarchist Andr`es Nin were
detained, tried, and then murdered. If
Antonio was in one of those ... She refused
to think about it.
Some of the places Elizabeth visited did not
seem like jails at all. In one apartment house,
the prisoners mixed with the guards in
well-appointed rooms and went outside to run
errands and go shopping. She found that this particular
jail was for common thieves and robbers who were
considered victims of capitalist society.
Most of the places, however, looked like various
forms of hell. The office buildings and
factories were among the worst, because they had no
kitchens, no bathrooms, and
inadequate toilets. Prisoners often lay
on loose straw handcuffed to radiators or
chained to pieces of machinery. Every morning
Elizabeth would walk through the seemingly endless
corridors, rooms, basements, and dungeons
full of sick and desperate people, hoping yet
fearing to see Antonio's face among the
wretched.
At lunchtime, she emerged into the bright sunshine
and headed for the port to join John Leche. In a
sidewalk caf`e across from the lime-green
rococo merchant marine building, she would pick
guiltily at her lobster or paella and pour out
her disgust at the ghastly way the Republic
treated its prisoners. Leche listened
patiently for several days, then pointed out why
Franco's Nationalists had so few prisoners;
they shot them all.
As the days wore on, Elizabeth talked more
and more about her marriage. John Leche proved
to be a sympathetic listener. She found that he was
never condescending or censorious, but a good friend and
companion. Sometimes they would talk about politics
and the civil war. John Leche was clearly more on
top of things than Arthur and his colleagues at the
embassy in Hendaye. Other days, a whole
lunch would pass when they would eat quietly together.
He was peaceful to be with when she wanted peace.
But underneath, Elizabeth was becoming increasingly
worried and depressed. Perhaps it was also the fever
and backache that she had picked up in Madrid and
could not shake, but after almost two discouraging weeks
in Valencia with no sign of Antonio,
Elizabeth had a deepening fear that he might have
been killed after all, that God had taken
Antonio's life as punishment for their illicit
love.
One afternoon, when Elizabeth reached her third
glass of tinto, it finally came out. "John, can
I ask you a favor?"
"Certainly. I was about to ask one of you."
"Would you arrange for me to go back to France?"
"You're joking!" He suddenly looked
panicked. "What about Antonio?"
"My search is hopeless. I've been to every
prison twice and I've seen every prisoner at
least three times! I'm beginning to think it's just a
charade, an excuse to avoid Arthur. I sent
him a letter, and he hasn't replied. That concerns
me too."
"Well, this Antonio business isn't a
bust yet." He looked like a man whose horse was
refusing to run in the Derby. "If you'll help,
we might just learn his whereabouts."
"How?" she asked doubtfully.
"Can you lie? You're so damn honest that I
doubt it. Still it would be useful if you could."
"You really know how to build a girl's
confidence."
"Hear me out. You know Luis Villada, the
Marqu`es de Arueza?"
"We used to dance together at Jimmy's."
"He's been caught in a roundup of
suspected Franco supporters. I'm hoping
to get a message tomorrow that will give the go-ahead
to try to get him out."
"Out of where?"
"One of the Checkas," he admitted. "But he
might know where to find Antonio."
She hesitated. "What am I supposed
to do?"
"You'll play the part of his sister. As you're
both fair-haired it should work. I'm going
to pretend to be your father. With luck, we'll
persuade them that it's all a case of mistaken
identity."

The next morning the message Leche had been
hoping for awaited them at the consulate. His plan
was designed to take advantage of three
Spanish obsessions: dignity, the siesta, and
papers covered with official stamps and illegible
signatures. At two o'clock, he ordered the
consulate car to be fitted with British flags and
switched into his morning coat. "These olive
eaters won't know it's not appropriate dress
for this time of day," he explained to Elizabeth,
"but it adds a dash of class, what?"
In the car on the way to the prison, Leche
gave her his final instructions. "Try to relax.
As soon as you get to Luis, tell him to speak
English."
"He's not very good at it."
"Believe me, the guards won't be able
to tell. If there are any questions, his name is
"James." I shall be busy distracting the
guards, so you look after your brother and yourself."
"What will happen if this fails? Will we be
arrested?"
"Stand close to "James" and
pray that the guards won't shoot a woman."
The jail was unfamiliar to Elizabeth,
another anonymous office building converted
to hold political offenders. As they approached
it, Leche told the driver to slow down but not
to stop as they neared the wooden barrier across the
entrance to the courtyard.
He took a deep breath, pulled himself
erect, and smiled at Elizabeth. "In for a
penny, in for a pound!"
As the car turned into the driveway, the guards
raised their guns. But then seeing the flags, the
diplomatic license plates, and the speed of the
car, the guards leaped to raise the barrier, and they
rolled smartly into the courtyard unmolested.
"So far so good." Leche waited for the driver
to open the door, then stepped out and grandly
surveyed the area. "Follow me," he whispered
as the driver helped Elizabeth out of the car. She
felt so keyed up that the chronic ache in her
back had vanished. John Leche offered his arm
and they proceeded across the cobblestones at what she
found to be an excruciatingly slow pace.
"I haven't dawdled like this," she whispered,
"since I came down the aisle at my wedding."
"Dignity, my dear. And if that fails you,
try arrogance."
When they reached a cluster of militiamen half
napping as they guarded the entrance, Leche drew
himself up and brandished his diplomatic salvo
conducto along with a variety of other
elaborate documents. The guards merely
shrugged in response. Grandly, he led
Elizabeth through the door. As they made their way
down the ground-floor corridor, they paused
occasionally for Leche to wave his papers at
guards. Each time, Elizabeth thought her heart
might stop, but the guards seemed too busy
digesting their noon meal to pay them much attention.
Watching Leche's performance, Elizabeth thought,
What a superb figure of a man he is, and her
own confidence increased.
But as they began climbing the stairs, they
encountered a thickset man with a crew cut and a
bull neck who could only have been a Russian
adviser.
"Alto," he cried in bad Spanish.
"Who are you? Let me see your papers!"
"I'm sorry, but I don't speak
Spanish," Leche said amiably but at
the same time lifting his shoulders to give himself a more
commanding presence. Elizabeth wanted to run.
"Papers! Papers!" He swore in
Russian and to explain himself pulled some dogeared
documents from his jacket that he waved in Leche's
face.
To the Russian's surprise, Leche grabbed
them away and peered at them. "Sorry, old
boy. Can't read a word."
At that moment, a scuffle broke out
downstairs as the militia brought in a new gang
of prisoners. The Russian snatched back his
precious documents. "You wait!" He ordered.
"I'll be back!"
Leche waved and nodded, then turned and continued
up to the third floor.
They moved more swiftly now. Leche seemed
to know exactly the room in which Luis was being
held. The guard saluted and opened the door.
Elizabeth rushed inside. There, sprawled on
the floor with several others was a pale, thin,
bruised shadow of a man who used to sweep her
around the dance floor.
"Dearest brother James." She knelt beside
him wiping his face with her handkerchief. "Papa and
I have come for you. Just come along quickly and calmly.
And stay close if there's any shooting."
If anything, Leche's exit from the prison was
even slower and more grand than his entrance. "James"
was so weak that Elizabeth had to half carry him
down the stairs, all the time keeping an eye out
for the return of the Russian. With each step along
the hall the muzzles of the guards' guns loomed
larger. Meanwhile, Leche was nodding and greeting every officer he
encountered. As they approached the door, "James" began to cry.
"For God's sake, James, dry up!" said
Elizabeth with the sweetest smile on her face.
"We'll never make it," he sobbed.
"They'll kill us all."
Elizabeth opened the door and felt a wave
of relief. They were outside! Then she saw the
Russian was standing by the car with several more armed men
and a senior officer of the Asaltos, the dreaded
Assault Guards.
"Head for the car and get in," Leche quietly
ordered. "Don't react to anything they say."
"Stand up straight!" Elizabeth whispered
fiercely to the Marqu`es de Arueza.
As they neared the car, Leche broke
into a broad smile and threw his arms wide.
"Colonel Toledano!" He embraced the
officer. "I haven't seen you," he said in
Spanish, "since we stole those pigs from the
Italians at Guadalajara!"
"The women were a little gorda"--he laughed
squeezing the fat around his own waist--"but I
wouldn't call them pigs!"
Elizabeth and James had reached the car.
"This man speaks Spanish!" the Russian
boomed. "When I demanded his papers, he
claimed he couldn't understand me!" He put his hand
on his pistol.
The colonel frowned at the Russian, then
at Leche. Elizabeth yanked open the car
door and pushed James inside.
"Oh that was Spanish you were speaking." Leche
laughed. "A thousand pardons!" The colonel
broke into a fit of laughter.
"What are you doing here?" the Russian
demanded.
The brotherstsister ploy was not going to work.
Leche had to improvise. "Every day you
inadvertently gather up a handful of innocent
Englishmen. My two friends in the car thought you
might be holding an acquaintance of theirs here.
They were wrong. But you really should be more careful.
You're going to end up arresting the Soviet
ambassador!"
More laughter from Colonel Toledano.
"He has already been arrested," said the
Russian, "and is on his way to Moscow where I
expect he will get a fair trial before being
liquidated!"
Leche looked taken aback. "Well, I
would love to swap stories about the show trials,
comrade, but I really must be on to the next
jailhouse." He turned to the Asalto commander,
who was recovering his breath. "Colonel, do join
us this weekend at Palmeras. We still have the most
delectable crayfish."
"And the pigs?" He laughed again.
"We refer to the English girls as lambs."
The colonel rolled his eyes. Leche opened
the door to the car and started to get in.
"We'll leave the pigs for the Russians."
The colonel doubled over.
"Step on it," Leche ordered. The car shot
out of the courtyard and into the street. Elizabeth
looked back and could see the Russian
railing at the colonel.
They raced down Puerto de Aragon and down
the Avenida del Puerto, Leche constantly
looking back to see if they were being followed.
James appeared to have fainted.
"Pier twelve," Leche instructed the
driver. Elizabeth was trying to slap James
awake. "Wake up! What do you know about
Antonio de Zaragoza? Wake up!"
"Take it easy," Leche said.
They were waved through the naval sentries and
pulled up next to a British destroyer at the
end of the dock.
"Give me a hand." Leche began dragging the
half-conscious marqu`es out of the car.
"No! I want him to tell me about
Antonio!"
Two Royal Navy ensigns took hold of
James and helped him toward the gangway. The
sailors were already untying the lines, preparing
to cast off.
"What about Antonio de Zaragoza?"
Elizabeth cried, running along behind them.
James stirred. Another ensign barred
Elizabeth from the gangplank. She turned
back toward Leche. "John, help me!"
James stopped at the top of the ramp and
turned to her. "De Zaragoza?"
"Yes!" Elizabeth shouted. "What have you
heard of him?"
He shook his head and sagged into the sailors'
arms. "Nada," he called back. "Nothing in
years."


Chapter 10

6-go-cgst19:23GMT
MOST SECRET
VALENCIA STATION SENDS
FOR BROADWAY--00063
1. SOURCE 26/3 EXFILTRATED THIS
DATE VIA HMS GALLWAY BOUND
MARSEILLE.
2. ELIZABETH PACK PARTICIPATED
OPERATION. PASSED EVERY TEST. PROCEEDING
TO PHASE TWO.
LECHE
ENDIT
Las Palmeras, Spain--July
6, 1937
That night, Elizabeth lay on her cot staring
at the bright stars through her window. She could hear the
wind rustling in the palms and smell the salt and the
scent of oranges carried on the sea breeze.
This was no place to be alone. It made her
disappointment so much harder to bear.
Elizabeth had not felt love from anyone for
over a year. Not a word. Not a gesture. Not one
reassuring caress of skin against skin. Turning
away John Leche's advances had not been
easy. How long could she live on dreams of
Antonio's embrace?
As she tossed and turned restlessly, it dawned
on her that if John Leche could find the
Marqu`es de Arueza he could also locate the
Marqu`es de Zaragoza. But he hadn't done
it. Why? Because he wanted her. So he had every
reason to refuse. Except one. Again, because he
wanted her. Would she now have to betray Antonio
in order to save him?
She had finally fallen asleep when
Elizabeth suddenly awoke to see someone
silhouetted against the open door. It was John.
He knelt by her bed.
"Elizabeth, don't send me away," he
whispered.
She felt his firm hand on her thigh. Her
mind filled with confusion. One part of her wanted
to give in, take him in her arms and lose herself.
Another wanted to push him off, slap his face,
tell him to get lost. And in her turmoil, she
could hear a voice tell her to stay calm,
to suppress her emotions, to remember what she was
trying to do. "I won't send you away," she said
softly, "if you don't fight me."
"I'm not fighting you." He moved onto the
bed. "You're fighting your own feelings."
"John, I like you." She could see that was not an
adequate response. "And I'm physically
attracted to you." For her, that might be a major
admission, but it seemed to do nothing for him. She
was fighting herself. "If you want to make love
to me, you can." She tried to make it sound very
matter-of-fact. "But don't think it means I
love you."
"I'll bring you around to that." His sudden smile
gleamed mischievously in the starlight. "Show me
your breasts."
Their eyes locked together as she sat
up and defiantly pushed down the front of her
nightgown. She expected him to seize her,
ravish her. But he did neither.
"You are a wonder," he said quietly. "Your
shoulders are so delicate and graceful"--it was as
if he were appraising a work of art--"and your
breasts so full and bold." Reaching out, he began
to caress them thoughtfully, slowly, kneading gently
with his strong fingers until she became engorged with
feeling.
"You may think you're staying aloof, but your
body says something else."
As he patiently kept drawing and tugging, she
felt that she might burst. She wanted him
to squeeze harder, to kiss them. And when he finally
did, she could hardly keep herself from grabbing his
head in her hands and forcing herself deeper into his mouth
and crying for more.
When he pulled away, she could no longer
look into his eyes. She cast a glance downward
to see her breasts wet and glistening in the dark. The
smell of her arousal wafted up to her. She had
never felt like this with Arthur!
"Take off your nightgown," he ordered.
She lifted it over her head, and he threw it
in the corner. He remained dressed in his silk
robe.
"Open your legs."
She could not believe him. She wanted to be
romanced, kissed, hugged, maneuvered seamlessly
into a position where making love was inevitable, not a
stark deliberate act. But when she failed
to respond to his command, she watched him spreading
her legs apart as if he owned her.
Then he slipped his robe from his shoulders. He
was naked. She could not keep from staring. It was thick
and heavy and dangerous looking. He lifted her
hips, and as she felt him at her threshold, she
tightened to resist.
But he did not plunge forward. Instead, he
moved himself gently, teasingly, over her most
intimate places. As he tormented her, she
felt a powerful void of desire begin to grow
inside, a vacuum of need rapidly expanding beyond
her control.
"Please," she moaned.
"You want me now?" Without waiting for an
answer, he breached her.
Her eyes flashed open. She tried to expel
him, but inexorably, he pushed in
deeper, filling her with his strength, driving away
the fear, the guilt, and the loneliness. And then he was
drawing out, abandoning her. She tried to hold him,
grip him inside, not let him go. But he was
slipping away, leaving her yearning, desperate for
his return. Then at the moment of dreaded
emptiness, he reentered, swelling her with
desire, forcing her to begin that hesitant dance where
her undulating body anticipated his thrusts and
parried every withdrawal.
She lost all sense of time, place, and even
self. She tried to urge him on, but he
resisted, slowly, rhythmically, with infuriating
deliberation. She found herself crying and sweating.
Her teeth bit his shoulder. Her nails dug
into his back. Still he was so excruciatingly
slow!
"Faster," she whispered.
"What?"
"Faster," she said.
"Like this?"
"Oh, yes. And harder."
"Louder."
"Harder!" she cried out shamelessly. "Harder,
faster!"
He lifted her up, rolled her back, and
plunged in deeper. She began to twist and writhe
beneath him. Sweat dripped off his face and onto
her breasts. She felt herself trying to engulf him.
Each time they slammed together, she convulsed. Her
body no longer obeyed. It bucked and heaved.
What's this? she thought. Deep within, a spasm
had begun. Oh God, what's happening to me?
And as her climax grew in force, she sensed him
struggle to stop, to thwart her, to control her. But
she held him hostage, clenching him fiercely
until she felt him start to quiver, driving her
over the edge. Then his string of detonations started,
and she panicked.
"No, no!"
She slipped away and seized hold of him.
He cried out, and she grasped him tightly
until he was completely spent. When she caught
her breath, all Elizabeth could manage to say
was, "You bastard," and she pulled John
Leche's head down onto her damp and heaving
breast.

She awoke in a fog of remorse. Leche was
gone. It was barely dawn, but she
didn't know what the time was and didn't care. Her
behavior made no sense to her. She had
betrayed everything and everyone. And what was worse,
it was wonderful.
Elizabeth found her bathing suit, hung on
a nail by the outside shower and faded from days in the
sun. In moments she was alone in the cool and
soothing Mediterranean. Her thoughts and feelings were
a jumble. Treading water, she stripped off her
swimsuit. She wanted to feel the water coursing
between her legs. She wanted the sea to wash away her sin.
As a deb in Washington she had enjoyed
petting with some of her dates. At Dana Hall
she had had some stimulating daydreams about boys,
but she soon learned to shut up about them. After
marrying Arthur, however, she had begun to accept
her mother's notion that sex was only an overrated
marital duty. But last night, Elizabeth had
been overwhelmed. Leche had introduced her
to sensations she had never known. Could Antonio do
that? Or could she only feel that way by being bad?
Holding her suit in one hand, she turned over
and began a sidestroke that carried her farther out.
Then she rolled onto her back to float. Her
breasts rose to the surface, the nipples stiff
and pointed. She wanted to offer them to Antonio.
But they were the nipples that Arthur and John
Leche had pulled into their mouths. And her son.
She began to cry. If they belonged to anyone, it
was her son.
Pulling her suit on again in the water, she
swam back to the beach. She sat on the dunes
until the sun rose into the sky, trying not
to remember or think of anything. But she failed.
Over and over, a voice in her mind told her,
you are who you are, needing what you need, doing what
you must.
And John Leche had to be held to his end
of the bargain.

In the Humber on their way into Valencia
later that morning, they both rode along in a
strained silence. Finally, Elizabeth spoke.
"I've been a fool."
"Are you talking about last night?"
"I'm talking about every night, and every day. This is
a farce. You're just using me."
"I'm mad for you," he protested. "I want
you to stay with me here in Valencia, at
Las Palmeras, and wherever else I might be in
the future. You must be mine alone."
"Yours alone? You are mad. What have you done
for me? Absolutely nothing!"
"I've been protecting you!"
"From what?"
John Leche clenched his teeth like a child
refusing to speak.
"From what?" she demanded.
"From Antonio," he finally said.
"What on earth do you mean?"
"I mean your precious Antonio was a spy.
He was spying against the British government and the
Americans too, if that matters to you."
"You've completely lost your mind!"
"He was trying to recruit you! How else do you
think he found so much time to romance you?"
That gave her pause. "You're making this up!
You're jealous!" she said, going on the attack.
"I have proof!"
"What is it?" she demanded.
"I can't show it to you."
"Well, you can keep your Most Secret
dossier. I don't care what he was doing a
year ago! That was another world. I just want him
back!"
"What do you expect me to do?" He was growing
angry.
"You found the Marqu`es de Arueza. Find the
Marqu`es de Zaragoza."
"It's not that simple!"
"It is as simple as this," Elizabeth
declared. "You can come back to my bed when you find me
the man I love!"

It took two days. Leche called
Elizabeth into his office at the consulate
to give her the news.
"He's being held in a big military
prison north of the city on the old Barcelona
road."
"How is it that I've never heard of this
place?" she responded coolly, keeping him
on the defensive.
"It's an old and famous monastery that's been
seized by the government, San Miguel de los
Reyes." He wasn't about to apologize for
holding out on her.
She sat back on his divan and clasped her
hands around her knee. "So, how do we
get him out?"
She was upping the ante. Well, he had bad
news for her. "The Scarlet Pimpernel routine
won't work at this jail, I'm afraid. No
one can get you in short of the war minister."
"Indalecio Prieto? Isn't he here in
Valencia?"
Leche nodded.
"Then it's simple." She smiled again. "You
just get me an appointment to see him. I
assume His Majesty's government has that much
influence."
"Yes," he said irritably. Damn the
woman! Was there no end to her cheek? "But what have
you to offer Mr. Prieto?"
Her smile turned even more sweet. "Whatever
he wants."

The war minister's office was located in a
fourteenth-century palace on the Plaza de
Manises in the oldest part of the city. As the
British consulate car entered the narrow winding
streets, Leche gave Elizabeth her final
instructions.
"You must make it clear that you come in a purely
private capacity and are not acting for the British
government in any way. I don't want this
to seem official."
"No. It won't be official, John,"
Elizabeth assured him. "There'll be nothing
official about it."
Leche grimaced. Did she insist on being a
smart aleck just to see if she could provoke him?
He reached into his breast pocket. Perhaps something
could be salvaged from this misadventure; he had
been authorized to use her and he would. "This
envelope contains the names of seventeen others who
are in the same prison as your"--he hesitated
--"friend. If Prieto seems favorable about
Antonio, you might mention these people too.
Otherwise forget about them. I trust your
judgment. But by all means, let's do all we
can."
"Do all we can," she repeated with a sigh, and
pulled down the net veil on her hat. The
driver had opened the door, but she made no
effort to get out.
"Something wrong?" Leche asked.
"The truth is that I'd rather face a firing
squad than go in there." She suddenly
looked very young and vulnerable.
Leche softened. He squeezed her gloved
hand. "Prieto's a pretty tough character, but nothing
like the Reds."
"I'm only afraid of making a hash of the
situation and getting Antonio into even greater
trouble after all the time and effort I've made
to avoid just that!"
"Everything will be all right. You'll see."

Elizabeth anxiously handed her identification
to the guard who stood behind a sandbagged barricade
at the entrance. To avoid his gaze, she stared up
at the building. It was very plain except for the
medieval stonework around the square leaded-glass
windows on the first floor and the sharp Gothic
columns trisecting the windows on the second.
The guard passed back her papers then handed
her over to a well-uniformed Asalto who led her
through the entrance and up a winding stone staircase.
They made their way along a balcony thronged with
people carrying various rolled-up parchment petitions.
When they came to a pair of massive carved
wooden doors, her escort opened them and
Elizabeth stepped into a large spare room with a
ceiling of heavy ornate rafters covered in
gold. On the opposite wall, French doors
led out to a balcony that overlooked a small
garden with several orange trees. To her
surprise, the room itself was empty except for a
broad desk, two stiff-backed upholstered
chairs, and a short, balding, round-bodied man with
tired eyes. She had asked for a private
audience and she had gotten it.
"Prieto," he introduced himself and offered her
a chair.
Hesitantly, she began to describe why she
had come to see him. It was a personal matter, not
a diplomatic d@emarche. Then, gathering her
courage, as she told of her search for Antonio
and her earnest hope that the minister would be able
to help her. She concluded with a little memorized
speech: "I love this man, Se@nor el
Ministro, and through loving him I know all about him.
I know that he has never done anything against the
Spanish government and so does not deserve to be
in prison."
Prieto's baleful eyes had grown wider.
He drew his chair over next to her.
"As minister of war, I deal often with
life and death, but I must admit, seldom with
matters of love."
He put his hand on her knee and continued.
"Aren't you an American? And you are married to a
British diplomat, no?"
This had been Elizabeth's principal
worry. To many Spaniards, an American
woman on her own was tantamount to a
prostitute. That she was married and in love with
another man elevated her status to that of
courtesan.
"Possibly, we could work something out." He
smiled. His hand had tightened on her leg
to explain what he meant. "Where are you staying in
Valencia?"
Her next move would be critical. She
tried to gauge him. As a Socialist, he had
the reputation for being moderate and level-headed.
But what did that mean in a situation like this? Was he
making a serious pass or merely the
obligatory Spanish gesture so as to maintain
his self-respect? She would soon find out.
"Mr. Minister"--Elizabeth lifted the
veil on her hat--"with all the violence and
tragedy you face every day, you deserve the warmth and
respite of a woman's love." She leaned
closer. "I could go over to that door right now and
lock it. I could come back to you, take off my
clothes, and you could have me, here on your desk."
Prieto's eyes widened again, and his jowls
began to tremble.
"I would do that to save the man I love,"
Elizabeth continued, her voice dropping an
octave. She was operating on instinct now. "But
I also know something of your struggle. I've just come
from driving an ambulance in Madrid. I saw
children, women, infants, old people sacrifice their
lives. And what are they dying for?"
She snatched up his hand and pressed it against her
breast. Prieto's breath was coming harder.
"Are they not laying down their lives for the
future of Spain? So that one day, genuine love
can flourish in the ruins of bourgeois morality?
So that a woman of honor can seek a favor from
the mighty without trading her body and her soul?"
Prieto remained speechless. She could see that
his decision hung in the balance. Was she a fool
to appeal to the idealism of a man whose portfolio
was bloodshed? A bell began to toll in the odd
eight-sided tower of the cathedral across the
square. She knew her fifteen minutes were up.
He withdrew his hand from her breast and retreated
behind his desk. "Can I take it"--he wiped his
brow--"that the British minister knows about this visit
and the reason for it?"
What was she to reply? Her instructions were
explicit: to emphasize that this was purely
personal, that it did not involve His Majesty's
government. And yet, Leche had given her the
names of others to get released.
"He knows," she said firmly, "and he
heartily approves."
"Good. Good." Prieto's faint smile
suggested he now had a debt he could collect.
"I am very grateful to you for coming to see me. There
are many things that are not brought to my attention. Is
there anything else?"
Did this mean she had succeeded? Or was he
putting her off? She would only know by pressing
him. Elizabeth opened her purse. "These are
also victims of injustice."
He looked at the length of the list, and his eyes
widened yet again. He put it down with the mound of
papers on his desk. "Se@nora"--he
emphasized her married title--"you will understand that I can do nothing
arbitrary. But I promise that I will examine these cases carefully. It would
be
good to give attention to something other than war. I
think I can tell you to have buena esperanza,
good hope of their release."
"And Antonio?" she insisted.
"When I say "good hope," you can count on
it."
Elizabeth reached over his desk and joyously
threw her arms around the minister, kissing him on his
forehead. He staggered back a step and smiled
warily. "Are you sure there is nothing else,
now?"
"Yes there is," Elizabeth said excitedly.
"May I see the man I love and give him
some hope too?"
"You may. Indeed you should." And he wrote out
a slip of paper. "You will need this to enter the
prison. You can go this afternoon."
"You'll never know how grateful I am!"
"I'm afraid," Prieto sighed, "you've
made that very clear, my dear."

"He's going to let them go! All of them!" she
exulted as she came through the door of
John Leche's office.
He seemed utterly uninterested. Something was
wrong.
"Look at this," he said and handed over a
cablegram. It was from the embassy in Hendaye and
marked "Most Urgent":

FOLLOWING FOR LECHE PERSONAL FROM
AMBASSADOR STOP REPORT ON
WHEREABOUTS OF MRS PACK WIFE OF
COMMERCIAL SECRETARY BELIEVED TO BE
VISITING MADRID AND VALENCIA STOP
ARRANGE FOR HER IMMEDIATE REPEAT IMMEDIATE
RETURN NEXT AVAILABLE DESTROYER
STOP

"We'll have to send off a reply," Leche said
gravely, coming toward her, "so you must decide about
your feelings for me."
What were they, she wondered. Gratitude
certainly. Warmth. An intimacy that she had
never known. He wrapped his arms around her and
drew her down to the sofa. But his kiss felt
wrong. He had introduced her to her own body,
but was he really a lover or just a friend?
He whispered in her ear. "There's only one
answer and it's quite simple." Leche sat back
and looked into her eyes. "You are staying with me and
that's all there is to it."
Should she tell him that she was not returning
to Arthur? That she was running away. That she
planned to start a new life. But not with him, with
Antonio.
"Stall," Elizabeth said instead. "Send a
temporizing reply. Say I'm in no danger
and my return is delayed on account of
destroyer space." She got up to leave.
"Where are you going? Aren't we having lunch?"
"I have a pass to see Antonio." She could
not contain her happiness.
The expression on his face was inscrutable.
He might be angry, calculating, or hurt.
Thinking about it as she left the consulate general,
Elizabeth concluded it was probably all
three.

Her driver picked up the Barcelona road
across from the squat Gothic battlements of the
Torres del Serrans. Proceeding north through
the dwindling outskirts of the city,
Elizabeth tried to control her soaring
excitement. Soon she would see him, hear his
voice, possibly even embrace him! Finding
Antonio had often seemed a futile dream, and
now as the moment approached, it felt unreal. The
thought that he would be set free was hard to accept.
For what would happen then? Leche, in urging her
to break with Arthur, had helped legitimize her
dreams about Antonio. They would go away together.
To France, or even South America. Antonio
could earn a good living as a pilot. They would both
get divorces somehow. And what about his children?
Maria would never give them up. Elizabeth would
give him more children. Maybe she could even find a
way to get back her own child.
But what of Leche's accusations, she wondered
uneasily. Could Antonio have been a spy?
Did that explain the knowing looks from Antonio's
friends? No! She was letting her fears get the
best of her. It was all absurd. Whatever
Leche's so-called proof, she could see the truth
in Antonio's eyes.
Where the city gave way to farmland and scattered
houses, a massive red-brick structure
rose up out of the fields of rice. It might have
been a monastery, she thought, but it was built like a
fortress. The iron-studded gate was flanked
by two short stone towers complete with loopholes
and crenellations.
She shoved her pass through the barred window on the
left, and the doors promptly swung open.
Elizabeth entered a gravel courtyard where
several ancient date palms stood guard in
front of a large chapel with a bright golden dome.
Her escort led her to a five-story building
on the right. Its tiny barred windows ran all the
way up to the eaves under a tiled roof. Once
inside, she was handed over to a pair of guards who
took her to a long medieval gallery on the
second floor that looked out over the rice
fields. The stone floor and walls were bare but the
ceiling was of elaborately painted wood. Two
chairs had been provided at the far end of the
room, and as she sat down, the guards retreated
to a position by the door.
The afternoon heat drifted in the windows with the humid
smell of rice paddies. Elizabeth felt
relieved to have seen no pictures of bewhiskered
Bolsheviks or lunatic slogans. There were
no red flags of revolution or black
flags of anarchy. She prayed that Antonio had
been in decent hands. Would she recognize him?
Would he recognize her? Then she had a sudden
fear. Of all the people he might be desperate
to see, was she even one of them?
The door creaked open. A man in loose
gray prison pajamas appeared, blinking as if
he were either unaccustomed to the light or unable
to believe his eyes. He took a few
hesitant steps forward then glanced back at the
guards. They nodded. Stiffly, he began to walk
faster. Elizabeth stood up. He broke into a
run. She held out her arms. Antonio swept
her into a wordless embrace burying his head in her
shoulder.
Her joy made her start to weep. Through her
arms she could feel his heart racing in his frail
body. She thought hers might stop beating altogether.
Catching her breath, she pulled back. "Let
me see how you look."
"You are like a dream," Antonio responded,
touching his fingers to her tear-stained cheek. He was not
as greatly changed as she had feared. His skin was
gray. He was very thin and he had a long beard, which
with his gaunt face, made him look something like a
Sunday school rendering of Jesus Christ. As
their eyes silently spoke to one another, she could
feel the old magic begin to glow deep inside.
"How are they treating you?" She searched for
something to say.
"Well enough since I've been here. But in the
Montana Barracks ..." He suddenly grew
distant. "Beatings. Shootings every day." He
shook his head to banish the memories. "These are
not things for your delicate ears. You are so
beautiful!" He kissed her hands, and she
trembled. "How did you find me? How did you
get here?"
"Antonio, you're going to be free!" In a
rush, Elizabeth told him how she had searched
for him ever since his wife had come to her in
St.-Jean-de-Luz. She described Madrid
and going to all the prisons in Valencia. Finally
she explained about Prieto and what he had said.
She never mentioned Leche.
As she rattled on, he sat staring at her,
smiling, looking slightly bewildered.
Elizabeth had the sense that it was difficult for
him to envision all that she had been through, all that she
wanted to share.
"And how goes the war?" he asked when she
paused for a breath.
"Very bad for the Republic, I think. As I
mentioned, I was recently in Madrid, and it was
terrible."
"Oh yes," he responded as if trying
to remember what she had just said. "And my
family." He became more focused. "Did you
say you'd seen my wife? How is she?" Tears
suddenly came into his eyes. "How are my
children?"
Elizabeth explained that Maria had lived with
them and had moved back to Spain after the fall of
San Sebasti@an to the Nationalists. She was
safe with his children at his parents' ranch near
Zaragoza.
"Can you get them a message? They won't
let me write."
"Of course. I'll memorize it."
"Tell them I'm all right. Tell them that I
love them and I never forget them for a moment. I
dream of them every night. Tell the little ones to be
brave."
"I'll tell them," Elizabeth said.
Inside, she was growing cold.
"I dream of you too," he added quickly. "I
thought I'd never see you again. The only thing that
keeps you going in a place like this is the hope that
someday you'll see your family. And your loved
ones."
"You'll be free soon, I know it."
"But you'll tell them."
"Naturally."
He looked relieved. Elizabeth felt
empty. And the emptiness freed her to ask the question that
would not go away.
"Antonio, when we were in Madrid, did you
care for me, or was it merely your duty?"
Surprise, and something furtive, flashed in his
eyes. "I don't understand." He frowned.
"Were you a spy? Was I your "target"?"
He looked sharply over his shoulder toward the
guards. "Of course not!" he whispered.
"Don't be ridiculous!"
She let her face say that she didn't
believe him.
"I had to tell my superiors something in order
to get to see you." He put on his charming smile.
"I'm not proud of deceiving them, but to be with you, it was
worth it."
Elizabeth was unmoved. In truth, she was
afraid to even speak.
"I never asked you for information." He was pleading
now. "I never asked you to do anything for me, did
I?"
She shook her head.
"So, put it out of your mind. It had nothing to do
with us. You'll stay here in Valencia and wait for
me. We will make love at last. We'll go
back to France together. I'll move my family
to Biarritz to be near you. Everything will be as before."
"Of course," Elizabeth said. How could she
explain that nothing was as before. Even before was no
longer like before.
One of the guards clanked his keys. Their time was
drawing to an end.
"I believe fate is with us"--Antonio
crossed himself--"and that it won't be long before I
am free and we can be together again like Madrid."
He took her in his arms. She felt his lips
on hers. Part of Elizabeth was beginning
to withdraw, but another part, the one that had been
searching for Antonio for more than a year, the one that
had turned him into an obsession, wanted
to swallow him, merge with him. Their mouths pressed
together so urgently their teeth clashed, their lips
bled. She could taste him on her tongue.
Then she felt him being pulled away, slipping
out of her grasp. The guards were leading him off.
"Adi@os," he called to her. "Adi@os!
We shall meet soon."

Elizabeth arrived back at Palmeras at
nightfall. After leaving the prison, she had
asked the driver to go north along the
Mediterranean. She stopped at Sagunto and for
an hour watched the sea washing the shore with endless
indifference. Had the ordeal of her quest for
Antonio transformed him into a vision that had never
existed? Giving each wave a name, Antonio,
John, Arthur, she played a version of
loves-me-loves-me-not, wondering whether her
destiny would lie with the one that came up highest on
the beach. Then she realized the tide was going out.
Returning south, she detoured inland around the
city. At a crossroads on the eastern edge of
Valencia, the car was stopped by a convoy of
trucks laden with men in loincloths and women
naked to the waist, their bodies painted with
primitive signs and symbols. It
had to be Colonel Mangada's battalion of
nudists and vegetarians heading for the front. Was
there anything so meaningless, she wondered, than losing
one's life in a lost cause?
Further on, she passed the Albufera. Through
the windows of the car, the strange vast lake looked
dark and still. She had felt the need to think, and on
the long circuitous journey back to Palmeras,
Elizabeth discovered she really had nothing at
all to think about.

The smell of fish stew was in the air as she
pulled up to the British compound. The staff, as
usual, were sitting at the long tables under the
grape arbor. Elizabeth had no appetite,
and to avoid them she went around the other side of the
villa and down to the sea. The fireworks over
Valencia had begun, the bombs and shells
shattering in the sky, etching the mountains with light.
Soon she was joined by John Leche.
"Why did you sneak out here? I've received
another rocket from Hendaye responding to our
cable." He dropped beside her and unfolded a
paper. "It says, "RETURN MRS.
PACK TO FRANCE WITHOUT DELAY.""
"I saw a destroyer lying off the harbor
today," said Elizabeth, her voice sad. "When
does it leave?"
"The day after tomorrow, I think." He looked
taken aback. "But I don't know if there would be
room for you on board."
"Then I'll stay on the deck with the
refugees."
"My God, Elizabeth! What the hell
happened at the prison? Why are you talking like
this?"
"Antonio's fine," she said, not looking at
him. "He's excited about being released,
naturally. He looks forward to getting back
together."
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" Leche
did not try to conceal his bitterness.
She turned to him. "I love him too much
to be the other woman. Just as I don't love you
enough to be your wife."
"Goddammit, girl! You don't love your
husband at all!"
She reached out to him. "Don't be angry. Just
love me. Here. Now."
He glanced toward the villa. "But
what about the others?"
"Tonight there are no others," Elizabeth said as
she pulled him down onto the sand. She needed from
him the tenderness and excitement that she feared she would
never find again.
* * *
She felt strange wobbling up the gangplank
of a destroyer all dressed up in white
open-toed shoes, a hat with a veil, and gloves.
Elizabeth had asked Leche to remain on the
dock. A lieutenant showed her to a tiny room
on the starboard side.
"You might want to come back on deck," the
young naval officer said as he stowed her valise.
"It will be a few minutes before we weigh
anchor."
She thanked him but said she preferred to remain
below. Elizabeth needed no more memories of
Valencia, or of Spain. It had been a great
adventure. She had known love and passion and they
had come to naught. Now she was determined to secure
the more enduring satisfactions of adulthood. It
was time to settle down. She took an exchange
of cables with Arthur out of her purse.

TO ARTHUR PACK VILLA TTIRRITTA
STJEANLUZ
FROM ITT VALENCIA 7-7-37 08:30
WILL RETURN ONLY IF YOU
PROMISE WE WILL START FAMILY
STOP ELIZABETH

TO ELIZABETH PACK csto ITT
VALENCIA
FROM ITT STJEANLUZ 7-7-37 10:47
AGREED STOP ARTHUR

TO ARTHUR PACK VILLA TTIRRITTA
STJEANLUZ
FROM ITT VALENCIA 7-7-37 11:07
AND I WANT ADDRESS OF SON
STOP ELIZABETH

TO ELIZABETH PACK csto ITT
VALENCIA
FROM ITT STJEANLUZ 7-7-37 16:24
ALL AGREED STOP PLEASE COME
HOME STOP ARTHUR
Looking over the cables gave her a
sense that at last she might be gaining some control
over her future. She would have another child with
Arthur, and make a home. That way, in time, it
might be possible to get her son back.
The vibrations under her feet increased,
signaling that the ship was ready to depart. In spite
of herself, she took a last look out the
porthole. John Leche stood in the front
row, his eyes searching for her. She heard the
scrape and groan of the gangplank being hoisted
aboard. Suddenly, she saw pushing and shoving on
the pier. A thin young man in a suit that was far
too big for him squeezed his way through. It was
Antonio!
She raced out of her cabin and up the stairs.
By the time she emerged on deck and worked her way
to the rail the ship was moving away. Antonio and
John Leche were standing side by side shouting her
name.
She waved back, then took off her hat and
sailed it through the air toward the dock. A shout
went up. Antonio grabbed it. Leche snatched
it away, and struggling with one another they both were
swallowed up in the crowd.
Elizabeth had no regrets. She knew that
if she wanted to hold on to what she had had with
Antonio de Zaragoza or John Leche,
she must never see either of them again.

8-go-cgafccdbGMT
MOST SECRET
VALENCIA STATION SENDS
FOR BROADWAY--00075
EYES ONLY LANCE
1. ELIZABETH PACK PASSED ALL
TESTS.
2. AS RESULT OF HER EFFORTS
EXPECT QUOTE LIST OF SEVENTEEN
UNQUOTE TO BE RELEASED SHORTLY.
3. RECOMMEND MRS PACK FOR
SIS DUTY MOST HIGHLY. YOUR GAIN
IS MY LOSS.
LECHE
ENDIT

Part III

I had been "in love" or had loved various
people for different reasons and in varying degrees, but
although I was in my twenties, it still
remained for me to find the one man who would have me
completely. "Completely" was a very big and
awesome word in the meaning it had for me.
--Elizabeth Pack's Memoirs
Churchill Library, Churchill
College, Cambridge University


Chapter 11

Wehrmacht Staff School, Potsdam,
Germany--September 7, 1937
"Do you think your father would have come to his commanding
officer with such a complaint, Lieutenant von
Aufenaker?"
The commander of the school, Colonel Leber,
rubbed his monocle on his sleeve and popped it
into his right eye so that he could inspect the young man
more carefully. He appeared to be a fine
specimen of Prussian manhood: tall, with a
correct military bearing, intelligent bright
blue eyes, closely cropped blond hair.
He had sympathy for the lad but his request was out
of the question.
"If I may be allowed to explain?" asked the
young man.
"Certainly."
"My first choice was of course the cavalry."
Colonel Leber nodded and leaned back in his
chair. His office like the rest of the staff school was
located in the former stables of a Hohenzollern
prince, and the pungent aroma of horses still
permeated the air. The officer corps and students
seemed to thrive on it.
"Because I speak English and Polish and
French, I was persuaded to enter into intelligence
instead," Lieutenant von Aufenaker continued,
"but now I find that I am assigned to a
communications detachment."
"That is correct. It is one of our
highest-priority assignments."
"But I'll be nothing but a glorified
stenographer!" he protested.
"I see." Colonel Leber swiveled in his
chair and stood up. "You imagined yourself charging
enemy cannons on horseback with your saber
drawn?"
Von Aufenaker turned red.
"That is not modern warfare." He began
to pace. "You were chosen carefully to perform the most
critical function in the Wehrmacht.
Look around at our enemies: France,
Britain, Poland, Czechoslovakia,
Russia. We are vastly outnumbered,
outgunned. How can we prevail? As we have always
done, through order and discipline! In modern warfare
that means utterly reliable and secure
communications."
"But I want to lead men in battle, like my
father, not cower in some van, safe in the rear!"
"Where did you learn that the hand that wields the
sword can be contemptuous of the brain? Of all our
secret weapons the most powerful and important
is being entrusted to you."
"The Enigma machine?" He tried to maintain
a tone of respect but failed.
Colonel Leber turned on him. "Our
Blitzkrieg requires the closest
coordination of infantry, armor, and aircraft.
Surprise is vital. Mobility crucial.
The Enigma makes this possible. It is a
triumph of German ingenuity. With trillions
of combinations, it produces a code that is
impregnable."
"Then I fail to see how that makes my command
important," Von Aufenaker insisted. "I shall
merely supervise typists!"
"It is your job to protect the Enigma! You
must ensure that it is used correctly.
Mistakes can compromise its security. You will
be trained not only in the machine's use but also its
demolition. The case is made of wood so that it
can be burned if it is in danger of capture.
If it falls into enemy hands, it could be used
to reveal our strength, strategy, war plans,
secret weapons, everything. You and your men are being
entrusted with the secret of secrets of the German
Reich."
"But this is not--"
"Lieutenant, you are dismissed. And do not
look so dejected. Before this coming war is over,
I'm sure you will have plenty of opportunity
to die in battle like your father."

Southwest England--September 8, 1937
Elizabeth had forgotten how green the English
countryside could be. Spain had its greens, but
always colored with more somber hues, the misty green
of the olive trees, the twilight green of
cypress, the parched green of mountain grasses.
England seemed to be the home of green
itself, uncomplicated, straightforward, as mother
nature originally intended, a fecund, comforting
color that covered the passing fields and hills,
and conveyed to Elizabeth a sense of serenity.
She welcomed the calming influence of the verdant
landscape and the gentle rocking of the railway
carriage. It eased her apprehension. She was
on her way from London to Bath to do something she
had been dreaming about for a year and a half. Yet
she was uneasy and more than a little afraid.
Elizabeth was going to pay a visit to see
Antony, her son.
After Arthur finally gave her the name and address
of the child's foster parents, a Mr. and Mrs.
George Porter who lived in Bath, she had
sent toys and written letters and postcards. But the
Porters had given only a single
unresponsive reply: The baby was healthy; the
baby was happy.
Elizabeth had tried to see him a month
earlier when she had initially come to London for a
checkup with Dr. MacCall. She had
postponed efforts to conceive another child with Arthur because
of what her mother would call "female trouble." Ever
since her illness in Madrid, she had felt a
dull ache in her lower back along with an
intermittent fever. When she returned
to St.-Jean-de-Luz, she began to experience an
unpleasant discharge as well. While
Elizabeth had realized that her condition was not
conducive to getting pregnant, she had no idea
of the shock awaiting her in Dr. MacCall's
familiar office when she had gone to see him on
that warm afternoon early in August.
The doctor had scowled as he read through the
reports of her tests.
"I'm sorry to inform you, Mrs. Pack, that
you've a pelvic infection."
"How did I get that?" she had asked in
embarrassment, immediately wondering if she had
"caught something" from John Leche.
"In all likelihood, it stems from a case
of childbirth fever." He went to the window to let
in more air. "Your body took a great deal of
abuse during pregnancy, and you were undoubtedly
vulnerable to infection. Do you remember being sick
after you left the hospital?"
She shook her head, but with uncertainty.
"Did you have relations with your husband right
away?"
The memory came back in a rush. At the
O.fellows Arms in Pulborough where they had
spent the first night after leaving the hospital, she
wanted to rest after dinner, and Arthur had stayed behind
in the bar. A few hours later, full of
whiskey, he had come upstairs and pounced on her
like a jackal on carrion, forcing himself between her
legs with his usual desperation. Elizabeth had
been too tired and weak to resist.
"Yes, the first night. Arthur insisted, and he
had been lonely ..." She stopped in
mid-sentence, mortified. "I didn't feel
well for several days afterward, but I didn't think
it was"--she paused--"serious."
"I'm afraid it is." His hard Scots
features softened with concern. "You need an
operation. We have to remove the source of
infection."
"What kind of operation?" Her voice suddenly
filled with anxiety. "You mean a
hysterectomy?"
"No, most likely we would only take the
fallopian tubes."
Elizabeth sighed, relieved.
"But you must realize," Dr. MacCall
continued, "you won't be having children anymore."
She had sat for a few moments without reacting.
Then she began to shake her head as if to say,
that's impossible. "No," she said quietly. It
was inconceivable. "No, no," she repeated. It
was unacceptable. "I'm only twenty-two years
old!" She was pleading for a different sentence. "I
can't have such an operation! I want more children, I
need them ...."
"Elizabeth, understand me, dear. You can't have
any children now."
Oh God! This was her punishment! For the sin of
loving Antonio. For her adultery with John
Leche. For abandoning her baby. For fornicating with
Arthur before they had married. She had begun
to weep.
The doctor had come and put his arm around her
shoulder. "The tubes are blocked," he said
gently. "You've an infection. If it gets out
of hand, it could well kill you."
"But I feel perfectly fine!" She had
protested through her tears, "Can't you do anything
else? What about sulfa?"
"I'm prescribing that, but it's no wonder
drug for something like this." He shook his
head. "There is one possibility." He
returned to his desk. "I have a colleague, a
surgeon, who's been trying to repair the tubes
so they can still function. He's had some
successes."
"Why can't we try that?"
"We'd have to open you up first and see what the
problem looks like. Then we would remove as little as
possible and make a decision on the spot whether
the tubes can be restored. You'll run the risk of
worse infection and possibly a hysterectomy.
Are you prepared for that?"
"What other choice have I?" Elizabeth had
said in a voice so small that, with the noise of
Wellbeck Street coming through the window, she could
hardly even hear herself.

The train was descending from the open fields of
Wiltshire into the steep river valley of the
Avon toward the ancient Roman city of Bath.
In her mind, Elizabeth conjured a picture of
its ruins from a fragment of a ninth-century
English poem that she had memorized as a
schoolgirl:

Wonderful is this wall of stone wreaked by fate.
The city buildings crumble, the bold works of
giants decay.
Roofs have caved in, towers collapsed ...
Ceilings save nothing from the fury of storms ...
... A hundred generations of men
Have passed away since then. This wall, grey with
lichen
And red of hue, outlived kingdom after kingdom.

As she had waited on a gurney outside the
operating room, Elizabeth had thought about her
father. When she had returned
to St.-Jean-de-Luz from Spain, a telegram
was waiting from her mother reporting that her father had
died. She immediately telephoned Washington.
Despite holding the handset against one ear and the
extra little earpiece against the other, Elizabeth
could barely hear her mother.
"It's been terrible, dear." Cora's voice
came through thin and wispy. "The doctors couldn't
do anything. He just wasted away in a matter of
weeks."
"Why didn't you tell me!" Elizabeth
shouted through the phone.
"You're doing such important things over there.
And I didn't want to upset you. There's nothing
you could have done."
"I could have seen him! We could have talked!" But
that, she said to herself bitterly, is exactly what
her mother didn't want. Finally she had gotten
him all to herself. Elizabeth felt sick with
guilt at such thoughts.
"I'll take a plane. I'll fly from
Portugal to the Azores, then to Newfoundland
...."
"I'd love to see you, of course," said
Cora, "but the funeral was a week ago."
"I don't want him to be dead!"
"I'm sorry," her mother said, "but this is very
hard for me too ...."
For her surgery, the doctors gave
Elizabeth gas. She remembered nothing but a
dream in which her father appeared. He was in his office
on Twelfth Street in Washington. It must have
been summer, because the windows were open and the
electric fans were ruffling the papers on his
desk. He was leaning against it with his arms crossed,
saying, "Loyalty makes civilization
possible. ... The individual makes
sacrifices for principle, for the greater good of the
many. ... It's the greatest test of character ...."
Awakening from her operation in the recovery room
at Wellbeck, Elizabeth found that all the
other women patients had their newborn infants.
She didn't even have her husband. Arthur had
cabled to say that embassy business prevented him
from joining her. Dr. MacCall had come in
looking pleased and told her that the first step had
been a success.
"But you have to come back in a month for tests
to see if the tubes stay open."
After ten days of lonely convalescence,
Elizabeth, still in pain, had gone back
to St.-Jean-de-Luz. There was no chance to see
her son. Now, having returned to England for her
follow-up examination, she had carefully allowed
time to go shopping, take in the theater, look up
friends. When she had arrived at the Savoy, she
had been surprised and pleased to find an invitation
to lunch from the mysterious Captain Lance, whom she
had not seen since the evacuation of San
Sebasti@an. She planned to visit Arthur's
parents, and had arranged to lunch with Vita
Sackville-West. She was determined
to enjoy herself, to remain optimistic about the tests,
and above all to spend at least one day with her son.
Her desire to have another child with Arthur only
strengthened Elizabeth's commitment to establish
contact with her son; she was not going to forget her
firstborn.
As her railway car emerged from a long
tunnel, the modern city of Bath sparkled in the
sunlight, all white marble and polished stone.
Its town houses were built in terraces and
crescents, gathered together behind common Palladian
facades to make them look like palaces.
Elizabeth's excitement grew as her taxi
climbed from the railway station at the foot of the
town; past the ruins of the Roman baths; around a
grand circus; and across the imposing front of the
Royal Crescent, a quarter-mile arc of
homes set in a vast green park.
The Porters lived outside the historic part
of town. At 148 Cavendish Road,
Elizabeth found a modest and pleasant detached
house with a small front yard not unlike any
suburb in England.
The driver helped her to the door with her
packages. Elizabeth hesitated before ringing the
bell. She felt anxious and flustered.
Ridiculous, she thought. You have to maintain your
dignity in front of these people. As she stood
talking to herself, the door opened.
"I heard the taxi," the woman said.
"I was just about to ring the bell," Elizabeth
explained.
"I'm Mrs. Porter." She eyed the
packages.
"I'm Elizabeth Pack." She held out
her hand.
Mrs. Porter shook it with an uncomfortable
little jerk. "Please come in, my husband wanted
to be here, but he was called to the waterworks. He's
the engineer and whenever there's a problem ..."
As they moved the packages into the house,
Elizabeth appraised her. Mrs. Porter was
plump, seemingly middle-aged, but perhaps only in
her early thirties. Her print dress and
sensible shoes made Elizabeth feel
overdressed in a linen traveling suit and
two-toned spectator pumps.
The parlor was clean and spare. It held a
sofa, two easy chairs, and a radio. There was
no sign of books or records. There
wasn't even a magazine on the coffee table.
The crucifix over the coal-burning fireplace
indicated that the Porters were Roman Catholic.
Elizabeth had often wondered who had arranged
everything for Arthur. Now she knew: the Catholic
Church.
"The little one's still at his nap. Would you like some
tea?"
"No thank you. I had gallons on the
train."
They both fell silent. Elizabeth's mind
had been filled with a thousand questions, but now she could not
remember one of them. Mrs. Porter stood in the
middle of the room like a stranger in her own home.
"Perhaps I could see Antony?" Elizabeth
finally managed.
A resigned look crossed Mrs.
Porter's face. "Well, if you don't mind
waking him. He can be cranky."
"I've not all that much time."
"The six o'clock train, is it? You should leave
here by half past five."
A cry from the second floor sent them both
rushing up the stairs. The baby was standing in his
crib, gripping the sides, bouncing and shaking it with
all his might. Elizabeth's heart leaped. He
was so big! She'd already missed so much of his
life! Mrs. Porter scooped him up, and he
clung to her, eyeing the stranger with suspicion.
"This is Elizabeth," said Mrs. Porter.
"I'm your mother," Elizabeth said.
With a grin, the toddler reached out and grabbed the
brim of her hat and tossed it to the floor. She
held her hands out to take him.
"Uhhh!" He started to cry and held on
to his foster mother even tighter.
"He has to be changed," Mrs. Porter
announced. "Do you want to do it?"
Mrs. Porter put him on the changing table
near the window. Gingerly, Elizabeth started
fumbling with the pins. The baby immediately began
to climb off the table.
"You have to hold him down with one hand," Mrs.
Porter explained impatiently.
Elizabeth had seen it done dozens of times
by friends and relatives. But how to unclasp the pins
with the baby squirming and wiggling?
"Hold him fast. He won't break."
After finally working the pins out, Elizabeth opened
the diaper to find a rancid mess. The
smell pushed her back, and she stepped on her
hat.
"Don't let go of him! Put the dirty
didy here." Mrs. Porter held up a pail.
"Shouldn't he get a bath?"
"Just wipe him. He gets one bath a day.
In the evening."
"Well, he needs one now." Elizabeth's
voice took on a firm edge. "Please draw
some water."
In a few minutes he was in the tub surrounded
by an armada of toy boats that Elizabeth had
brought with her in one of the packages. She knelt
on the floor next to the claw-footed tub and
tried to wash him while he slapped the water,
happily squealing and soaking her linen suit. But
whenever Mrs. Porter stepped out of the bathroom,
his smiles turned into anxious cries. She had
to hover in the doorway where he could constantly see
her.
Elizabeth had also brought him a new
wardrobe. As she dried him off, Mrs.
Porter inspected them.
"This is too small. That's too big. Have you
no idea of the size of an eighteen-month-old
child?"
Finally she approved a pair of dark wool
shorts and a striped turtleneck that Elizabeth
struggled to pull over his head. Her main problem,
however, proved to be his new white shoes. They
seemed big enough, but she could not fit his foot
into them.
"He keeps bunching up his toes!" Her exasperation was beginning to show. "You
do this," Mrs. Porter took over and
tickled the bottom of his foot. He giggled,
straightened out his foot, and she quickly slipped on
the shoe.
They all went out to the backyard. It was a
narrow stretch of grass bordered with rose bushes
and divided by a clothesline that ran from the house to the
garage near the alley in the back. Elizabeth,
still wet from the bath, sat on the ground with her son
and opened his other presents: a duck that rolled and
quacked, a wooden train with four cars and little
bells, a set of colored blocks carved with
numbers and letters, and a toy telephone. Every gift
went immediately into his mouth and then into the rose
bushes.
"And finally, I got you this!"
Elizabeth produced a red tin racing car with a
wind-up key. As her son reached for it, Mrs.
Porter snatched it away.
"The little one could cut himself on these edges," she
admonished Elizabeth. "And he could swallow the
key!"
The rest of the afternoon was spent with Elizabeth
trying to find ways to amuse her son while
Mrs. Porter watched over them both. The boy
soon tired of his new toys and returned to his
old favorites--a spoon and a metal pot.
Elizabeth realized she didn't know how to play
with him. When she picked him up, he wanted to be
let down. When she offered him one of the toys, he
turned to another. He was happy and smiling and
cuddly, but whenever she hugged him he would pull
away, often to run to Mrs. Porter. By the end
of the afternoon, she sat exhausted in a steel lawn
chair and watched him dig with his spoon in the rose
beds.
Suddenly, he started screaming. Elizabeth
lifted him up and Mrs. Porter came running
from the house.
"What happened?" she demanded.
"I don't know!"
The baby was pushing her away and reaching out for his
foster mother. "Mama! Mama!"
Elizabeth was dying.
Mrs. Porter took him in her arms.
"Poor little one. You have a thorn! There, there."
She kissed it.
"Dare, dare," he repeated, and snuggled his
head to her breast. With Elizabeth trailing along
behind, she carried him into the house and gave him a
bottle.
They sat in the parlor while Mrs. Porter
held her foster child in her lap and fed him mashed
peas and potatoes. It was growing late.
"Has he been healthy?" Elizabeth was
reduced to asking questions.
"Of course! Well, the tyke had a bout of
roseola, but the doctors said that's typical."
"And he eats well?"
"Of course. Usually the little fella gets a
bottle earlier," Mrs. Porter said with forced
patience. "But your visit's changed his routine
all round."
The tone of accusation was the last straw. "He
has a name, you know." Elizabeth's frustration
broke through. "Do you always call him little
one, tyke, fella? How about Antony?"
The two women glared at each other.
Elizabeth looked away first. "Do you need any
more money for his care?" She felt ashamed of her
anger.
"No," Mrs. Porter said curtly.
"Are you planning to take in more foster children?"
"Mrs. Pack, I'm not running a business!
I took in the little one, Antony, because"--she was
growing flushed, agitated--"because I can't have children of
my own. Do you know how long we'd have to wait
to adopt an infant of our own faith? So I
accepted the baby at Father Scallon's urging,
and he's become like my own! And now you're going
to take him away!" She started to cry.
"Take him away?" Elizabeth was stunned.
"I'm not going to do that."
"Then why'd you come? All this way from France?"
"I just wanted to see him!"
"And you don't want him? What kind of
woman are you?"
"My husband won't let me!" She started
to cry too. "I just wanted to look at him, know
that he really exists and let him know I love
him. But I'll never be able to change his diapers
or take care of him or protect him ..."
Elizabeth was sobbing now.
Mrs. Porter set Antony on the floor.
Through large and frightened eyes, the baby watched the
two weeping women embrace--the barren comforting the
bereft.

Elizabeth looked back at Alice
Porter and her son waving good-bye from the platform
of the Bath railway station. She had found him, but
could not escape the sensation that she was also losing him.
More than ever, she felt determined to have a family
all her own. As the train plunged into the darkness
of a tunnel, she remembered a line from
Chaucer's "Wife of Bath's Tale":

"I mean to give the last years of my life
To the acts and satisfactions of a wife."

Chapter 12

Queen Anne's Gate, London--
September 9, 1937
"Her code name will be Cynthia and we will be
using that name for the project as a whole," Captain
Lance explained. He stood in Admiral
Sinclair's study while the rest--Menzies,
Denniston, and Knox--sat in armchairs, and
C relaxed behind his desk smoking a pipe.
"You talk as if it were all decided," said
Knox. "I thought this meeting was to take the
decision whether to proceed."
"Quite," C agreed.
Menzies could see the meeting getting off the
track. "What has your research developed on
Mrs. Pack's background?" he intervened.
"Yes, what is she?" C asked. "An
adventuress? A romantic? A libertine?
Political? What's her motivation?"
"She's an uninhibited American girl with a
certain zest for excitement," Captain Lance
responded. "She rides the hunt extremely
well, for example."
"That's to her credit," C observed.
"Has a bit of a romantic streak, I'd
say," Denniston remarked.
"That's a dangerous combination," Knox argued.
"The right man comes along and she's doubled!"
"That's a mite simplistic," Captain
Lance replied. "She comes from a good family.
Her late father was a distinguished Marine Corps
officer and her mother is a socially prominent
Republican. Mrs. Pack worked with the Red
Cross in the Spanish Civil War."
"On which side?" Dilly probed.
"Franco."
"Is she pro-Fascist?"
"She worked with the Scottish Ambulance Corps
helping the Republican side in Madrid,"
Captain Lance added. "I don't think her
politics are clear."
"That's my point," Knox insisted. "We're
taking a risk that's entirely unnecessary."
"Unnecessary?" C looked at him quizzically.
"We've recently broken the Enigma,"
Knox declared.
"Wait a minute, Dilly," Denniston
said. "The most you can say is that we've peeked
into the machine used by Franco, but only
sporadically when the Spanish
operators foul up. And that device is little more
than the old Scherbius machine. It's
primitive compared to the Enigma used by the German
high command."
"But she could alert the Germans to our effort
to penetrate the Enigma. As of now, we've
given the impression that we believe it can't be
done."
"Yes, we have been effective at that,"
Denniston noted dryly.
"Are you saying she's a German plant?"
Lance challenged Knox.
"No," he backed down, "only that by bumbling
around with the Poles she might show our hand."
"Well there's damn all in our hand at this
point," Denniston complained.
"We'd run the same risk with any agent,"
Menzies noted. "And I don't see how we can
simply ignore Bill Stephenson's
recommendations."
"When are you seeing her?" C directed his question
at Captain Lance.
"Tomorrow for lunch at Wilton's," he
replied. "Stephenson has asked to be
included."
C frowned. "He'll be asking to move into my
house next."
"Including him might be a good idea,"
Menzies observed. "Share the responsibility
and all that."
"I take your point. All right." C
banged out the cinders of his pipe, which had been dead
for some time. "You can go ahead and recruit Mrs.
Pack, but only as a cooptee, and only after
satisfying yourself that she's not pro-German. I
don't want you saying anything to her about the
Enigma, until we've seen how she works out."
"What then shall I tell her she's to do?"
"Oh, I'm sure you and Bill Stephenson
will think of something." And he waved his pipe in a
gesture that meant that the problem was now theirs.

Wellbeck Maternity Hospital,
London--September 10, 1937
"Positive thinking, the power of positive
thinking," Elizabeth repeated to herself as she
approached the narrow white-faced house on
Wellbeck Street. The nurses took her
to an examination room where she disrobed and put on
a long gown. She sat on the table
praying silently until the doctor came in.
"Mrs. Pack," Dr. MacCall greeted
her warmly. "How have you been feeling?"
"Fine. No more pain. I even had a
period."
"That's a good sign. Now we've two
choices, but I thought we'd start with the Rubin
test. Lie yourself back and put your feet in the
stirrups. We're going to place some air,
nitrogen to be precise, into your uterus to see
if it passes through your fallopian tubes."
The nurse came in wheeling a cylinder of
gas. Dr. MacCall adjusted the knobs and
then attached a hose to the tank and bent over
to insert the other end into her.
"Try to relax and this shouldn't hurt. At least
not too much."
It felt like making love to Arthur, painful and
abrupt.
"That's good."
The doctor turned the valve and she could feel
cold gas rushing inside her. Amazed, she
watched her abdomen swell as if she were
pregnant. Her stomach began to ache and then
cramp.
"It's starting to hurt."
"That's enough, then. Hold in the gas and stand
yourself up."
Elizabeth felt ridiculous, embarrassed.
She tensed the muscles she hadn't discovered
until she met John Leche.
"All right," Dr. MacCall said, "does
it hurt in your shoulders?"
She looked at him like he was joking. "No.
But shoulders aren't usually considered
reproductive organs, are they, Doctor?"
He did not laugh. "Try taking a deep
breath. Still no pain?"
She shook her head.
He checked her stomach; it remained distended.
"Try bobbing up and down a bit."
She bounced on her toes.
"Still no pain?"
"No. But that's good, isn't it?"
"All right, you can sit back on the table."
The nurse extracted the tube and the gas escaped. Elizabeth felt increasingly
nervous. Dr. MacCall explained the next test.
"It's called a uterosalpingogram. Really,
that's just a fancy name for an X ray.
It should tell us everything we need to know."
The nurse reappeared with the largest syringe
Elizabeth had ever seen. The needle was over a
foot long.
"I'll not stab you," she said reassuringly.
"I'll thread it through the opening in your cervix
to put dye into the uterus."
"It'll help the X ray take clearer
pictures," added Dr. MacCall.
Elizabeth had to lie on the table for some time
while the dye spread into her tissues. She
tried to continue her positive thoughts, but
worries were taking over. Had she failed the
Rubin test? She must have, or she wouldn't need
an X ray. Or maybe the test was
inconclusive. Stop it, stop it, she told
herself. You're just borrowing trouble. You're going
to be fine. You're going to have babies! But why
didn't the doctor say anything? Maybe there
wasn't anything yet to say. The questions and answers
chased each other around and around until the nurse
came to wheel her away.
She had never had an X ray. The nurse
rolled her into a lead-lined chamber with a huge
spidery apparatus that looked like something out of the
Frankenstein movie. Elizabeth was moved
onto a table directly under a large bulb
shrouded by metal baffles. Except for her
abdomen, she was covered chin to foot with a lead
cape.
"Be still! Hold your breath." The nurse fled
the room.
Everything was silent except the whirring of a fan
somewhere in the X-ray machine. Then she heard a
buzz, saw the bulb glow dully and quickly go out.
"That's it." Dr. MacCall came through the
door. "You can get dressed now."
"When will you know?"
"It'll take a bit of time to develop."
He pulled a large metal plate from under the
table. "I suggest you go off for a fine lunch and not
worry. I'll leave a message for you at the
hotel as soon as I've got the results."
As she got dressed again in her wool
gabardine Chanel suit with white piping,
Elizabeth wanted to sing. The doctor had said not
to worry! He'd call with the results! If he
expected bad news, he would never use the
telephone. That was not the English way. She
tried to contain her joy; it still had to be
confirmed. But the sense of relief allowed
Elizabeth to follow the doctor's orders and
look forward to her lunch with Captain Lance at
Wilton's. She was extremely curious about
him. What a welcome change it was going to be
to focus her attention on someone other than herself.

Wilton's was a small, dark,
wood-paneled restaurant just off Jermyn
Street in St. James. A lovely
leaded-glass skylight illuminated a display of
game and autumn flowers. Elizabeth was shown
to a comfortable nook on the right of the narrow room.
She was surprised to find that Captain Lance was not
alone.
"Elizabeth, I'd like you to meet William
Stephenson." Captain Lance introduced her
to a small wiry man with bright intense eyes.
"How do you do." He stood up and offered his
hand. The accent was American, but his suit said
Savile Row. "Please call me Bill."
Elizabeth did not let her surprise show.
She took her place and joined them in a sherry
and a cigarette.
"Do forgive me for getting you here under false
pretenses," Captain Lance continued, "but I
wanted the two of you to meet."
"I'm delighted"--Elizabeth smiled
sweetly--"but why?"
Lance looked uncomfortable and Bill
Stephenson laughed. "I like your directness."
"Mr. Stephenson is the owner of Sheperton
Studios."
"Don't tell me I'm about to be
"discovered" for the movies?"
"We've been very impressed by your
activities in Spain," Stephenson
explained.
Elizabeth looked sharply at Captain
Lance. "You can't be referring to San
Sebasti@an, and if you're talking about
Madrid, the ambulance corps people were far braver
than I. Any film should be about them. They're still
there. I'm here."
"We're also interested in your work in
Valencia," Stephenson added.
What was he talking about? She didn't know
whether to blush or ...
"You helped get many of our friends out of jail,"
Captain Lance prompted her.
"Did I?" Elizabeth leaned back and
drained her glass. This was not about movies. It was
time to turn the table. She summoned a smile and
lowered her voice. "Why don't you tell me more
about yourself, Bill."
As they ordered lunch, Bill Stephenson
explained how he had been raised in Vancouver,
British Columbia, and had been a flier in the
Great War.
"Bloody ace, he was," Captain Lance
interjected.
Elizabeth remembered reading his name in
connection with several air races while following
Amelia Earhart's exploits.
"Yes," he confirmed, "I won the Linzer
Cup a few years back, or at least one of
my airplanes did."
By the time they had worked through Stephenson's
curriculum vitae, they were well into their main
course. Elizabeth set aside her venison and
asked, "So how did I come to your attention?"
She was impressed with Stephenson, but still
mystified about what he wanted.
He took a bite of his turbot. "I
travel a great deal on the Continent. It's
plain to see that Hitler and Mussolini are on the
road to war, yet our countries remain fast
asleep. I know Prime Minister Chamberlain,
knew him when he was in business. He admires
the dictators' efficiency, I'm afraid. And
hates bolshevism, which is fair enough. But
he's deadly mistaken to think he can use
Hitler against Russia or achieve peace through
appeasement."
He hadn't come close to answering her question.
Then Captain Lance spoke up. "What are your
views, Mrs. Pack?"
"Wives of diplomats are not allowed to have
"views,"" she demurred.
"You've something of a reputation for being
sympathetic to the Fascists," he persisted.
What on earth was this all about, Elizabeth
wondered, some kind of security interview? If
she were English, she'd be insulted by so blatant
an invasion of her privacy. But, in fact, she
was too curious to take offense.
"I can't imagine how anyone got that
impression," she replied. "I saw nothing
to recommend either side in Spain. Franco's
bombing is barbaric. The so-called
Republicans are equally capable of
atrocities, especially against each other. I
certainly never understood British policy.
London recognizes the Republic, but
plays footsie under the table with Franco."
Stephenson wore a wry smile. "It's
been a muddle like everything else. I think
Whitehall's policy in Spain is to encourage
both sides to kill each other off."
"That's a high moral position, particularly
when women and children are caught in the cross-fire."
She drew out a cigarette. The waiter hurried
over to light it.
"Look"--she exhaled--"I don't know much
about the Reds except that one once saved my
life and another probably would have killed me.
As for the Fascists, they're despicable and
ridiculous, pretending to be the wave of the
future by taking their countries back to the Dark
Ages. They march around with phony pomp and
circumstance, wearing comic opera uniforms,
addressing one another with made up titles like
Sturmbandf@uhrer. The Nazis claim their
gods are Thor and Woden, and Mussolini
tells his blackshirt rabble they're Romans.
It's a burlesque!"
"If only Hitler were Charlie Chaplin,"
Stephenson sighed. "And Mussolini Harpo
Marx. It's a worldwide epidemic. Here in
Britain, it's not just Oswald Mosley,
fascism's infected half the royal family.
And there's Action Fran@caise in France, the
Iron Cross in Romania, T@oj@o's
militarists in Japan. I was just in Warsaw,
where I heard that Jews, can you imagine, are
joining the Polish Silver Shirts! In the
United States, Father Coughlin claims over
seven million members!"
Elizabeth had once listened to the "radio
priest" broadcasting from the Shrine of the Little
Flower in Royal Oak, Michigan. He
talked like a lunatic. She was unaware that his
influence had grown so great. "It's a dire
picture, I agree," she responded, "but
what does it have to do with me?"
Stephenson and Captain Lance looked at
each other. Something in their glance indicated that she
was graduating to the next form.
"What Mr. Stephenson is about to tell you
is extremely confidential,"
Captain Lance warned.
"Should we be discussing it here," Elizabeth
teased, "in a public place?"
Captain Lance stiffened. "My dear, the
Queen Mother dines here!"
"Captain," Stephenson intervened, "perhaps you
could give us some privacy?"
Lance nodded and departed so promptly his spoon
remained sticking out of his pudding. The waiter
cleared their plates.
"I'm not in government," Stephenson began
gravely, "so, what I'm about to say does not
involve "official" secrets. But the
unofficial story is harrowing enough. You know
British defenses are in a muddle--
insufficient men and paltry equipment, mostly out
of date."
He paused as the waiter poured coffee, then
lowered his voice. "The secret services are in
a similar mess."
Elizabeth's eyes widened at the mention of the
unmentionable. She had once shocked Arthur
by asking if there were any spies at the British
embassy in Madrid. "Don't raise such
questions," he had replied. "Don't even think of
them. Do you want to ruin me?"
"SIS has been starved for resources,"
Stephenson continued. "They're staffed
by second-rate navy officers who were sacked by the
admiralty in the budget cuts of 1933. The
chief of service can't decide if Germany or
Russia is the enemy. Not that it matters;
we've no assets in either country that are worth a
damn. And when the SIS does happen upon
important information about Hitler's plans,
Mr. Chamberlain doesn't want to hear about
it."
"I'm not being obstinate"--Elizabeth shook
her head--"but I don't see where I come in."
"Are you aware of the Walrus Club in New
York?"
Elizabeth looked baffled.
"No matter," he continued, "they're a group
of private citizens who see the coming danger and
are trying to wake up the American government.
Many of us here are trying to do the same."
"You mean like Winston Churchill?"
"He's a good friend, and very important to our
cause."
"But he's not even in the cabinet."
Stephenson looked around. No one was in
earshot. "He has a special relationship with the
king, who has placed him on the Imperial Defense Committee."
"From what you say, that doesn't seem to have done
much good."
"But we're making a start. Winston's
developed his own sources of information, his own
networks. We collaborate with like-minded chaps
in the SIS and Whitehall. We've even come
to be called the Baker Street Irregulars."
He allowed himself a chuckle, then turned
serious again. "Poland's the key. It's caught
between sworn enemies, Nazi Germany and Red
Russia. Hitler can't attack France or
England without first securing its eastern front, and
that means dealing with Poland. And he can't invade
Russia without going through Poland. Our
ambassador in Warsaw's hopeless. The SIS
has virtually no resources there except one
man. We'd like you to keep your eyes and ears open
and pass on anything of significance."
Elizabeth felt completely confused. "Mr.
Stephenson, I don't know where to begin! First of
all, I live in France, not Poland!"
"Hasn't your husband told you?"
"Told me what?"
"He's put in for a new posting. It's being
arranged for him to go to Poland."
"Why Poland? He speaks Spanish!"
"Because we want you there."
Elizabeth was outraged. "How dare you?"
"Your husband took the initiative. We
merely made the choice in the hope that you'd
cooperate."
"We? I really don't know who you
represent! You say you're not working with the
government! You say you're working against it! The
Baker Street Irregulars could all be a
bunch of Fascists or Communists for all I
know!"
"It'd all be on the up and up. We'd
arrange your introduction to the SIS station chief
in Warsaw. You'd pass your information to the
government through him."
"I'm perplexed." She took out another
cigarette. The anger was dissipating, but her
suspicion remained. "You say you're not in
secret service but you're asking me to work for
them?"
"Not exactly, merely cooperate, like I do
myself. It would be of enormous value to the service
and to the crown."
Elizabeth could not believe what she was hearing.
Was this how the vaunted British secret service
recruited its agents? If so, they were hard
up. She looked at Stephenson. He was
deadly earnest. She knew she could do what
Bill was asking. A grin broke over her
face. "I can't think of anything more thrilling
..."
Stephenson allowed himself to smile as well.
"... except starting a family. And that's
what I've promised myself I would do."
"Please, don't be hasty." It was
Stephenson's turn to look surprised. "Think
on it. Here's my card."
"Bill, I simply can't picture myself
skulking around dark alleys with a baby at my
breast."
"It wouldn't have to be that way, I assure you."
"Sorry"--she stuffed out her cigarette--
"I'm flattered, but my mind's made up."

Elizabeth returned to the Savoy feeling
excited and pleased. It was an honor to be asked
to serve the crown, and she was even more proud of herself
for saying no. Opening the door to her room, she found an envelope on the
threshold. It had to be from Dr. MacCall. She tossed her hat on
the bed and stepped out on the terrace. The trees
on the embankment of the Thames were turning their
autumn hues. Up river, the houses of
Parliament and Big Ben stood outlined against the
afternoon sky. Taking a deep breath she slit the
envelope open with her nail. All of her hopes
were contained on the little slip of paper inside. She
read the message:

For Mrs. Pack:
Have results of your tests. Best to discuss them
in person. Rest assured, you are all right.
Call for an appointment at Bloomsbury
4691.
Dr. MacCall

She looked up. Little had changed. A barge
continued its stately struggle against the current.
The traffic on the Victoria Embankment
proceeded to flow endlessly onto
Blackfriars Bridge. Big Ben began
to chime three o'clock.
But her whole life was different. If Dr.
MacCall had good news, why would he need
to see her? She caught a reflection of herself in
the door to the terrace. Her body looked trim,
healthy, and yes, beautiful. And inside?
Hollow. Empty. Worthless. She hated herself.
Her feelings imploded. She turned toward the
edge of the terrace. What was the point of anything
now?
It was a long way down to the river. A fresh
breeze came up, tossing her hair and snatching
at the paper in her hand. If you can't give
life, she thought, weren't you already dead? Who would
care, really? Arthur? Her mother? Her son
didn't even know who she was. A moment of pain
could stop a lifetime of heartache. Yet as she
stood there, deadened by shock, feeling lost and
hopeless, a corner of her mind said no.
Don't. Make the call.
Elizabeth read the message again. The
doctor had left his number. She went inside
her room and picked up the telephone. What could
he possibly tell her that she didn't already
know? Fate had settled her future. When the
operator came on the line, Elizabeth asked
to be put through to the number of William
Stephenson.


Chapter 13

Central Railway Station, Warsaw--
October 14, 1937
Wrapped in a fur coat and enveloped in a
cloud of steam from the Nord Express,
Elizabeth descended onto the platform at the
Warsaw Central station. Arthur had stayed in
London for briefings and a routine medical
checkup, while she came ahead to prepare the
flat that she had rented sight-unseen through a friend.
She was grateful that the passport control officer
from the embassy was there to meet her. He was a
large, avuncular Irishman with a florid face
by the name of Jack Shelly. His easy manner
helped move her quickly through customs
formalities.
Elizabeth felt tired, not so much from the
journey, but from her effort to absorb everything she
saw and read on the trip. Even through the
narrow perspective of the train window, she had
begun to understand the dynamics of the crisis looming
in Europe. France had seemed typically
sunny and self-satisfied until the train
approached the German border. There, the
enormous damage of the Great War was still visible:
ruined villages, abandoned farms, and vast
cemeteries that carpeted the hillsides with a
million white crosses--one for each
Frenchman who had died in the slaughter. No
wonder the French were not anxious to fight again; the
wounds of the last war had not yet healed.
Part of Elizabeth's voyage through Germany had
taken place in the dark, but from the glimpses she
had caught of the towns and cities, the Third
Reich teemed with activity. And the military was in
style everywhere: conductors, trainmen, customs
officials, passport officers, border
police, traffic police, postmen, waiters,
not to mention the vast majority of male passengers,
were all resplendent in uniforms of every color and
hue. Blue, green, olive, gray, tan,
ocher, black, and white. Elizabeth wished that
she owned the German concession on jackboots,
or failing that, brass buttons.
She had been struck by the irony that twenty
years after the Great War, among the victors,
Britain and France, the military was utterly out
of fashion. But in Germany, where militarism had
brought humiliation and defeat, it was all the rage.
Among the Allies, the war was widely seen as not
having been worth it. For the Germans, it
obviously was not yet over.
With the dawn had come the Polish frontier. As
she looked out at the broad and surprisingly
empty landscape, Elizabeth understood why the
Poles felt so vulnerable. From her reading, she
had learned that this featureless plain, which stretched from
the dikes of Holland to the Ural Mountains of
Russia, had been the bane and glory of
Polish history. Armies of invaders--
Celts, Goths, Vandals, Slavs,
Saxons, Rus, Teutons, Tatars,
Balts, Swedes, Austrians, and French--had
swept through the territory, shaping the Polish character
and creating a legacy of heroism, misery, and
destruction.
Over the last thousand years, Poland had from time
to time been a vast nation. In 1018 it reached
farther west than Berlin and as far south as
the gates of Vienna. By 1634 it extended from the
shores of the Black Sea to the Gulf of Finland.
Its eastern border lay well beyond Smolensk,
on the banks of the Donets only a few
hundred miles from Moscow. But for the three
hundred years before 1918, Poland had ceased
to exist. Its lands were divided among Austria,
Germany, and Russia. Poland was a new-old
country, rising out of the ashes of the Great War and the
Bolshevik Revolution. It had been reborn
a democracy, under the charismatic leadership of the
statesman and musical genius Paderewski, but
now he was gone and Poland had fallen into the grip
of a military government.
From the train window, the broad and open Polish
countryside might have reminded Elizabeth of the
American Middle West, except that it lacked
the feeling of elbow room, despite the distant
horizons. Perhaps it was because the earth was not the fresh
black loam of Minnesota or Iowa, but instead
had the tired gray look of centuries of
cultivation.
Warsaw, however, came as a surprise. She
had expected a city dark and somber, discounting
remarks by friends that the Polish capital was "the
Paris of the north." After all, no one ever
called Paris "the Warsaw of the south." But the
wide, tree-lined avenues did resemble the
Boulevard Haussmann and the nineteenth century
neobaroque and neoclassical buildings draped
with brightly colored awnings did remind her of the
City of Light--with one important exception.
From the moment she had emerged from the wedding cake
railway station and climbed into a Chevrolet
taxi, she sensed an energy that made Warsaw
feel more like Chicago or New York.
"No one knows why, but Poland's in the middle
of an economic boom," Jack Shelly
confirmed as he joined Elizabeth in the rear
seat. With the back of the cabriolet top lowered,
they set off down Jerusalem Street. The
massive afternoon crowds did not stroll
leisurely as they might in Madrid or
Paris, but bustled along the sidewalks with
urgency and determination. Apart from the old men in
military caps who lined up to shine shoes at the
corner of Marsza@lkowska Street, there was little
sign of the Great Depression.
The new buildings going up all over town
looked very moderne. The huge
Prudential Insurance building that towered over the
city reminded Elizabeth of Fritz Lang's
Metropolis. Happy and excited to be away
from the carnage of Spain and the somnambulance of
England, Elizabeth felt she had arrived in a
place where, for good or ill, the future was being
created.
Soon they came to Nowy @swiat, the New
Street, which, Jack Shelly explained, was
actually the oldest major thoroughfare in the city.
Lined with restaurants, nightclubs, and
fashionable shops with bright orange awnings, it
connected the medieval heart of Warsaw to the
stretch of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century
palaces that had become Embassy Row.
The taxi turned right on Nowy @swiat, then
after a few blocks, veered left on Wiejska
until it reached Ulica Frascati, a gated
street not far from the Polish parliament. Turning
left again toward the river Vistula, the taxi
stopped in front of the Villa Frascati, a
brand-new eight-story apartment house across from a
small park. Built of red brick and glass with
terraces and doors of varnished teak, the building
appeared to Elizabeth like a collaboration between
Frank Lloyd Wright and Walter Gropius.
When she stepped inside her fourth-floor apartment
and saw the crimson wall-to-wall carpet and the
shimmering silver walls, she decided her
Spanish and French Provincial furniture
had to stay in St.-Jean-de-Luz.
The shocking color scheme excited her. She
was in a new country and a new city with a new, if
secret, job to do. She would surround herself with
only the new. The flat would be decorated with the
most modern furnishings. She would dress in the
latest French styles. Her life was off to a
fresh start. The Nazis had better look out.
She would be the best spy ever! But what,
Elizabeth wondered, as she looked around the
vacant rooms, did a freshly minted secret
agent do first?
"You must make your calls before the end of the
week," the passport control officer said, handing
her a list. "Lady Kennard has placed you on
her schedule for Thursday at three-thirty."

Armed with her engraved calling cards and wearing
regulation white gloves, a veiled hat, and
solid-color dresses that demurely
covered her knees when she sat down,
Elizabeth Pack set out to introduce herself to the
wives of all the other officers in the embassy.
By the time she arrived at the ambassador's
residence on Thursday afternoon, she felt like her
kidneys were floating in a sea of Earl Grey
tea. The embassy wives seemed to be a
decent lot, but extremely circumspect if
not altogether cowed. The political counselor's
wife, Mrs. Norton, who sipped whiskey
while Elizabeth had her tea, made clear that
the social tone of the embassy was set by the
ambassador's wife, Lady Kennard.
"As you're both Americans," Mrs.
Norton allowed sullenly, "you shall undoubtedly
become her pet."
The British ambassador's residence was
formerly the palace of a Russian nobleman who
fled Warsaw in 1919 during the Polish war of
independence. The marble foyer, with its twin
circular staircases and grand chandelier, looked
like it had been designed to intimidate bumpkins
from the provinces and certainly achieved that effect
on Elizabeth. She was shown to a sitting room
off the garden where she nervously waited for a quarter
of an hour for Lady Kennard to appear.
Elizabeth dared to hope that since they both were
Americans who had married into British
diplomatic service, the ambassador's wife
might be a kindred spirit. When she finally made her
entrance, Elizabeth steeled herself. Lady
Kennard looked like a Biedermeier sofa with
pearls.
As they began their chat, the butler wheeled in a
giant silver samovar. It had been polished so
brightly that the reflection of the light slanting in from
the garden made Elizabeth squint.
"And what do you think of the Poles, my dear?"
Lady Kennard was asking.
"I haven't actually met any yet,
except my housekeeper. She seems nice, but
I can't really communicate with her. After living so
long in Spain and France where I speak the
language, it comes as a shock not to be able
to count, or say please and thank you."
"I quite agree. I can't imagine why anyone
would want to learn a word of such a barbaric
language." Lady Kennard seemed
to deliberately miss her point. "Rest
assured, anyone worth talking to in this
godforsaken place speaks English or French."
The ambassador's wife slowly sipped her
tea, all the while giving Elizabeth close inspection. "You should be warned
about the Poles. They consider themselves very romantic, but in point of
fact they're merely frivolous and
light-headed."
This was not the polite small talk Elizabeth
had expected.
"And don't let their courtliness and formality
fool you," Lady Kennard continued. "They're
wild as Cossacks, madly rushing around having
affairs with one another's spouses, then dueling in
Lazienki Park or throwing themselves off the
Poniatowski Bridge. As representatives
of the British Empire, it's essential that we
not be drawn into this unseemly maelstrom. Our
task is to maintain standards of dignity and
decorum even if it makes us rather unpopular."
She set down her teacup and fastened her gaze
intently on Elizabeth. "Is it true that in
Spain you participated in a bullfight?"
"I was a rejonadora." She flushed with
embarrassment. "It was an honor ...."
"There'll be no such foolishness here. And no
dancing on tables at nightclubs either. As
Americans serving the crown, you and I bear an
especially weighty responsibility,
particularly with the other members of this embassy,
to demonstrate the highest standards of comportment.
I may have the title of "Lady" Kennard, but
others in our tight little circle only wait for the
day that I commit some egregious American
gaffe. I shall not tolerate any behavior on your
part that reflects badly on me merely because
we're countrymen."
Elizabeth felt her anger rising. "You can be
assured, Lady Kennard ..."
"I certainly hope so." The ambassador's
wife stood up. Their "chat" was over.

His Excellency, the ambassador, Lord
Kennard was not an improvement. When Elizabeth
met him at an embassy reception under the huge
chandelier in the foyer, he shook her hand
perfunctorily and said something like, "Well
humbard. Izt ohh ohh rye?" He was trying
to say "Welcome aboard. Is everything all
right?" She understood why the embassy staff
called him Mumbles. It was not an
affectionate term.
The reception was like all the other embassy
functions she attended in the first few weeks; there
were few if any Poles in attendance. It was as
if British embassy officials believed their
primary mission was to entertain themselves and occasionally
diplomats from other foreign embassies. Being
absent, the Poles were always the butt of jokes.
At her first embassy dinner at the home of
Clifford Norton, the political counselor,
he asked his guests if they'd heard the one about the
Poles and the elephant. Even those who had were
obliged to say no.
"Well, the League of Nations commissioned a
series of studies on the elephant," he
began. "The English promptly submitted a
short work on the subject of "Hunting the
Elephant.""
The guests, mostly subordinates from the
Embassy, tapped the table and said, "Hear,
hear."
"The Germans," Norton continued, "wrote
a ten-volume work on the physiology of
elephants."
Everyone laughed dutifully.
"And the Poles submitted a manifesto
entitled, "Elephants and the Polish Question.""
Elizabeth found the ladies of the embassy very
considerate. They invited her to all their social
events, mostly teas and bridge parties. But she
also sensed a wariness that only wives can generate
toward unattached females. The one friend she
made in the first weeks was Jack Shelly, the
passport control officer, who had met her at
the train station and seemed as far from the center of
influence in the embassy as one could get. A
bachelor, whose girlfriend Sonia lived in
Vienna, Shelly soon became her regular
escort to diplomatic occasions and even took
her to the movies to see The Good Earth and
Camille. He was charming and amusing, and to her
relief their relationship remained entirely
circumspect.
Most of the time, Elizabeth concentrated on furnishing her apartment. She
discovered that she could find virtually anything she wanted in Warsaw, and
if they didn't have it, they would gladly make it.
And the prices were incredibly cheap! She bought a
stainless steel and leather sofa created by Le
Corbusier, and a pair of so-called
Barcelona chairs by Mies Van der Rohe.
She found Polish copies of a dining room
suite allegedly designed by Marcel Breuer.
Her bedroom was rebuilt to accommodate a
platform for a half-round bed backed by a
half-round headboard and flanked by half-round
light sconces. It made her feel romantic
and slightly naughty like Jean Harlow.
When she was done, the apartment was a splendor of
white wool and silk, black lacquered wood,
silver walls and drapes, crimson carpets,
and black and red geometric accents for the doors
and ceilings. Elizabeth was very proud of herself
until Mrs Norton, visiting for tea,
inquired as to whether she had intentionally adopted the
color scheme of the Nazi party.
Once the apartment was complete, Elizabeth
lapsed into frustration. Arthur had been delayed in
London. She still had met no Poles, apart from
decorators and furniture salesmen.
Moreover, she had heard nothing whatsoever from the
British secret service. She'd made a
commitment to Bill Stephenson, persuaded
Arthur, with some difficulty, that Warsaw was his
best assignment, and girded herself for whatever
ordeals lay ahead. Then nothing. Only a
feckless round of dinner parties cut off from the real
life of Warsaw.
She knew that a splendid life was out there.
On her way to some stultifying embassy event,
she would see horse-drawn carriages pulled
up in front of marble palaces. Footmen would be
helping ladies in sable cloaks and full-length
ball gowns descend onto red carpets that
stretched across the snow. Their escorts were often
uniformed in colorful tunics and capes of bright
blue and scarlet, or green and gold, with white
sashes and swords sheathed in silver scabbards.
Through her car window, Elizabeth glimpsed the
gaiety and romance of Warsaw society, but
night after night she was stuck with the secondhand
life of diplomats. And while the embassy people
were pleasant to her, she felt like an outsider in a
clique of outsiders.
On a snowy night in early December,
Elizabeth was invited to a dinner dance at the
home of the American ambassador, Anthony
Biddle, where she was seated next to a young Polish
official.
"Count Lubienski @a votre
service." He bowed and brushed her gloved hand
with his lips as a footman drew back her
chair. With an approving glance he took in her
long clinging gown with its plunging neckline and
full skirt. The count was tall and spare with bright
blue eyes, long sandy hair, and prominent
Slavic cheekbones. His uniform glittered with
decorations, which Lubienski explained he had
earned in the horse cavalry. Elizabeth felt
a surge of excitement. This man is madly
attractive, she thought. Learn something about him,
even if it's only the name of his horse!
"And your unit is stationed near Warsaw?" she
asked as they descended from the dining salon to a
small ballroom for the first dance. It was
impolite, she knew, to ask a count what he
did. In Spain, at least, counts often couldn't
understand the question, since they generally did nothing at
all.
He smiled easily. "My unit is near
Brest, but I am here in the Foreign Ministry."
"That must be terribly dreary after dashing all
over the countryside on horseback!" she
exclaimed.
"Not at all!" Count Lubienski
responded. The music drifted down from a
chamber group playing above them in an alcoved
balcony. "I have the honor to serve as the
personal assistant of the foreign minister,
Colonel Beck."
"What luck!"
"Not really, we were in the cavalry together." He
began to move with familiarity to one of Chopin's
waltzes.
"So you're terribly important, then." She
smiled her most dazzling smile and leaned her
head back to let her eyes catch the light from the
chandeliers.
"No, not exactly." The count tried to appear
modest, but looked very pleased. "But I must deal
with matters of great delicacy," he admitted.
"I don't doubt you do." Other dancers had
crowded onto the floor and were beginning to collide
with them. "Poland is in such a dangerous
predicament," she added earnestly, "caught between
Stalin and Hitler."
"The Bolsheviks are a menace, yes, but we
don't worry about Hitler."
"You're the only ones in Europe who
don't!"
"Well, we understand him," he said
reassuringly.
"You sympathize with the Nazis?" Elizabeth
made herself look scandalized. She spun away
and sat on one of the chairs to the side of the dance
floor. The count followed her.
"Some do, of course," the count hastened
to explain. "But that's not what I meant. We
feel we can"--he paused--"anticipate his
actions."
"Then you must be mind readers," she said,
accepting a cigarette.
"Something like that." He lit it, and in the flame,
his eyes gleamed as brightly as the medals on his
chest. She could feel his glance burrowing into the
cleavage between her breasts.
"And what," she exhaled, "is the great
Reichsf@uhrer thinking that's so reassuring?"
"Reassuring to Poland," the count qualified
her question. Then he paused as if he wondered
whether to continue.
Elizabeth gazed at him warmly,
expectantly, insistently.
"He's told his top aides"--his voice
became more confidential--"that Germany's need for
living space, Lebensraum, can only be
achieved by force. But his target is not Poland.
It's Austria and Czechoslovakia."
To Elizabeth, the rest of the evening was a blur.
She danced and made witty conversation and flirted
shamelessly with Count Lubienski, but all the time,
her mind was going over every word, every nuance of what he
had said. She had gleaned her first bit of
intelligence, and she was determined to report it, in
detail, to the British government the very next
day.


Chapter 14

The British Embassy, Warsaw--
November, 29 1937
Lord Kennard's normally glazed eyes
appeared to widen as Elizabeth related the story
of her conversation with Count Lubienski.
"I thought I should get this information into official
channels as quickly as possible," she proudly
concluded.
The ambassador sat like a lump behind his
massive Edwardian desk. He was so silent
that, while his office overlooked the garden
in the rear of the embassy, she could still hear the
traffic on Nowy @swiat.
"Madeh," he finally spoke. "I thochou
game begause zovezome dif gully sed
lingin," which Elizabeth translated as "My
dear, I thought you came because you've had some
difficulty settling in."
"You shouldn't trouble your pretty head about such
things," she understood him to say. "If you want
to be active, time on your hands and all that, take
up charity work. That's my advice." Which sounded more
like "Thasmy device."
The next thing she knew, Elizabeth was standing
outside his door in the hall. Undaunted, she
marched down the corridor to the other end where
Clifford Norton, the political counselor,
had his office. He listened respectfully as she
again described her exchange with Lubienski.
"Elizabeth"--he smiled--"that bit about using
force to gain Lebensraum is in Mein
Kampf. It's hardly a bulletin."
"But what about Hitler aiming at Austria and
Czechoslovakia?"
"That's been in the rumor mill for ages.
Hitler's an Austrian! Most of the border
area of Czechoslovakia is full of ethnic
Germans. There's really nothing new in what he
said, I'm afraid." His voice suggested he was
trying to be kind.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks growing flushed.
"I've been a complete ass."
"Not complete." Norton tried to make it a
joke. "But the ambassador's given you sound
advice. My wife would help, I'm sure,
should you want to do charity work with unfortunates."

"Pull!" she commanded.
The clay pigeon rose no more than six
feet before Elizabeth blew it to powder. She
shattered the second skeet, crossing from right
to left, directly in front of her.
She stood with Jack Shelly on the banks
of the Vistula firing out over the water. After her
morning of humiliation, he was treating her to skeet
shooting and lunch at the embassy's lodge, which was
located on the river south of the city.
Elizabeth cracked open her Purdy
12-gauge, popped out the smoking shells, and
quickly pushed in two new ones. A biting wind was
beginning to stir the leafless trees.
"Pull!" she shouted again.
This time the skeet came at her from the left.
She took it down in one shot, then burst the
next one almost the moment it was launched.
"You're really something today," Jack Shelly
marveled. "That's sixteen in a row!"
"The secret is to point, not aim." She
shook the spent shells onto the ground. "It also
helps to want to kill."
He raised his eyebrows. "Let's go in
to lunch and you can tell Uncle Jack all about
it."
Over a hot, thick borscht, she repeated
Lubienski's remarks and the mortifying
response of Clifford Norton and the
ambassador.
Shelly listened carefully. "I think the
information's fascinating," he said when she had
finished.
"No offense, Jack," Elizabeth sighed,
"but you stamp passports for a living. The
professionals say it's old hat."
He smiled calmly. "Those particular
professionals couldn't find their hats if they were
nailed onto their heads. I think your story should
get back to London immediately."
She peered at him to see if he was teasing.
He wasn't. "But what about Mein Kampf and
all that?"
"Elizabeth, the important thing was that bit
about "reading minds.""
"But those were my words. I said it as a joke."
He had to be pulling her leg.
"But then Lubienski replied, "Something like
that," am I correct?"
Elizabeth nodded.
"That suggests that the Poles are reading something
else."
"Like what?"
"Like the Germans' mail. How else would he
know what Hitler's told his top aides? Think
about it."
She was taken aback by his intensity.
Normally, Jack Shelly was a teddy bear.
"These are figures of speech," she protested.
"You've licked too much glue off your visas."
"Elizabeth"--his eyes gripped hers--
"I don't dole out visas, not really."
She looked confused.
"I'm your contact."
What did he mean? Suddenly she understood.
"SIS?" she exclaimed, then slapped her hand
over her mouth. She stared anxiously around the
room. The clubhouse was empty except for two
military attach`es in the corner who were on their
second brandies.
"Your information's going straight to Queen
Anne's Gate." Shelly quietly continued.
"Why didn't you tell me who you were before?"
Elizabeth whispered angrily.
"I wanted to observe you. See what you were
made of. When I heard that C had sent me a
woman, I couldn't believe my ears. I
waited to see if you were worth it."
"Well, am I?" she asked with a touch of
defiance.
"To me, you're worth precisely twenty
pounds a month--for expenses, no salary,
otherwise we'd have to report you to Treasury, and
they won't give us the billets."
Elizabeth realized this was her induction into the
secret service. She could not suppress a
smile.
"Your code name will be Cynthia," he continued.
"Do I get a last name?"
"No. You don't actually use Cynthia.
We use it in our files and communications
to protect your identity."
"Well, what do I do?" She tried not to sound
too excited. "What's my first assignment?"
"Continue working on Count Lubienski. We
believe he handles all intelligence matters
for the foreign minister."
"Do you have any advice? Are there special
techniques for getting people to talk?"
"Not really. I'm afraid you're on your own
there. The main thing is not to scare him off."
Shelly poked a fork into his chicken breast and
watched the butter squirt out. "First you want
to cultivate him as a source. Later you can try
to enlist him as an agent."
Elizabeth looked troubled.
"What is it?" Shelly asked.
She took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm
beginning to realize that this could be much more complicated
than I thought."
"Because Lubienski's so attractive?"
She nodded. He was observant. "And because
Arthur arrives at the end of the week."
"I should caution you that all of your
activities must remain entirely secret from
everyone, including your husband."
"Of course," Elizabeth reassured him, but
she still wore a frown.
"Is there something else?" he asked.
"Where would we be if I hadn't sat next
to Lubienski last night? My God, none of this
would have happened!"
"Dear girl"--Shelly's expression
suggested she had a lot to learn--"do you think that was
an accident?"

Over a fresh carpet of snow, Elizabeth
gently coaxed her new Polish-built
Chevrolet through the city toward the Central
Railway station. She had devoted the last
several days to preparing for Arthur's homecoming.
Her dressmaker had copied a green taffeta
cocktail dress that Elizabeth had clipped from
Vogue. From the large arcaded halls of
Mirowski Market, she laid in a supply of
meats, poultry, game, and fresh vegetables.
At the wine merchants', Simon and Stecki,
she had selected Arthur's favorite clarets,
ports, and champagne. In the Place
Zelaznej Bramy, she found a shop where she
bought bouquets of dried flowers and a table setting
of pyracantha. The dark green leaves and red
berries made a cheerful contrast to the stark white
damask tablecloth, which she had set for Arthur's
welcome-home dinner. Elizabeth had even
personally supervised the preparation of the loin of
pork that was, at that moment, roasting in the oven
at the apartment.
The Chevrolet slid to a stop against the curb
in the diplomatic parking area. Filled with a
mixture of anticipation and apprehension,
Elizabeth hurried to the gate, where she joined
an embassy clerk who would shepherd Arthur's
luggage through customs. On the horizon, the
train was already visible as a funnel of steam rising
into the sky. In a few minutes, it lumbered into the
station and Arthur, wearing a heavy chesterfield
coat and fedora, stepped down to the platform.
Elizabeth was surprised at how old and
tired he looked. She gave him a hug and a
kiss on the cheek, which he reciprocated. On
the drive to Villa Frascati, he remained
silent while she kept up a nervous
travelogue about the passing city
landmarks.
"Yes, yes," he finally said impatiently.
"I know all about these places. I've been
studying my Baedeker."
But when he stepped into the apartment, she could see
the surprise and pleasure on his face.
"Everything is charming," he allowed. "I give
you full marks!"
"Dinner will be ready shortly, but you've time for a
quick bath."
"I would enjoy that."
Elizabeth fixed him a martini and set it on
the edge of the tub. "Would you like me to wash your
back?"
"No, I can manage."
She could feel the old distance reasserting itself.
Over dinner, they sat across from each other at
one end of the long dining room table. He told her
about his trip (uneventful), the gossip at the
Foreign Office (uninteresting), and the health of his
parents (growing feeble).
"And how did your tests come out?" she asked.
He grimaced. "The doctors say my
blood pressure's sky-high."
"Is it dangerous?"
He nodded reluctantly.
"I shouldn't have bought all this wine and rich
food!"
"That's only the half of it. I've been under
an enormous strain."
"What then? Something I don't know?" She
put her hand on his arm.
"Yes," he said slowly; then abruptly he
lost control. "And something you think I don't
know!" The words burst out of him.
Elizabeth felt like she had been slapped.
She withdrew her hand. "What do you mean?" she said
stolidly, like a defiant child.
"The Marqu`es de Zaragoza I could write
off as youthful indiscretion. Your American
morality. But not John Leche!" he said
bitterly. "Don't look surprised. The
bastard had the cheek to send you dozens of letters that were
forwarded to me. He even sought permission from the
ambassador to come to St.-Jean-de-Luz!"
She tried to reach out to him again, but he pushed her
away.
"Oh God!" He put his hands over his face
and began to weep. The rage had gone out of him.
She sat there helpless, swamped
by guilt.
"There's something more," he finally managed.
What else had she done to him, she wondered.
"I've been having an affair, too," he
said.
Elizabeth looked at him. She didn't know
whether to laugh or cry. Her sudden feelings of
anger and humiliation came as a shock. "Do you
love her?" she demanded.
"I don't know. I thought so, sometimes. But
it's finished. I took this post to cure me of this
damnable infatuation."
"Who is she?" That Elizabeth hadn't a
leg to stand on only made her more furious.
"It doesn't matter! It's over, I tell
you." His eyes closed and his head rolled back.
"I didn't mean to do it"--he was like a small
boy--"but you were gone so long in Spain and then
England ...." His skin had turned a waxy
gray.
Elizabeth felt waves of shame and
sympathy wash away her anger. She got up and
cradled his head against her body. "Arthur, I
understand." She stood like that for what seemed a long
time. "Thank you for telling me. I'm terribly
sorry that you feel so bad."
"You don't despise me?"
She shook her head, and he did not resist when
she put her arms around his shoulders to help him
rise from the table.
"You need some rest," she said gently. "It's
been a long journey."
He sat on the edge of the bed as Elizabeth
helped him off with his clothes. Pulling up the
covers, she gave him a kiss on the lips.
"We can try to be good to one another."
"I want that very much," he said.
When she undressed, she left the bathroom
door open. She could feel his eyes upon her as
she stripped off her clothes and put on her
nightgown. When she got into bed he reached over and
put his hand on her breast. It was Arthur's
signal that he wanted to make love.
"I thought that Warsaw might give us a new
start," he said.
"I've felt the same way."
"And I've been thinking that maybe it would bring
us together if ..." He hesitated.
"Yes?" she encouraged him.
"If we went ahead now and started a
family."
Elizabeth did not respond. She could sense
him growing uneasy at her silence but did not know
what to say. "It's too late," she whispered
at last.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Why do you think I was in hospital in
London?"
"Some sort of female trouble, I
supposed."
"Yes, exactly. The kind that means I can
never have another child." The pain and anger came
back again, but she could no longer find her tears.
It was Arthur's turn for silence. He stared
at the ceiling.
"Was it because of what happened ... before?"
"Yes." She did not want to punish him with
specifics. They lay there without speaking. "But
we still have each other," she murmured.
"Yes, of course," he replied.
She reached out and put her arm across his chest.
He took hold of her hand. They stayed that way
for several minutes before he turned and rolled
away from her.

The icy wind came slanting off the Vistula,
whistling through the balustrade and slicing across the
broad terrace that overlooked the old castle and the
Kierbedz Bridge. Elizabeth huddled in the
lee of the fifteenth-century bell tower that was part
of the convent of St. Ann. Each time one of the
red-and-cream-colored trams stopped in the
street, she strained to distinguish among the
passengers who, bundled up against the cold in their
dark wool overcoats, all looked much alike.
A number three tram came gliding to a
halt. Elizabeth easily recognized the man
stepping down from the second car by his
blue-and-yellow Guards scarf. Quickly, she
crossed the terrace and descended a staircase
into a bare and wintry park. With the dry snow under her
feet crunching with every step, she slowed her pace
to a stroll so that Jack Shelly could catch up with
her. Together they entered a tiny teahouse that sat on
the edge of the bluff above the river.
"I was worried that this place might have closed
for the winter," Shelly said, taking off his hat.
The walls were all glass, to maximize the
view of the castle, bridge, and river. But with the
cold outside and the teapots brewing on
the counter, the inside of the windows were opaque with
stalagmites of hoarfrost. To Elizabeth, it
seemed that they had found refuge in an ice
cave. She slipped out of her fur coat.
The fleshy waitress came over and Shelly
ordered a Haberbusch.
"How can you drink beer on a day like this?"
Elizabeth ordered tea.
"I never drink whiskey when I'm working,"
Shelly replied.
"You don't look happy."
"London's all over me. Do you have anything
new?"
"Our friend says the Germans have moved the
Fifth Armored Corps south toward the
Austrian border. No details."
"Christ, Elizabeth, Radio Berlin
announced that two days ago! You've go to do
better!"
She felt stung by his criticism. "I
tell you everything he says!"
"Well, get him to say more."
She held her tongue while the waitress
set down a glass of beer and a glass of tea.
"And how do I do that?"
"Stop collecting crumbs of gossip.
Make him answer questions."
"I don't think so."
"Dammit, why not?"
"He's a patriot," Elizabeth explained
defensively. "He's dissatisfied, but that's because
he's living in the wrong century. Lubienski was
too young to fight against the Russians in the last
war, and he knows that his horse cavalry will be up
against German tanks in the next one. That makes
him melancholy, but I don't think it means
he'd tell us everything he knows."
"My bosses have no interest in "don't,"
"can't," "won't"!" he said flatly. "I
went out on a limb for you. I set you up with our
number one target and you're not performing. Your
latest reports are being dismissed as pillow
talk without the pillow. Everyone wonders if
you're cut out for this line of work."
"It's not easy, Jack," she protested
angrily. "Not with Arthur demanding that I account for
every moment of my day. And Lubienski's spooked
too. We only meet in caf`es that are so far
out of town the streetlamps run on gas!"
"I could get you an apartment ...."
She shook her head determinedly. "I told
you, Arthur and I are trying to make things work.
We've been through hell ...."
Shelly stopped her with a wave of his hand.
"You're in secret service, not a sewing
circle. SIS has a bias against women for this
very reason. They want to know whether you're serious,
or just another pretty girl who's playing the
tease. If so, our deal is off!"
Elizabeth felt herself grow flushed. "And I
joined up to fight Hitler, not sleep around. Do
you think I don't know your game? You want me
to hook Lubienski by betraying my husband!"
"Let's be frank, girl." Shelly drained
his beer and wiped his upper lip. "You've done it
before, for less good reasons."
Elizabeth wanted to slap him. She wanted
to throw her tea in his face. But before she could
react, Shelly had tossed a few coins on the
table, put on his hat, and left her alone to think
about it.



Most Secret/Cynthia
By Pouch
December 6, 1937
Dear Jack,
This will authorize you to terminate Cynthia. From
the start the Code and Cipher School chaps
regarded it as another one of Bill
Stephenson's harebrained schemes.
However, we do believe Lubienski should be
pursued with the highest priority as a possible
source. C is anxious to move Cynthia out
of the way before she does some real damage to that
prospect. Send our recommendations by cable.
As ever,
Menzies

10-about-cgst11:25GMT
MOST SECRET/CYNTHIA
WARSAW STATION SENDS
FOR BROADWAY--1257
CYNTHIA NOT REPEAT NOT TERMINATED.
HAS ONE MORE CONTACT WITH TARGET.
IF FRUITLESS WILL THEN CUT HER
OFF.
SHELLY.
ENDIT


Chapter 15

Eastern Poland--December 15, 1937
"There's nothing like it in all of Europe,"
Count Lubienski said to Elizabeth as the train
lurched and rattled through the still-dark countryside.
"The land is part of a great estate that belonged to the
czar. The woods covered thousands of square
kilometers. Actually, they once covered all
of northern Europe. This is the last piece of
primeval forest left on the Continent."
They were riding in a mahogany-paneled club
car belonging to the Polish Army. A long narrow
table that stretched the length of the coach was laden with a
hunt breakfast: hams and sausages and wursts;
cheeses and breads and preserves; pickled
vegetables and marinated herrings and salted fish,
all presided over by a large copper samovar
dispensing strong dark tea.
"We'll be riding trails that date back
to prehistoric times," Lubienski continued. "The
forest is a refuge for boar, stag, elk, all
sorts of game. And in the deep meadows, one can
find the great ancient bison."
"It seems a pity to hunt them," said
Elizabeth.
"It would be a pity not to. In the winter they
die of starvation."
Like most of the men in the car, Count Lubienski
was in uniform. In his cavalry tunic and tall
boots, he looked more dashing and handsome than ever.
Arthur, who was busy with the pastries, had
squeezed into his English riding habit complaining
bitterly that it had been shrunk by the servants.
Elizabeth was the only woman, and she was not
happy to be there.
Ever since her blowup with Shelly, she had
been avoiding Lubienski, and the last thing she
wanted was to go on an outing with him and Arthur. But
when she had stopped calling Lubienski, he had
started calling her. And when she made excuses not
to see him, he approached Arthur to invite them
both on the prestigious Bai@lowieza Hunt--
an event usually reserved for much more senior
diplomats. As in Spain, Arthur could not say
no.
Shelly had also been a boor and a pest. Without
once apologizing for his rude behavior at the
tearoom, he had been pressing her
to introduce him to Lubienski. "If you won't
exploit him properly," he insisted, "you can at
least hand him off to someone who will." When he had
learned that she was going on the Bai@lowieza
Hunt, he declared that it was her last chance to prove
herself to the SIS.
Why should it matter if she proved herself to a
shadowy group of people she didn't even know?
Elizabeth had no ready answer, but somehow it
did. She did not want to be a shirker in the
great collision between good and evil that Churchill and
Stephenson said was coming. But what Shelly wanted
seemed far from that struggle. And to be practical,
what could she do on horseback in the middle of the
woods?
The train slowed as it passed through a dour little
town called Bia@lystok, then resumed its
journey through an endlessly vacant plain that at that
time of year was only beginning to fill with first light
at ten o'clock. To Elizabeth, the sad
snow-covered landscape seemed to ache for the vanished
forest. It was as if the earth, stripped naked of
trees, was frozen in shame and had cloaked itself in
apathy.
Twenty minutes later, the train jerked to a
stop in the middle of an open field. When
Lubienski helped her down from the car, she could
see a thin slice of dawn glowing in the east, and
under it, a dark and forbidding wood stretching across the
horizon. From the direction of the locomotive
came the sound of yelping and barking as the hounds
poured out of the train, swirling and jumping around their
handlers. Soldiers were dropping down the sides
of the stable cars to free the horses. Wild and
agitated after their bumpy confinement, they clambered
down the planks neighing and snorting, their iron
shoes striking sparks on the stony roadbed. In
the cold, steam rose from their flanks and exploded
through their nostrils. The animals were big;
Elizabeth guessed fourteen to fifteen hands
high, and had long hairy winter coats. They
wore heavy blankets under their saddles and wool
leggings around their fetlocks to keep warm.
Elizabeth staggered under the weight of an
enormous fur coat and hat provided by the army.
She found that she could barely walk in the clumsy
felt boots that Count Lubienski insisted she
wear. When she saw Arthur struggling in a
greatcoat, unable to pull himself up on a huge
gray stallion, she began to laugh.
Two soldiers were finally required to push him
into the saddle.
She needed their help too. But soon she was
mounted on a sturdy brown gelding, her felt
boots secured by leather-covered stirrups. In a
few minutes, everyone was on horseback, the
dogs had been divided into three groups, and like a
small army, the hunting party set off across the
frozen fields.
The sun had disappeared into the overcast, and if it
were not for the dark line of forest ahead, it would have been
difficult to distinguish earth from sky. Elizabeth
rode beside Arthur. She could not help remembering
the last time they rode together--the autumn days in
England when he sought vainly to get rid of her
baby. After she explained to him how she became
infertile, Arthur had seemed to go numb.
Elizabeth had tried to reassure him by offering
to make love, but a couple of fumbling
attempts had come to nothing. Each day she felt
him retreat further. Arthur, Shelly,
Lubienski, they all added up to failure on
her part.
The edge of the wood was marked by a wooden fence of
rough unpainted sticks topped with barbed wire
to discourage poachers. They rode next to it for about
a mile, before finding an opening. They then had
to line up single file in order to follow the narrow
track that led inside. Arthur wound up several
horses ahead of Elizabeth and Count
Lubienski right behind her.
At first, the Bai@lowieza Forest looked much
like any other--filled with elm and chestnut with an
occasional yew and a variety of pines. Soon,
however, the pines disappeared and Elizabeth began
to notice the huge oaks, some of them as big around
as California redwoods. Everywhere she could see
fallen trees, the huge tangled root systems
sticking into the air like masses of frozen snakes.
It surprised her to realize that the forest
primeval was as full of death as it was of life.
She had expected a dense undergrowth, but the thick
canopy of trees kept the floor of the woods
surprisingly clear.
Riding up beside her, Count Lubienski said,
"Our poets write that the trees of
Bai@lowieza are like the Polish people,

"stubbornly clinging to the land,
too deep to be uprooted,
too thick to be cut down.""

Elizabeth wondered if the poem had lost
something in translation, but she appreciated
Lubienski's effort to be charming.
At a fork in the trail, the hunting party
turned off to the right. Although they hoped to find
bison, they would be satisfied with wild boar,
elk, or a stag. No one in the group carried
firearms except the huntmaster. In the ritual
of the hunt, the dogs would locate the quarry and then
the riders would chase the animal to exhaustion. The
huntmaster administered the coup de gr@ace.
The cold was relentless. Despite the heavy
coat, hat, thick boots, lap blanket, and the
heat from the horse beneath her, Elizabeth was
freezing by the time she heard the barking of the dogs
intensify and saw the line of horses shift to a
canter. A shout of "Jelen'! Jelen'!"
echoed through the forest.
"It's a stag," Lubienski cried. "A
big one." He pointed to the left. All she could
see was the hounds leaping over fallen trees like
spawning salmon. The horses started to gallop.
Abruptly, the riders in front of her began
to veer off the trail, attempting to cut off the
stag's escape. She saw Arthur plunge into a
stand of dense woods and almost get swept from his
saddle by a low branch. On a horse, he
became an entirely different person, brash,
aggressive, a taker of risks.
"Follow me!" Lubienski shouted.
Elizabeth dived into the forest after him.
Where Arthur and a horse always made for an
uneasy alliance, Count Lubienski and his mount
seemed to form one sleek creature that was able to find
an imperceptible path through the tangle of trees,
logs, and bushes. Ahead, where the forest cleared
again, Elizabeth suddenly spotted the stag. It
had doubled back and was heading toward her. The
magnificent buck carried huge antlers bearing
more than a dozen points. With a shake of its head
the animal vanished into a thicket of bushes and
vines. Crashing headlong after it, Elizabeth
found herself pulled and grabbed by branches from all
sides. She marveled at how the stag, racing
ahead of her, escaped being caught up by its own
antlers.
For forty minutes they chased the animal through the
woods. Sweat lathered her horse's
flanks and foam flecked off the bridle. It was
the most arduous riding Elizabeth had ever done.
She felt exhilarated and exhausted when, at
last, they brought the stag to bay in a patch of
frozen swamp. The big buck was kicking at the
hounds with red-stained hooves and tossing them over
its back with crimson antlers. Still, the dogs
had done their work. Blood ran from a score of
wounds in the animal's flanks. As it finally
sank to its knees, the huntmaster fired a single
shot into the stag's heart to spare it further pain and
indignity.
Elizabeth had only hunted foxes. She
always had been fascinated at the ritual of
"blooding," the spectacle of the cream of
civilized society taking the severed paws of a
fox and marking their faces with streaks of its
blood. If this was the pagan rite of hunting in
England and Virginia, what did they do with a stag
on the steppes of Poland?
Shooing away the dogs, the huntmaster dismounted.
He took a knife and a silver goblet out of a
leather pouch. Bending over the carcass, he drove
the knife into the stag's neck, holding the cup so
as to catch the spurting blood. With the dogs howling
and baying, each member of the hunt took a sip.
When the goblet came to Arthur, he shook his head
and quickly passed it to Elizabeth. She looked
at the men now staring solemnly at her.
"You need not do this ...." Count Lubienski
murmured.
She brought the cup to her lips, surprised at
how warm it felt. Then, tilting back her head
she took a swallow, the blood tasting sticky
sweet and metallic in her mouth. A cheer went
up from the others. Arthur snatched it back and also
gulped down a mouthful. In an instant, he
looked like he would be sick. Everyone cheered, but
many were laughing too.
Once the antlers, hooves, and tail had
been cut from the stag and distributed as trophies,
the hunters were ready to move out again. As they formed
into a line, Arthur shied away from Elizabeth, but
not before hissing, "Don't you ever embarrass me like
that again!"
She let him go forward and allowed her horse
to fall to the back with Count Lubienski.
"We're going after more game?" Elizabeth
asked wearily.
"There's still boar and buffalo."
"I don't think I want any boar's
blood, thank you," and she snapped the reins
to encourage her horse forward.
"Stay back with me," he urged. "I've a
surprise for you."
After trotting along uneventfully for several
minutes, he pulled up and raised his glove
to indicate that she should quietly follow him. They
turned into a difficult and virtually invisible
track.
"Where are we going?" Elizabeth asked
anxiously.
"You'll see."
"They'll miss us."
"We'll say we got lost."
"That's what I'm worried about," Elizabeth
said.
"I spent my youth in these woods,"
Lubienski reassured her. "You look cold.
I want to make you warm."
That's the other thing I'm worried about, she thought
to herself, but let her horse go ahead. Isn't this
exactly what Shelly had been hoping for? The
question made her angry. His strategy had the
subtlety of a hydraulic engine: Take
Lubienski to bed and then pump him for information. The
first might be easy. But getting Lubienski
to reveal state secrets? What was she supposed
to say? Michael darling, just what are your sources
at the German Reich Chancellery? Or maybe
she was supposed to bargain with him. One touch above
the waist for each diplomatic secret; but to go
below the waist, Michael dear, you have to give me
military secrets. It was absurd! And
Shelly was no help. All he knew how to do was
threaten to terminate her with SIS.
She rode along behind Lubienski as he
picked his way through a dense part of the forest.
Garlands of frozen green moss hung from the
trees and mistletoe festooned the oaks.
Small birds swarmed through the bare branches
feeding on winter berries and luminous red
pyracantha.
What would it matter if she were dropped by the
secret service? In many ways it would be a
relief. Stephenson's offer to work with SIS had
filled a yawning void in her life, and she never
wanted to stare into that suicidal chasm of
meaninglessness again. Yet what Shelly wanted was
exactly the opposite of what Arthur
demanded from her. Didn't her husband have to take
first priority? They had, after all, decided
to make a new start. Unfortunately, nothing
seemed to have changed between them, nothing except his
intense concern about how she spent her days--not
whether she enjoyed them or found them productive
and satisfying. He only wanted to know where she was
and with whom.
Why, Elizabeth wondered sadly, did
Arthur care if she slept with other men?
Pride? Probably. Power? Possibly.
If he could keep her on the reservation without
offering her a love life, it certainly was a
testament to his control over her. No, she had
to admit, nothing had changed. Arthur was still
completely absorbed with his work and utterly
oblivious to her desires.
But could she blame him? Did she know what she
wanted herself? Yes, she did actually. She
wanted to get into the fight, the one that was threatening
to tear Europe apart, and not just for the thrills.
Hitler was on a rampage. Sooner or later,
America would be dragged in too, just like in 1917.
It might sound corny, but she knew she could
help, not just Britain, but her own country as
well, if only Shelly and Arthur would give
her half a chance.
The cold was making Elizabeth's bones ache.
The air was so frigid it felt like breathing a
vacuum. Where were they heading? The hunt was to end
with a grand luncheon at the Castle Gr@odek.
If Lubienski wanted time alone with her, that must
be his destination. The castle would be full of
servants, but that wouldn't deter him. Noblemen had
a way of treating servants like furniture.
The number of pines and birch trees were
increasing while the hardwoods became smaller and
fewer. Quite abruptly they came to the edge of the
forest. Lubienski spurred his horse over the
barbed wire. Elizabeth followed.
"Where to?" she called out.
He pointed to a column of smoke climbing
above a low hill.
She raced after him to the top, eager for her first
glimpse of the castle. What she found was a
scattering of thatch-roofed peasant houses,
barns, and chicken coops, some with strange
antennas sticking out of them. Smoke rose from the
stone chimney of a wood plank cottage painted
sky blue with yellow and green shutters.
To her surprise, that was where Count Michael
Lubienski was dismounting from his horse.
What was it going to be, she asked herself as she hesitated at the top of the
rise, Shelly's way or Arthur's way? The hell with both of
them; she spurred her horse down the slope.
Whatever she decided, it would be her own way.


Chapter 16

Bai@lowieza Forest, Poland--December
15, 1937
As Count Michael Lubienski had led
Mrs. Arthur Pack through the woods, he could
hardly believe she was going along with his plan!
He was filled with the kind of excitement he
imagined he would feel if ever faced with battle.
He had never done anything like this before.
His friends had often chided him for being so circumspect with the ladies,
for never joining them in the brothels on the Praha side of the Vistula.
Lubienski was no prude, but he had married the
daughter of a minor magnate near Cracow while
still a cadet, and he behaved as his family and the
Church required. He had thought that he loved his
wife even though his marriage had had its
disappointments, as all do. But he and his wife had
made the best of it, for by bringing together the
Lubienskis' social position with his
father-in-law's financial strength, it had been
good for both families. Like most men, he had a
wandering eye, but nothing had ever come of it, for he
regarded himself as honest, dutiful, constant, and
loyal. Suddenly, Elizabeth Pack had
changed all that.
She ignited a passion in him that he found quite
baffling. The woman was beautiful to be sure,
andwitha strange mixture of innocence and
voluptuousness that provoked and confused him. But it
was far more than simple allure. If he tried
to analyze Elizabeth dispassionately, he would
have to say he was drawn to her because of her fantastic
energy. She listened so intently that he felt forced
to talk. She was like alum on the tongue, drawing
out all of his pain and confusion. Her silences formed
a powerful vacuum that he felt compelled to fill.
When she focused her attention on him, the
experience was nearly overwhelming. Lubienski
felt safe and secure and like quite the most singular
man in the world. This did not strike him as
flattery, for it did not inflate him with
self-importance. To the contrary, he needed her
all the more. A conversation with her, even on the
telephone, could change a dispiriting and melancholy
day into one in which he felt he could accomplish
anything. And her rich, warm voice seemed
to resonate in his innards, arousing him even when she
was talking about ridiculous things like German
rearmament.
Lubienski looked over his shoulder at her.
That morning he had been startled and pleased to see
that she was such an expert rider. He admired the
way she now worked her horse skillfully through the
dense wood, even though she appeared lost in
thought. Hopefully she wasn't having doubts about
their little detour!
He wanted her from the moment he had taken her
into his arms at the American ambassador's
dinner dance. At first, she had seemed to be
simple quarry. She was responsive to his every
suggestion, even to meeting him in the most
out-of-the-way places. But if Elizabeth was
easy to approach, she had proven difficult
to catch. He would tell her about himself, his
trials, his dreams, and, as he worked around to his
feelings for her, his need for her, he would
inexplicably find himself discussing the character and
background of Joachim von Ribbentrop, the
new German foreign minister.
However, from the outset of his campaign to win
her, he had made up his mind never to tell her
any real secrets. He supposed that some of the
things he said got back to the British embassy,
but that was probably all to the good. The British
had the mistaken impression that his boss, Foreign
Minister Beck, was pro-Nazi. In fact, he
was pro-Poland. So it was important for the
British to realize that they had a sympathetic
person close to Colonel Beck, even if
Lubienski had to admit that he hadn't exactly
been charged with that responsibility.
His formal position, secretary to the foreign
minister, was a great honor but hardly ever a
pleasure. His principal responsibility was
vitally important: to provide Colonel
Beck with the latest intelligence available to the
Polish government. He had a modest office in
the foreign minister's suite at the Br@uhl
Palace. It had a high window overlooking
Staski Park and a fireplace, which he
mainly used to burn sensitive documents.
Lubienski had expected that his role would put
him in the center of things, but in reality, it was quite
alienating.
He found that he was an observer of fateful
events with no influence over them. Even on good
days, he felt like a mere bureaucratic
factotum. On bad days, he yearned to be
back with his cavalry unit preparing for the coming war
--a war that would be all the more terrible because of
mistakes he witnessed but could do nothing to stop.
His work was futile, yet all-consuming. He
lived at the foreign minister's whim. He had
to be on hand from early morning to late at night.
Life was passing him by. While he was
increasingly praised for his maturity,
to Lubienski that only meant he was growing old.
Dear God, he was not yet thirty! He was not
made for bureaucratic caution, he was made for
action! He was made for sacrifice!
Lubienski's horse spotted the fence that
marked the end of the forest and began to pick up speed,
eager for the jump. Looking back, Lubienski
saw that Elizabeth was not far behind. He cleared the
barbed wire and raced ahead of her pointing toward
a low rise in response to her call.
He loved how she made him audacious again.
She even made him bold enough to take advantage
of the few perquisites offered by his work. One was
that the intelligence services would do his bidding without
explanation. Colonel Beck might be feared and
hated, but using his name got results.
Like this little cottage on the edge of the
Bai@lowieza Forest. Only the antennas and the
fact that it was better maintained than any other
peasant house in eastern Poland revealed that the
farm was actually a military intelligence listening
post. He reined in his horse, dismounted, and pushed
open the door.
Everything was as he had ordered. A fire roared
in the wall-sized fireplace. Facing it, a
large sofa with twin ottomans covered by a goose
down comforter offered respite from the cold. Against the
far wall, a table beckoned with caviar,
champagne, and vodka. And no one else was there.
Lubienski returned outside to help
Elizabeth down from her horse. As she looked
around, she wore an expression of suspicion and
amusement.
"So," she said in her husky voice,
"is this where you plan to seduce me?"
"No! No! Don't misunderstand. It's just a
place to get warm!" He took her hat and
heavy coat as he showed her into the room.
"And cozy." Laughing, she dropped onto the
sofa, kicked off her felt boots and pulled up
the comforter.
Her laugh struck him in a vital spot.
"Would you like caviar?" He blushed. "Something
to drink?"
"Vodka would be wonderful. I don't plan
to work any more today, do you?"
He shook his head stupidly. "I'll toast
the bread for the caviar." She seemed to be in a
receptive mood!
He cut a large brown loaf into thin slices
and put them into metal baskets attached to a long
pole which he placed above the fire. Pouring out
two vodkas, Lubienski worried that
Elizabeth could see his hands trembling. Facing
cannons had to be easier than this!
"Nazdrovia!" he said bravely.
They clicked glasses, drank, and he poured
another.
"Your toast is smoking."
He dashed to the fire. Extracting the toast,
he burned his fingers.
"Let me see your hand."
"It's not serious."
She kissed it. "Now it'll be better."
Count Lubienski felt paralyzed. He
wanted to leap into the air, sweep her into his
arms, crush her lips with his. But how would she
react? He had to be sure or he might ruin
his chance. "My God, you're so wonderful!" he
exclaimed and rushed away to bring the caviar and more
vodka.
Soon they were side by side facing the fire under
the coverlet, eating piles of caviar and sipping
ice-cold vodka. Lubienski could not keep
himself from talking.
"I'm so fortunate. You're so beautiful. I
bless the day I met you. On the dance floor you were
like a dream in my arms, and now with you beside me, I
feel transported to Eden ... to heaven!"
In the glow of the fire, her eyes had turned
sea green and her hair gleamed red and gold.
He saw a crimson blush on her cheek.
"Michael," she said softly but earnestly,
"you're quite the most gallant and dashing
man I've ever met. I feel your strength, and
your courage. Your intelligence is inspiring. It
makes me realize how lucky I am to know you
...."
This blizzard of praise embarrassed and
excited him. He meant something to her!
"... How fortunate Poland is that you serve
her," she continued, "and how grateful your wife
must be to have you as a husband."
What could he say to that? He felt mocked, but
she seemed totally sincere. Should he talk about his
wife? No, he was betraying her. He would not
dishonor her by talking about their marriage.
Elizabeth reached out to him. "You have my friendship
...."
"No! I want more than friendship! It's been
agony these past weeks, meeting you in public
places, unable to take you in my arms. I need
you Elizabeth. I want you ...."
"Michael, I'm married!"
"Arthur? I've seen this man." He shook his
head. "God forgives us such mistakes. The
important thing is to go on living!"
"What about your reputation? People would know." She
drew away and turned toward the fire. "And,
what of your position in the government? You'd be
vulnerable to criticism ...."
"I don't care about all that! None of it
matters!"
"We can't be foolish!" she admonished him.
A moment ago, she was almost his. Now,
suddenly, he was back in school. "No one will be
outraged," he said haplessly, and with the sinking feeling
that argument had never bedded a woman. "This is not
England, or America," he persevered. "There
are no Puritans here. The Polish people understand the
human heart." He was getting back in stride.
"We respect love that comes from the soul. Most
men, respectable men, have wives and families,
but they also have a true love to fulfill them!"
"So that's what you want? One wife? One
mistress? How bourgeois!" She turned her
back on him again.
"No! I was just trying to explain ..." He'd
made a mess of it! He began to feel
frantic. He had to get through to her! "I must have
you. Don't you see I'm desperate for you?"
And with that he leaped up. "Look at me!"
She turned and her eyes widened. He knew
she could not miss the bulge in his pants.
"I'm in agony," he pleaded. "You cannot leave
me like this!"
She laughed.
What was wrong with her? Polish women acted
coquettish and demure, yet his friends claimed that
the moment always came when they abandoned themselves. They
knew when to surrender. Why wasn't Elizabeth
like that? He fell on his knees, and seized her
wrists.
"Elizabeth, Elizabeth! Don't laugh
at me! Love me!" Swept by humiliation, he
buried his head in her hands. "I'll do anything you
say! I'll be your slave!"
The room filled with the crackling of the fire.
He could hear her breathing. It was fast and deep.
"Anything?" she murmured.
"Anything!" He looked up. A change had
come over her.
"Stand up again, Michael. I want to see
you."
He did as he was told. He sensed himself
growing even harder.
"I want to see all of you," she insisted
softly. For a moment he did not understand. "All of
you, Michael," she repeated.
He began tearing off his uniform, feeling
awkward and clumsy, struggling with his pants and
boots. Finally, he stood before her naked and
erect.
"Take your hands away."
He obeyed.
She looked at him without a trace of false
modesty. "You're beautiful," she whispered.
Her voice was a caress that almost caused him
to explode. He stepped toward her.
She held up her hands to keep him away.
"You say you want me?" she said solemnly.
"You'd better see if I'm worthwhile."
Elizabeth got up from the couch and began
to undress. What could she be talking about, he
wondered. Why did she sound so sad? The
figure that slowly emerged from her cocoon of
clothes astonished him. Her smooth skin seemed
burnished by the firelight. The contours of her
body were voluptuous and sensuous, yet strong and
lithe. She reached behind her back in a butterfly
motion to release her bra, and he gasped to see
her breasts swing free. When she slipped off her
panties then stood to reveal the dark and forbidden
triangle, her aroma enveloped him,
triggering a blind need to lose himself within her.
"You're the one who is beautiful." He could
hardly speak. Elizabeth was beyond his imaginings,
a different species from his hard, bony, angular
wife. And with the thought of the Countess Lubienski,
he began to droop.
As if she could sense his sudden rush of guilt,
Elizabeth stepped closer and gathered him up.
Looking frankly into his eyes, she caressed
him slowly, comfortingly, her soft hands teasing his
desire back from hiding, filling him up again,
making his need for her exquisite and urgent. He
attempted to kiss her, but she gently pushed him
back onto the sofa. Then, still holding him tight,
she straddled his body.
Oh, the warmth! He reveled in the sweet
agony! She rode him smoothly, more fluidly
than he had ever ridden a horse. Still she had not
kissed him, but continued to stare, as if to absorb
him through her eyes. Her breasts swept across his
face like a saber slash of pleasure. He
strained to reach them, to capture them with his mouth.
Below, she squeezed him, pulled on him, her
body sliding back and forth. With blurred vision,
he saw she was no longer looking at him. Her
head had rolled back. She was biting her lip,
her eyes opening and closing sightlessly. Moving very
slowly now, she rose up, hesitated, then
pushed down to engulf him. Up, so that he strained
to rise with her, down, so that he thrust deeper
inside. Suddenly, she stopped still. Seizing his
hair, she crushed his lips with their first kiss and
began a long, tumultuous shudder. Then groaning
so that he felt her voice echoing in the back of his
throat, Elizabeth collapsed.
They lay entwined, Lubienski still within her, still
hard, acute, anxiously needing release. With
her eyes closed as if she were dreaming, she began
to move her hips slowly, languorously. Almost
casually she drove him past the point of
explosion and onto a plateau of desperation. Like
a tender torturer, she pleasured him until his
mind was gone, until his loins wanted to spill
open and confess. Soon, he felt the aching power
gathering in his calves and thighs: in his shoulders and
chest, in his stomach and back. This time he knew
he had the strength, the force to break through, to end the
gorgeous torment, to burst the bonds of ecstasy
with which she had enslaved him. But as he trembled on
the cusp of victory, Elizabeth
slipped away, turned, and enveloped him with a
kiss that utterly destroyed him.

How could she have done this? Regret filled
Elizabeth as fully as had passion only
minutes before. Arthur had been home just a few
weeks. She hadn't given it any time! On the
other hand, there hadn't been any "x" either.
What about Lubienski then? He lay curled
up beside her, sleeping quietly with his head on her
breast. Was espionage only an excuse? She
had wanted him, she couldn't deny that. But
perversely, making love had been a way
to retreat from him, a way not to feel the tenderness
he invoked in her. The rapture of her body
helped obliterate her growing affection for him.
What kind of a woman was she, Elizabeth asked
herself. A Mata Hari with a useless uterus and the
heart of a whore?
For a long time, she stared at the white-washed
ceiling with its rude beams covered with bright
folkloric designs. Outside, it had begun
to snow; inside, the fire had become a pile of
glowing embers. The room smelled of ashes and was
growing cold.
And lying there in a peasant cottage on the
Polish steppe, as far from the world as she had ever
been, she felt her sense of remorse fade
away. Her body was good for something after all. It
had power over men. She could use it for a worthy
purpose. Yes, she realized, this would be the day
of her first blooding.
Count Lubienski stirred against her. "You're
so soft, so sweet," he murmured. "Thank
you."
"For what?"
"You make me happy with myself."
"Is that so difficult?"
He sat up and put his arm around her shoulders,
speaking as if in confidence. "My life is a
charade. I'm nothing but a bit player in an
epic tragedy. Oh, I cannot bore you with my
sadness."
"And why such sadness?" she asked quietly,
sensing that his operatic mood meant that he wanted
to say more. "You've a noble title, an
important position, and now you have me."
"You, you." He rose to kiss her. "You are
wonderful!" Then he sank back to her breast
once again.
"A title in Poland is a curse. There are
so many "counts," it does not make you
distinguished. It only imprisons you in a code
you cannot break. As for my position," he sighed,
"it allows me an orchestra seat to view Poland
being ground to pieces between Hitler and Stalin."
"I thought you didn't worry about Hitler."
"That's the official line. We know what he's
up to. But it's like standing paralyzed on a
railroad track with a train coming at you. Our
only chance lies in an alliance with France and
England or even America. But we also know that's
a hopeless dream. So everyone in Warsaw
behaves like they're at a party at the end of the world,
forcing themselves to be gay, carrying on at balls and
masquerades, drinking and dancing all night,
throwing themselves into passionate affairs."
"Is that what we're doing?"
"No, of course not." He seemed shocked at
the thought. "Elizabeth, I only mean that when there
can be no happiness of the spirit, there is only the
happiness of the flesh ...." He caught himself.
"But you are both," he added anxiously. "You've
touched my soul."
Lubienski fell into an uncertain silence.
This seemed to be her chance. She had to make the
most of the moment.
"Before"--she hesitated--"before, you said you'd do anything for me." "I
would. I will!" He sat up.
"Will you answer a question?"
He turned her shoulders so he could look
directly into her eyes. "I'll lay my life
bare. If I don't know the answer, I'll go
on a quest. I'll search the world over until
I find the answer and bring it back to you!"
"You don't have to do all that." She laughed and
put her hand on his chest, winding the blond hair
into her fingers. "I simply wondered how you know
some of the things you tell me."
He looked blank. "What do you mean?"
"For instance, how do you know what Hitler's up
to? How do you read his mind? You also once said you
knew in advance about the Night of the Long
Knives, when he murdered the Brownshirts.
How, Michael?"
She tried her best to make her questions sound
casual, interested, innocent, but they fell
awkwardly off her tongue. Elizabeth could
feel him stiffening, and not in the right
place.
Count Lubienski opened his mouth but nothing
came out. He looked confused, then uncertain,
then appalled, then terrified. "You're a spy!"
"Don't be ridiculous, I'm just curious."
"You planned this!" He leaped up and began
to dress hurriedly.
"Michael, you brought me here!" This was going
horribly wrong.
"Put on your clothes! Immediately!" he
demanded.
"Why are you acting like this?" she said, reaching for
her underwear. Dammit, how else was she to ask
such questions? Oh, the hell with the questions! She'd ruined
everything! She was losing him! Half dressed,
Elizabeth reached out. "Michael, you're making
a mistake!"
He pushed her away. "We'll join the others
at the castle. We were chasing a boar and got
lost." His voice was firm, but his eyes were wild
as he backed away toward the door. "Then we
must never, ever, see each other again!"

CROSSING BY NIGHT

Part III (cont.)


Chapter 17

Warsaw--Friday, December 31,

"You don't look very excited about the party,"
Elizabeth said aloud, as she stared at her
reflection in the dressing table mirror. She and
Arthur were ringing in the new year at a costume
ball at @lazienki Palace, the former summer
home of the last king of Poland. All Elizabeth
could feel was ennui.
Jack Shelly and his girlfriend visiting from
Austria soon would arrive in a carriage that they
had rented for the occasion. When Elizabeth had
told him of her catastrophic failure with
Count Lubienski, he was deeply disappointed,
but to her surprise very kind.
"It's the fortunes of war," he had sighed into a
coffee and slivovitz at the Caf`e
Gogolewski, near the old town. "I'm not
sure I can maintain your stipend," he had
explained apologetically.
"Will I be a black mark against you?"
"You've blotted my copybook, but touch
wood I'll still get my pension." He smiled.
"Of course, if there's any way you can
reestablish contact with Lubienski ..."
"If you'd seen his face, you'd know it's
hopeless."
"Well, at least it gives the lie to your fear
of being a prostitute."
"Whatever do you mean?" Elizabeth had said with a
trace of shock. She meant, "However did you
know?"
"Professionals always ask for what they want
in advance."
Elizabeth knew she should laugh but tears had
come into her eyes.
"I'm sorry," Shelly said. "I've been
awfully rough on you."
"My regret"--Elizabeth used her napkin
--"is that betraying Arthur isn't very difficult
for me anymore. And when I'm being faithful, I
feel I'm betraying myself."
"Arthur's behaved badly about your little hunting
excursion?"
"He insists I humiliated him.
Now, whenever I go anywhere, he asks if I'm
off to see my "lover, the Count Lubienski."
I've tried to reassure him, but it's no use.
Maybe it's the pressure of the holidays, I
don't know, but things are deteriorating. I spent
an entire day going up and down Marszalkowska
to find him a Boxing Day present, and he pushed
it aside like it was an insult."
"What did you get him?"
"A set of Indian clubs."
Shelly had laughed.
"They're very good for exercise," Elizabeth
insisted. "And Lord knows he needs it!"
Arthur had bought her a set of silver-backed
brushes and combs. They would have made a thoughtful
gift except that he had given her the same thing
for her birthday the year before.
Elizabeth drew one of the combs through her hair,
smoothing it for the Valencian mantilla that she would
wear on her head as part of a Spanish costume
she had acquired in Madrid. The dress was
floor-length black lace with a low-cut bodice
that showed her figure to advantage. Looking at
herself in the mirror, she sighed. She had to admit
it. She deeply missed Count Lubienski's
attentions. Would he be at the ball, hidden behind
some mask? She had made herself easy to spot, but
she knew he would never speak to her. Would she
recognize him? Should she try to talk to him?
What would she say?
Arthur emerged from his dressing room in a
matador's costume, which he also had obtained in
Spain. It now appeared several sizes too
small. His short arms stuck out to the sides like a
child wrapped up to play in the snow. "How is it
possible to fight a bull in such an outfit?" he
complained.
"I don't think you should worry about that this
evening," Elizabeth said, "unless you intend
to waltz with Lady Kennard."
"And you plan to spend the night dancing with Count
Lubienski?"
"Arthur, don't start. If it will make you
happy, I'll dance with no one but you."

A line of torches marked the gravel road that
wound through @lazienki Park to the palace.
"King Augustus transformed it from a hunting
lodge about the time you Yanks were foolishly declaring
your independence from George III,"
Shelly explained. He had dressed as
Pierrot. His date was Pierrette.
"It's now used to host official parties and
diplomatic balls. Of course with the Poles,"
Shelly cautioned, "these are not necessarily
staid affairs."
The palace occupied an island in a frozen
lake. As their carriage crossed the bridge to the
entrance, the rococo facade shimmered in the
torchlight. Elizabeth immediately saw what
Shelly meant. A satyour carried a nymph
over his shoulder out the front door. Couples
spilling their champagne glasses could be seen
embracing on the second-floor balconies.
A knight in shining armor lumbered across the
terrace after a Gypsy queen. Off to an early
start, thought Elizabeth with a touch of envy.
Trumpets sounded as they alighted from the
carriage and proceeded toward the entrance on a
carpet of tulip petals. Once inside, they
were caught up in a swirling crowd garbed in
bizarre and breathtaking costumes. Many men
flaunted their most gaudy military uniforms, but
covered their faces with elaborate and often
realistic animal masks. Elizabeth saw one
officer, outfitted in white and gold with a sword
and crimson cape, who had the head of a wild
boar. Another wore the head of a bull and yet
another, a ram. A large man, wearing the head
of an elephant, could somehow manipulate the
trunk, dipping it into people's champagne glasses
and down the front of the ladies' d@ecolletage.
If Lubienski was under one of those masks, how could she possibly recognize
him? Shelly led them to a room on the left of the
foyer that was completely lined in blue and white
Dutch tile. "This was the king's bathroom," he
explained. "His Highness evidently did much
of his drinking here as well." Shelly pointed to a
large painting of the god Bacchus that hung over
an ornate porcelain fireplace. In front
of it, waiters were pouring champagne out of huge
Nebuchadnezzar-sized bottles. Arthur
sucked down two glasses quickly andwitha third in
hand, pushed into the ballroom, leaving Shelly and his
date behind. Elizabeth tried to stay close
to him.
An orchestra at the opposite end of the room
was playing a popular Polish ballad, "This
Time It's Real." Elizabeth
noticed that she was not the only woman who, forced
to cover her face, had resorted to revealing a good
deal of something else. A young lady, dressed as
Salome, wore such a flimsy gown that her
entire body including the shadowy places could be
seen through the gauze.
Arthur was sweaty and complaining. "It's so
abominably hot in here! How's one supposed
to have a conversation, when you can't tell who anyone
is?"
"Let's dance," she suggested. The orchestra
had started a waltz.
Joining a handful of other couples, they moved in
a clockwise direction, turning across the
parquet under the glow of a half-dozen candlelit
chandeliers. Elizabeth had never danced in a more
beautiful ballroom. It rose two stories with
floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding three
sides and Greek statues and bas-reliefs
decorating the fourth. As Arthur rotated her
around and around, mechanically counting the steps in his
head, she could not help but imagine waltzing in the
arms of Count Lubienski. Soon the dance
floor became more crowded and collisions more
frequent. Each impact made Arthur more
angry. "Can't these bloody fools keep
to themselves? This isn't the damned polka!"
He stopped and said he wanted to go outside for a
cigarette. Elizabeth went with him. In her
lace dress, she was freezing.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked. She could see
the perspiration on his brow and sweat stains on his
silk costume. In the glittering light from the
ballroom, his skin looked gray.
"It's a relief!" Arthur exhaled, the
smoke mingling with his steamy breath.
"You're going to catch your death out here," she
warned.
Staring at her sullenly, he slowly and
deliberately smoked his cigarette down to a
stub.
As they stepped back inside, Arthur
recognized a contact at the Polish Trade
Ministry.
"Is that you, Andrzej?" He pulled up his own
mask.
A white-faced clown nodded with a small
smile and invited them to join his group. The
conversation switched from Polish to French. They were
speculating on what 1938 might
bring.
"Hemlines are going up," a woman dressed
as a fairy princess predicted.
"And women's hair will be coming down," a
ballerina added.
"Ladies have such trivial interests,"
Andrzej declared. "What about something important,
like who will win the Polish Grand Prix?"
"Do you think Hitler will invade Austria?"
Elizabeth asked when she had the chance.
"Elizabeth," Arthur cut her off, "you
mustn't abuse people's hospitality with such serious
questions!" Then, Arthur steered Andrzej into a
discussion of the Polish trade balance for the next
fiscal year.
Elizabeth excused herself to go to the powder
room, which was located on the second floor of the
palace. As she climbed the broad staircase,
the man in front of her suddenly stepped across to a
woman who was coming down the other side. Without a
word or a moment's hesitation, he swept the
woman into his arms and kissed her passionately.
"Monsieur," the woman protested in
French, "I am a married woman! Do I know
you?"
"Tadeusz Brzezinski at your service."
He bowed. "You do not know me, but you shall!"
Elizabeth turned away from the scene and
hurried up the stairs, her own heart racing with
excitement.
King Augustus's palace proved to be short
on lavatories, and she had to wait in a long
line before crowding into a tiny room hidden behind a
bookcase. When she returned downstairs,
Arthur was nowhere to be found. She danced a
rhumba with Jack Shelly, and then, feeling
remote from the gaiety of the party, Elizabeth
wandered alone through the portrait gallery and several
of the other salons, fending off invitations to dance.
None of them, she could tell, was Count
Lubienski.
In the rotunda, she found that the cabin of a
carriage had been suspended like a swing from the
center of the four-story cupola. A line had formed
for those wanting a ride. Elizabeth took a
place with the others, accepting more champagne from the
waiters in an effort to make herself as lighthearted
as the rest of the crowd.
When her turn came, she insisted on entering the
enclosed cabin alone. As the swing was
pulled back to be released, she braced against the
seat. Abruptly, the swing stopped, suspended.
She could hear an argument going on in Polish.
Then the cabin was lowered again. The door opened and a
uniformed man wearing a frightening eagle's head
jumped inside. She knew at once it was
Lubienski.
"Forgive me. I've been watching you all
night. Following you like a fool. Afraid
to talk to you. I had to see you!"
The swing was released and began its slow arc across
the rotunda.
"Take off the mask."
"Do I look ridiculous?" He pulled it
over his head, his hair went flying.
"Now, you look ridiculous!" she laughed.
He had suddenly made the evening glow.
"Don't tease me!" he pleaded. "I've
thought of nothing but you since we parted. I can't work.
I don't even want to ride my horses!"
"You must be sick, you poor thing." She stroked
his cheek.
He grabbed her hand. "I must see you again! I
must have you!"
"But I'm a spy ..."
"Don't say that!" He grabbed Elizabeth
and covered her mouth with a kiss as if to stop her from
saying more. Suddenly, the swing jerked to a stop.
They both tumbled onto the floor. The door
flew open. Arthur stood there enraged.
"I thought so!" he bellowed. "I thought so!"
He slammed the door on them. By the time
Elizabeth managed to climb out, he was
disappearing into the crowd.
"Stop, Arthur!" she called out, but her
voice was swallowed up in the wave of laughter from
the onlookers.
She rushed after him, pushing through room after
room, past portraits, and statues, and
trompe l'oeil, and bas-reliefs. Shelly
spotted her and joined the chase.
"Arthur's made a terrible scene," she shouted
to him. "I'm afraid he might do something
crazy!"
Ahead, she saw Arthur yank open a door
to the terrace. Then he turned as if to warn her
against following him. His face was bright red. He
raised his hand and opened his mouth, but nothing came
out. He seemed frozen in the moment. His head
rolled back. She was almost to him.
Elizabeth reached for his hand, but missed it.
Pitching backward, Arthur collapsed through the
doorway.
"My God!" Elizabeth cried.
Several ladies screamed.
Shelly bent over him as he lay in the snow.
"What's wrong?" Elizabeth pleaded.
Arthur's eyes were open but staring sightlessly.
She could see that the pupil of one was very large and the
other very small.
"He needs to be gotten to hospital,"
Shelly declared.
"Take my carriage." Lubienski had
arrived at their side.
"What is it? What's happened to him?"
Elizabeth was too stunned to cry.
Jack Shelly picked up Arthur's arm, and
it fell back limply. "I think he's had a
stroke."

In the bare vaulted corridor of St. Tadeusz Hospital, Elizabeth clung to Jack
Shelly as they listened to the embassy
doctor. Count Lubienski sat with Shelly's
date on one of the hard wooden benches along the
wall.
"He's stable now," the doctor was saying. "But
Poland's not the best place for treatment. They're
partial to useless remedies like flushing his system with
evil-smelling mineral water, or packing him in
mud."
"What can I do?" Elizabeth felt the
weight of Arthur's life on her shoulders.
"Get him to London as fast as you can," the
doctor advised. "By airplane. I don't
think he'd survive a boat or train."
"Will he need a stretcher?" Shelly asked.
The doctor nodded. "Then it'll be Monday before
LOT flies out with one of its big Junkers or
a Lockheed Electra."
"That'll give me time to pull things together."
Elizabeth tried to sound in control, and failed.
"Oh, Jack." Tears came into her eyes.
"What will happen to us?"
"Don't worry," he reassured her. "The
Foreign Office has to help. And if they
don't, I'm sure our people will." He glanced
over at Count Lubienski. The young man looked
miserable and utterly in love with Elizabeth.
"It's a damn shame all the way
around," Shelly sighed.

Count Lubienski took Elizabeth back
to the Villa Frascati in his carriage. On the
way, they huddled under a heavy bearskin rug,
saying little to one another. As they drew up in
front of the apartment house, Lubienski took her
hand.
"Can I come up for a while?" he asked.
"Michael, my husband's in the hospital
close to death! And we put him there!"
"You must not blame yourself. It's all my
fault." He fell silent for a moment. "I
hope this"--he groped for the right word--"tragedy
does not come between us."
What could he be thinking? "You know I must go
to London." It was all she could say.
"But you'll come back!"
"I don't know, it depends on Arthur's
health."
"But you don't love him! You could not have been with
me, in the way that we were ...."
"I gave you my love and my body,
Michael, I did not give up my honor and
sense of duty."
"Forgive me!" he begged. "I didn't mean
to insult you." His voice had an edge of panic.
"But I'm in a turmoil. I can't lose you
now! You must come back to me!"
She could not help feeling concern. He was
suffering too. But how could she comfort him? "I
don't know what--" she started to say.
He put his hand over her mouth. "I need you!
I can't do without you!" He made no effort
to hide his desperation. "Would you come back to me"--
he pressed his cheek against hers, dropping his
voice to a whisper--"if I told you ..." He
hesitated. Then he blurted, "If I told
you everything you want to know?"
The wind had picked up and she could feel the
carriage rocking beneath her. How could she refuse
Lubienski? How could she abandon Arthur? What
would she say to Shelly and Stephenson if she
neglected this chance? She drew back and with her
fingers brushed the hair from his brow. "At least we
have tonight," she murmured. "And tomorrow night, and the
night after that ...."

Chapter 18

London, January 17, 1938
Dear Mother,
Arthur's much better. Until a few days
ago, all he could do was follow me around the room
with his eyes. Yesterday he spoke for the first time.
It's all mumbles, and the words are confused, but he
can say yes and no, even if he can't tell
left from right.
I'm spending most of my time at the
hospital, trying to get him to talk. The
doctor says I'll probably have to teach him the
names of everything all over again. He can't walk of
course, but his left side's not completely
paralyzed, and the doctor says there's hope of
recovery, particularly now that they've got his
blood pressure down. Thank God the
Brasswells are here. They're an embassy
couple we knew in St.-Jean-de-Luz, and
Barbara's become a stalwart friend, spelling me
at Arthur's bedside.
My biggest problem is with the Foreign Office
over our allowances. This little wart of a man from the
F.o. actually came to Arthur's room to tell
him that his medical allowance would only last a few
more weeks and then he'd have to move to a veterans'
hospital. As for me, there was nothing they could do
about my expenses. I could return to Warsaw,
leaving Arthur here until he is better, or
Arthur could formally transfer back to London, but
then of course he would lose his posting in Warsaw
along with the housing allowance.
Worse, there are no slots for him at the
F.o. He'd run the risk that Treasury would
force him out of the Foreign Service altogether, since
he's a B list not A list (i never knew
about it, but apparently B list appointments have
limited prospects, which means Arthur can never
make ambassador). Anyway, this toad
tells Arthur all this when he can't even
respond! His blood pressure rose another
ten points! I ordered him out of the hospital.
The upshot, Mother, is that this whole exercise
has been a great financial drain, and I was
hoping that you might provide a little help to tide
us over. I hate to ask and know you've your own
needs since Father died, but the situation has
become quite tight and any assistance would be greatly
appreciated.
Love,
Elizabeth

February 5, 1938
Dearest Elizabeth,
Glad to hear Arthur's better. Love
to help, but depression still rages here. Have you
spoken to Arthur's family? Or maybe the
Brasswells are a possibility. Keep your
spirits up.
Love,
Cora

54 Broadway, London--February
23, 1938
"I know it must be tiresome," Commander
Alistair Denniston said to Elizabeth. "But
could you run through your story once more?"
She had been very proud to get Lubienski
to talk. But for several weeks, between visits to the
hospital, she had been running through the "story"
of Lubienski's revelations in a frustrating
series of SIS interrogations: first, in
out-of-the-way flats, then, in anonymous town
houses, and now again, in a shabby meeting room in
a faceless building on Broadway across from the
St. James Park tube station.
It was ostensibly the Passport Office. But
after Captain Lance escorted her up a
rickety lift to the fourth floor then through a
rat's maze of corridors, he had stopped and
pointed down a hallway that disappeared into the
gloom. "That's the secret passage to C's
residence in Queen Anne's Gate."
Elizabeth had realized that she was being admitted
to the holy of holies--the headquarters of SIS.
The meeting room had a single window with frosted
glass that virtually blocked out the weak winter
daylight. In addition to Denniston and Lance, she
was being asked to repeat her "story" for the benefit
of a Mr. Dillwyn Knox.
"Hitler is planning to annex Austria before
spring," Elizabeth began. "If the Austrian
government calls a plebiscite to show how weak
the Nazis really are, he plans to invade--"
"I don't care about all that," Dilly
interrupted her, "I want to know about the
Enigma."
"The coding machine? It isn't very
complicated," she began again. "Count
Lubienski said that a team of Polish
mathematicians had solved the German cipher
system. Actually, he claimed that they had
broken the codes even before Hitler came to power
...."
"That's preposterous!" Knox declared.
"Please go on," Denniston said.
"That's basically it. The mathematicians'
names are Marian Rejewski, Henryk
Zygalski, and Jerzy Rozycki. I've
given you the spelling. Supposedly, they've set
up shop in a hunting lodge in the Pyry Forest
south of Warsaw."
"And they read everything?" Knox challenged her.
"I don't know. Count Lubienski said that
it's like a duel. The Germans make changes and
then the Poles figure them out. But he claimed
that they routinely read the signals of the
Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe, along with a few from
the German Navy and all the SD messages.
SD is the Gestapo," Elizabeth
explained.
"I know what the SD is," Knox sniffed.
"And did he, perchance, tell you how they manage
this feat?"
"He said something about number theory, group
theory. Does that make sense? He didn't
understand it and neither did I."
"Well, I just don't believe it!" Knox
insisted. "We've only recently broken the
older Enigma, the one being used in Spain. None
of our techniques work on the newer models. The
Germans obviously believe it can't be broken.
And, despite what you say, young lady, I
believe they're right!"
Elizabeth felt herself redden. "Then why would
Count Lubienski tell me such a thing?"
"In order to send us off on a wild goose
chase. Waste our precious resources
attempting the impossible. His boss, Colonel
Beck, is in the pocket of the Nazis, isn't
he?"
"That's rather conspiratorial," she replied.
"Professional disease," Denniston noted.
"We can't go on hearsay," Knox challenged
her. "I'll believe the Poles have cracked the
Enigma, when I see it."
"Well"--Elizabeth showed her irritation--
"I don't see how I can help you."
"When you go back to Warsaw,"
Denniston intervened, "we want you to put a
series of detailed questions to Lubienski."
"That won't work, I'm afraid," said
Elizabeth flatly.
"Why not?" Dilly Knox asked. "He
seems willing."
"Yes, I could get him to respond, but it's
still impossible."
"So what, pray, is the difficulty?"
"The difficulty," she said firmly, "is that
I can't go back as long as my husband needs
me."
"And how long is that likely to be?" asked
Denniston.
"The doctors say recovery could take six
months to a year."
"We can't wait that long," he said in dismay.
"Jack Shelly said you might be able to help us
out financially." She hated raising the subject.
Denniston frowned. "We might be able
to provide a little something ...."
"But you can hardly expect," Knox added, "that
you'd be paid for work that you refuse to do."

The car came to the Savoy to pick up
Elizabeth at nine A.m. William
Stephenson had asked her out to Sheperton
Studios for lunch, and she had eagerly accepted.
It was a welcome relief from helping Arthur
distinguish between his bedpan and the bedpost.
Stephenson's Rolls-Royce carried her
across the Thames, through south London, and into open
country. Scheduled to arrive at ten-thirty,
Elizabeth assumed her host planned to give
her a tour of the studio. She had not seen a
movie lot since she was a child. Returning to the
States from Hawaii, her family had stopped in
Los Angeles where her father arranged for
Elizabeth to spend a magical afternoon watching
Theda Bara film The Cheat.
As the Rolls-Royce drew up in front
of a stately old mansion flanked on one side
by a massive greenhouse, Elizabeth thought that it
looked nothing like the Spanish-style studios she
had seen in California. Excited, she plucked
a rose from the vase attached to the door pillar
of the car and pushed it through the buttonhole in the
lapel of her trim navy-blue suit. When she
stepped out of the car, however, a polite young man
disappointed her with the news that Mr.
Stephenson would not see her before lunch.
Apologizing, he showed her through the front door,
across a huge foyer paneled in mahogany with a
roaring fireplace, then up a sweeping
staircase to the second-floor room that proved
to be a private movie theater. It had a dozen
large and comfortable English club chairs arranged
in three rows. Each chair was equipped with a
panel of knobs and switches set into the right arm.
To the left sat a small table with a telephone.
Elizabeth was asked to take a seat, and the
room immediately darkened. For the next three hours
she felt plunged into a bizarre and terrifying
world. First came a newsreel of Hitler's
takeover of Austria and his entrance into Vienna.
Vast and adoring throngs, particularly women,
cheered and tossed bouquets at the F@uhrer's
open car as he made his way down the
Ringstrasse. This was juxtaposed with Nazi
hooligans beating Jews and various
democratic political leaders. The narrator
announced that tens of thousands of people were being arrested.
This was followed by a seemingly endless documentary of a Nazi rally in
Nuremburg. Thousands and thousands of uniformed men marched across the screen
in
lockstep like automatons for the glorification of the
Hakenkreuz, the "broken cross," the
swastika. Hundreds of thousands rallied
by torchlight in vast stadiums, their gleaming
faces rapt with devotion beyond reason, their
voices cheering in unison and ecstasy the most
appalling lies of a sweaty little man with a comic
mustache who mysteriously held them in his thrall.
It was absurd; it was horrifying, and Elizabeth
was fascinated with every frame.

"How did you like Triumph of the Will?"
Stephenson asked when she was shown into his
private office. "It's Germany's latest
cinema masterpiece."
"It should be called "Triumph of the
Willies,"" Elizabeth replied. "I
feel like I need a bath."
"Would you like to dip into a daiquiri instead?"
He led her through French doors and onto a
balcony that protruded into the greenhouse. "This
is where we grow the plants for our jungle
movies."
"The weather seems just right." She felt the
moist air from the forest of potted palms
and banana trees below. The waiter poured her
drink as they sat down at a small table.
"Cheers." Stephenson toasted and they each
took a sip.
"What is the idea of that movie?"
Elizabeth exhaled after he lit her
cigarette. "Do the Germans think that it makes
them look admirable? It shows them as a nation of
maniacs."
"Fear and grandiosity inspire them, I'm
afraid."
"And why did you show it to me?" she asked.
"You've been doing a remarkable job in
Poland. Have they congratulated you on your
reports on Hitler's annexation of
Austria?" The first course, baked oysters,
arrived.
"No, they haven't said a thing, and they
evidently don't believe a word I've
reported about the Enigma business, either." She
put out her cigarette.
"That's English arrogance and professional
pique. But now they can't stop until they prove
you right or wrong. Unfortunately, they haven't
even one mathematician on their staff."
"Mr. Knox isn't a mathematician?"
"Lord no, he's a classics scholar.
Greek, I believe."
"Well, I can't even balance my household
accounts. They'll have to do their proving without me."
"And how is your husband?" Stephenson looked
genuinely concerned.
"I can understand some of what he says these days,
though I'm probably the only one."
"And your son, have you had time to see him?"
Elizabeth stared at Stephenson in shock.
"How do you know ..." She stopped. Of course
they'd know.
"If you'd rather not talk about him ..."
"It's all right. He's fine. But it's
difficult. More for me than him, of course.
Staying here will allow me to see him more often."
"So that's why you're not going back to Warsaw?"
"So that's why you invited me to lunch?"
"Touch`e." He looked contrite.
"People have personal lives," she continued
solemnly, "and no matter how hateful, they
impose the most important obligations. Who
would look after Arthur the way I do? I dress
him and give him baths. Milbank
Hospital treats people like cattle. And as for my
son"--she paused--"well, I like to think he
needs me too."
"I'm sure he does," Stephenson
allowed, "particularly if you consider the future
he could well inherit. Do you want him to grow up
in a world like the movie, where Hitler's "w"' is
triumphant?"
Elizabeth put down her oyster fork. "I've
been flattered by a lot of men, Bill, but
I've never been told the fate of the world is in
my hands. Surely there are minds in Britain as
swift as the Poles' who can break the Enigma."
"Yes, but they're closed. You heard Dilly
Knox. He can't do it, so he's out to prove
it's impossible. Denniston isn't so sure, but
he's no expert. You're the only one who can show
that it has been done. Even then, it may take
years to duplicate the Poles' work. We need
everything you can possibly get from Lubienski."
The second course had been served and
Elizabeth had eaten very little. The daiquiri had
made her suddenly tired. "I'm sorry,
Bill." She shook her head. "Maybe I
need my head examined, but I can't leave Arthur
now."
Stephenson reached out and took her hand. "I
know it's been very difficult. Are you all right
financially?"
She shook her head and the tears came.
"If you're staying," he relented, "you'll
need a job. SIS only pays women a
pittance. Take this number." He handed her a
card. "I'm sure I can help find something
suitable."

She wasn't exactly happy, but for the first time
in months, Elizabeth felt that she was getting
her life under control. She had a job and a tiny
flat in Golders Green. So what if she had
to feed shillings into the heater to keep warm? At
least she now had the shillings. Hastening up the
steps of Milbank Hospital she was eager
to see Arthur. He had been moved to a large
dingy ward where most of the other stroke victims were
in long-term care, alive only in the sense that
their bodies continued to produce waste. To his
credit, Arthur had not complained, although
Elizabeth was not sure he fully understood his
circumstances.
He was sitting up, staring into space. Barbara
Brasswell sat beside him reading.
"I've got good news," she exclaimed.
He looked at her balefully.
"Everything's arranged. I've got a job at
the BBC World Service, writing the news!"
"Wonderful!" Barbara hugged her.
"Isn't that exciting?" Elizabeth said
to Arthur. "It pays enough so I can put you back
into a private room and get you a therapist.
I'll be able to come and see you every morning and evening.
Oh, it won't be easy, but you'll get better
every day and we'll ..."
Arthur had began to grunt. His eyes were
flashing.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
He wobbled his head and tried harder to form his
words.
"Arthur, I can understand you better if you calm
down."
He stopped and took several deep breaths.
"Nuh!" he managed to say.
"No?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I'll leave you two alone." Barbara
discreetly moved away.
"No, what?"
"Nuh, shay. Guh bag."
Elizabeth couldn't believe what he was trying
to say. She didn't want to believe it. "Are
you saying I shouldn't stay? That I should go back
to Warsaw?"
He nodded his head vigorously.
"My God, Arthur, whatever for?"
"Safe pshun! Safe jub!"
"To save your job? You want me to leave you
here in London to hold your place at the
embassy?"
He nodded again and let his head drop back
onto the pillow. Arthur was clearly pleased to be
arranging matters the way he wanted. He was
smiling with half his face.


Chapter 19

Villa Frascati, Warsaw--May 5,

Elizabeth lay in bed. The window to the
balcony stood open, and petals from the
blossoming apple trees drifted in
on the morning breeze. Count Lubienski had just
left for the Foreign Ministry. Now she would get
up, bathe, and dress for her daily contact with
Jack Shelly. And she dreaded it.
Not that she had nothing to report. Today, she would
pass along the fact that the German general staff
had informed Hitler of the completion of "Case
Green"--their plans for the invasion of
Czechoslovakia. She also had learned that
Lubienski had been ordered to go to Berlin on a
mission that was so secret even he had not yet been
told its purpose.
But Shelly would not be satisfied unless she had
information about the Enigma. Inevitably, he'd
start in on her about getting Lubienski under
"positive control." When would she stop dealing with
him as a source and recruit him as an agent?
To prove that the Enigma could be broken, SIS
wanted Lubienski to find out how the Poles had
done it. That meant turning him from a
collaborator, who shared what information came
across his desk, into a traitor who actively
spied on his own intelligence services.
It was the most delicate step in espionage.
If Lubienski reacted badly, they could lose
an extremely valuable source, as well as
provoke a major crisis with Poland.
Elizabeth might even find herself under arrest. Not
to mention what might happen to Lubienski. So she
had been dragging her feet while Shelly became
more adamant that she make a move. Easy for him
to say, Elizabeth thought angrily, as she
slipped into her bath. Neither he nor SIS had
been of much help in preparing her to "turn"
Lubienski.
Before returning to Warsaw, the "old boys" at
the Broadway headquarters had decided
reluctantly that she should be given some training.
She spent several weeks at a large stone
house in Prae Wood near St. Albans
learning what her secret service instructors
called "tradecraft."
How this related to her assignment was not always
clear. She started out learning to pick locks and
proved to be a whiz. Next she graduated
to opening and resealing letters. Elizabeth hated the
steam kettle because it frizzed her hair. Her
favorite tool was the bobby pin. Since the
bottom flap of envelopes were never glued all
the way to the corner, she would insert a
bobby pin into this gap, making sure that the prongs
gripped either side of the letter paper at the fold.
By twisting the bobby pin, she could roll up the letter
inside the envelope. Once tightly wrapped
around the bobby pin, the letter then could be pulled through the
unglued corner. Reinserting the letter was more
tricky, and Elizabeth found that the technique
worked best on thin airmail paper.
Her instructors also put a good deal of effort
into the preparation and use of secret inks. In the
end, however, they admitted that lemon juice, which
Elizabeth had learned about as a child from the back
of a Post Toasties box, worked about as well as
anything SIS chemists had concocted.
Messages written in lemon juice were
invisible until the paper was heated by a candle or
a light bulb.
After some insistence on her part, the teachers at
Prae Wood finally agreed to give Elizabeth
lessons in the use of a camera. She had
imagined learning how to use one of the new
cigarette-pack-sized Minoxes that she had seen
in the movies. Instead, they produced a bulky
two-pound British Argus, which needed a
special tripod and lens to take pictures of
documents.
"This would be a dead giveaway," Elizabeth
pointed out. "What about a miniature camera?"
"Forget that," an instructor known as Rob
responded. "We've only got a handful of
them. They're all spoken for by real agents."
Elizabeth spent a week practicing
surveillance and countersurveillance. On the
crowded streets of central London she received
pointers in how to spot a normal tail, a
decoy tail, and a front tail. She also
learned how to ditch them without appearing to have
recognized that she was under surveillance.
Elizabeth's favorite ploy was to dodge into a
clothing store and emerge from another entrance
dressed in a different outfit. She sent the
bills to Captain Lance at 54 Broadway.
Her final classes dealt with different ways
of contacting an agent. She concentrated on the art
of the brush pass, a seemingly accidental
collision with someone on the street, or in a
doorway, or on a train, that enabled one agent
to give documents to another. She learned how
to set up and service "dead drops"; variations
of the proverbial hollow tree where she
could leave messages for agents and vice versa.
Elizabeth proposed taping notes to the underside
of toilet seats in ladies restrooms: The
exchange took place in the privacy of a
stall, and unlike men's rooms, the seat always
remained down. Her instructors pointed out that the
technique would restrict her contacts to women and
transvestites.
She brought a definitely female
perspective to the traditional techniques of
tradecraft. On her last evening at Prae
Wood, her instructors took her for a
congratulatory pint at the Round Pub in St.
Albans. Well into her second shandy, she said
that she had a new idea about concealing small
negatives and messages on her person.
"Do tell," said Rob, faintly amused at
her presumption. "We've explored that rather
thoroughly, as you might imagine."
"Have you ever thought of putting them in a sanitary
napkin?"
Rob spit his lager all over the table.
When she returned to Poland, Elizabeth's
extensive training in clandestine contacts proved
almost entirely irrelevant. Count Lubienski
simply came to her flat in Villa
Frascati every morning at five A.m.,
crawled into her bed and staved until he had to go
to the Foreign Ministry. At five each afternoon he
would come back for cocktails, then return to the
office about seven to look over the late cable
traffic. In the evening, they would go out for dinner at
the Bristol, or the Europejska or
Gastronomja; perhaps later catching the review
at the QPQ or dancing the "tango milonga"
at the Aquarium. They seldom went to plays,
because Elizabeth did not speak Polish, but she
spoke some German and so could follow the Yiddish
productions at the Kaminski Theater in the
ghetto.
Instead of acting surreptitious or
clandestine, Elizabeth adopted a strategy of
"utter blatancy" in her liaison with Count
Lubienski. Affairs and mistresses were openly
accommodated in Warsaw--to the point that
Elizabeth often accompanied Lubienski
to Colonel Beck's official receptions. In
fact, the beady-eyed Colonel Beck always
made a point to talk to her in a way that suggested
a certain envy of Lubienski's affair
with Elizabeth. To have concealed their romantic
relationship would only raise suspicions that
Elizabeth was doing exactly what she was doing.
This behavior engendered a good deal of
disapproval and ostracism from the other wives at
the embassy, who could not understand why she was allowed
to stay in Warsaw disgracing the British community.
Fortunately, Lady Kennard was away in
America, which enabled Shelly, with C weighing in
strongly from London, to overcome the
ambassador's reluctance to permit her continued
presence while her husband was on indefinite
medical leave.
The Countess Lubienski proved not to be a
problem. Elizabeth once asked Michael how
his wife tolerated their open liaison. He
replied that she only insisted that he come home every
night.
Taking a page out of Antonio de
Zaragoza's book, Elizabeth arranged
to provide Lubienski with confidential information
on British policy, which he could pass
to Colonel Beck as a way of justifying his
close association with her. Jack Shelly gave
her "chicken feed," scraps of diplomatic
information cleared by SIS that Lubienski could
present as an intelligence windfall. He
believed that he was doing good for his country--
strengthening Poland's ties to Britain--
by collaborating with her, and she was constantly trying
to find ways to reinforce that conviction.
All of this was part of Elizabeth's carefully
designed strategy to bring Lubienski under
"positive control." This was the ultimate goal
of any recruitment. Theoretically, an agent
under positive control would do what he was told,
no matter what. According to SIS doctrine,
positive control consisted of two elements: first,
the personal bond between the agent and the subagent; and
second, coercion. Her instructors at
Prae Wood were very creative at coercion--
suggesting to Elizabeth all sorts of schemes of
blackmail and intimidation--but they hadn't a
clue how to blend attraction and coercion into an
effective program of manipulation. They put
that into the category of "talent" or "instinct."
Elizabeth concluded she would have been better off
discussing this aspect of her mission with her
instructors' wives.
That gave her the idea of seeking
help from her old friend Vita
Sackville-West. A few days before
Elizabeth departed for Warsaw, they met for
lunch in a lovely suite Stephenson had
provided her at Claridge's after her return
from Prae Wood. Cocktails and appetizers
had been spent commiserating over Arthur and catching
up on mutual friends. But with the main course,
Elizabeth turned to business. As casually as
she could, she asked Vita for advice on how
to get someone to do a thing they otherwise wouldn't
dream of doing.
"Darling"--Vita put down her lobster fork--
"why are you asking me?"
Elizabeth was ready for the question. She would hide
behind British understatement.
"Because of your experience."
Vita looked amused. "You mean, because I'm
lesbian? Don't tell me you're thinking of
..."
"No! Nothing like that!"
"Pity." Vita shrugged. "Men are so boring
and easy."
"Not this one. I've got to get him to do something
that goes against every fiber of his being."
"You're trying to make Arthur laugh?"
"I'm serious," Elizabeth insisted. "But
don't ask me what it's all about, because I
really can't tell you."
Vita Sackville-West looked
suspicious, then mischievous. "All right, your
rules." She opened her cigarette case and they
both lit up. "First, you must give him a reason
for doing it, no matter how implausible."
"I've done that." Elizabeth was thinking of
Lubienski's constant rationalization that he was
only strengthening relations between Poland and
Britain, which was of course true so far as the two
of them were concerned.
"And you have to give him a reason for doing it for
you."
"I've done that too. He claims he
loves me. But how do I get him to take the
plunge without destroying everything I've
established between us so far?"
"Ah, that's the trick." She got up, came
around to Elizabeth and put her hand on her
shoulder. "What if I asked you to go to bed with
me?"
Elizabeth was not ready for that question.
"I'm sorry," she coughed, "but I couldn't
possibly ..."
"What if I said, I wouldn't tell you the
secret of how to manipulate this man if you
didn't."
Was this part of the lesson, Elizabeth wondered,
or was Vita actually making a pass at her?
"I'd still refuse," she said categorically.
"Of course you would." Vita gave her shoulder
a squeeze then took her hand away. She drew
up a chair and sat down close to her. "Now,
what if I asked you whether you found me
attractive?"
"Well, yes," Elizabeth replied. In
fact, Vita looked stunningly handsome and much
younger than she was, with wide dark eyes, thick
silky hair, and a bold mouth. Her lean
supple figure carried her Liberty silk
shirtwaist gracefully. "But I don't mean in
a physical way, to me," Elizabeth added.
"And if I asked whether you considered me a
friend? Whether you cared for me?" She was staring
into Elizabeth's eyes.
"Yes." She looked away. "But again, not in
a physical way. What has this ..."
"Give me your hand," she said softly.
Elizabeth obeyed. Her touch was warm and
strange.
"Does that disturb you?"
"No," she lied.
"Can I ask you a favor? Would you kiss
me?"
Elizabeth withdrew her hand.
"That's all I'm asking," Vita pressed.
"I don't see how this relates ..."
"It will, I promise."
Elizabeth stood up and gave her a peck
on the lips.
"No, I mean, a real kiss." Vita
rose and put her arms around her. "Like this."
Elizabeth was disoriented by the sensation of
Vita's lips, her tongue flitting around the
corners of her mouth. Feelings stirred inside
her, confused by a powerful urge to push Vita
away. She could not deny the excitement that lay beneath
her sense of disgust. Her face felt hot and
flushed. Vita pulled back slowly.
"Now you know it's possible, don't you?" She
ran her hands over Elizabeth's cashmere
sweater and over her hips in an expert
way. "Your body is aroused. Only your mind
says no," Vita murmured.
Elizabeth felt her breath coming shorter.
"Your mind is fighting what it knows. You're
curious. You're surprised that you like my touch."
She was caressing her all over now. Vita bent
her head to kiss Elizabeth's neck, her hands
went up into her hair.
"Don't be angry with me," Vita whispered.
She pulled Elizabeth down onto the brocaded
sofa. "You have the same feelings yourself." Her hand
brushed aside Elizabeth's skirt and her
fingers began to trace a line up the inside of her
thigh. "You're excited. You want me."
"No!" Elizabeth jumped up. "I'm
sorry, Vita. This is not why I asked you
here!"
Her guest sat back and smiled easily.
"Would it bother you if I told others that we were
lovers?"
"That's not true!" Elizabeth reeled with
dismay.
"Only technically," Vita suggested. "Of
course, if we were lovers, I'd protect your
reputation."
Elizabeth felt consumed by guilt. How had
this happened to her?
"I don't want to hurt you--" Vita got
up and came toward her--"but I must have you. I'll
have you somehow," she said with growing intensity, "no
matter what. You'll be safe with me." She again
took Elizabeth in her arms.
Elizabeth was trapped, overwhelmed. She
burned with shame at the knowledge of her own forbidden
feelings, yet Vita's embrace felt oddly
comforting. She was a friend. She couldn't help what
she was doing. Why should Elizabeth destroy their
friendship, or her own reputation by rejecting
sensations that they both shared? What difference did it
make if she gave in? Vita was stroking her
intimately, and her body was responding.
Elizabeth could feel Vita's hard insistent
breasts against her own. Surrender seemed
inevitable.
"No," she struggled to say. But it sounded like the
kind of no she would have said to a groping boy in the
back row of a movie house in Washington.
"No!" She tried to be more convincing.
"You don't like this?" Vita purred as she
caressed Elizabeth intimately.
"No." But she could feel the strength going out of
her as the pleasure began to spread. "I mean
it." Elizabeth said helplessly.
"I know you do," Vita sighed. She released
her, and walked away.
Elizabeth stood there stunned, drowning in
embarrassment.
Vita coolly sat down to her lobster and
took a sip of wine. "I'm sorry,
Elizabeth, but I thought it best to show you how it's
done. I wouldn't take advantage. I know you
don't live on my side of the street."
"My God, how did this happen?" She
covered her face.
"You can't ask them straight out, no matter how
much they care for you," Vita continued
matter-of-factly. "One emotion is never enough.
There must be two, and they must conflict, need and shame, fear and desire,
that sort of thing. To produce such conflict you've got to get them
to step over whatever line they've drawn in their
minds. For you, I would guess the line was the
kiss. After crossing it, your prey will be slowly
paralyzed by guilt, and you can manipulate him as
you will. If you proceed carefully, you'll find it
works with the strongest character. In fact," Vita
concluded, "I'd say the strongest are the most
vulnerable."
Where did Count Lubienski's line lie?
Elizabeth wondered as she climbed out of her
bath and began to dress. She didn't know, or
maybe she didn't want to know. She had tried
hard not to love him. But she found herself incapable of
lying in bed with him, listening to his innermost fears
and hopes, sharing the sweetness of his body and the
passions of their union without experiencing a
profound affection and tenderness--feelings that she
cherished as much as he did.
So, she held back, and tried to delay the day
of reckoning. But Shelly would not be put off
indefinitely. What could she do to buy more time or
reduce the risk of failure? Give
Lubienski an audition? A trial run? A
test? Yes! That was it: a test to see how much
"positive control" she could exert over him. His
mission to Berlin provided the perfect
opportunity. She would insist that he tell her
what his secret trip was all about. No, she would
do more than that. She would demand he take her with
him.


Chapter 20

The Wasserspiele, Berlin--May 25,

"I feel like a kept woman," Elizabeth
complained. "No, worse. I feel like a bored
housewife. You hide me away at the Hotel
Adlon while you disappear all day for your
mysterious meetings."
The illuminated fountains in front of the bandstand
rose and fell in time to the music. As the
orchestra segued from "Blue Skies" to "Red
Sails in the Sunset," the lights playing on
the water changed from blue to red. Elizabeth found
it unbearably corny.
"We never go anywhere nice," she continued
petulantly, "and we never meet anyone." Her
frustration came from being isolated, her anger from
having failed to worm out of him the secret of his
mission. "You only sneak me out at night to some
seedy corner of Hitler's "new order.""
That evening, they were at the Berliner
Wasserspiele, a nightclub renowned not only
for its fountains and thirty-piece orchestra, but for
having a telephone at every table so that the patrons
could proposition one another anonymously.
"Have you seen the Imperial Museum?"
Lubienski offered. "The Humboldt collection
is remarkable."
"I've become an expert on the
pre-Columbian artifacts he stole from
Ecuador."
"How about sightseeing?"
"What's to see? Monstrous old buildings.
Monstrous new buildings that all look like
bloated versions of Roosevelt's New Deal
post offices. Flags and soldiers everywhere.
Everyone looking spic and span, except, of
course, the wretches with the yellow stars who clean
the sidewalks with their toothbrushes." Her eyes
flashed with the bright green of her low-cut chiffon
dress.
"Anger makes you more beautiful," he tried
to compliment her.
She was having none of it. "Maybe you'd like me
to go shopping? Pick you up some Hitler
memorabilia? Beer steins painted with
swastikas and the words to the "Horst Wessel"
song? No, Michael, nightmares are
bad enough at night." She lit another
cigarette. "And I want to see you in the
daylight."
"You know we have to be discreet," Lubienski
pleaded.
"Do you think we're fooling anyone? I'm
followed every time I leave the hotel! This afternoon I
stopped to drink a Berliner Weisse at an
outdoor caf`e on the Unter den Linden. My
"escort" looked so bedraggled I sent him
one too. I'm sure we've been followed here
this evening."
At this remark, Lubienski's glance began
to dart around the room.
"And this morning," Elizabeth continued, "I
found a microphone in the lamp by our bed. I
expect the Gestapo has enjoyed hearing us play
"horsey"!"
Lubienski's eyes widened even more
anxiously, not at what she had said but at something
over her shoulder.
The phone rang.
Lubienski froze. It rang again.
"Do you want me to answer it?" Elizabeth
asked.
"No!" Lubienski said too loud. He
snatched up the receiver.
"Guten Abend, mein lieber
Graf," a voice said. Elizabeth could not
make out the rest but Lubienski began nodding and
stuttering. "Ja, ja. Ja! Jawohl!"
He hung up, "My God, it's Colonel
Kruzel! Gestapo! He's here! He wants
to meet you!"
"How do you know him?" Elizabeth brightened. The
evening might become interesting after all. Before
Lubienski could explain, a mousey man in an
expensive-looking mauve brown civilian
suit with a red swastika armband arrived at the
table.
"Heil Hitler." He flapped his right
forearm up like a semaphore.
"Heil Hitler," Count Lubienski
responded. Elizabeth smiled warmly at
Colonel Kruzel. His face was round and
smooth with tiny features that included sharp black
eyes. Lubienski introduced them. Colonel
Kruzel bowed but did not click his heels. His
teeth needed work.
"Won't you sit down?" Lubienski
said uncomfortably.
"Perhaps the colonel would dance with me?"
Elizabeth intervened.
He looked surprised. Lubienski looked
appalled.
"Certainly," Colonel Kruzel
responded. "If Count Lubienski does not
mind."
"Please!"
They moved out onto the dance floor to the tune
of "Ghost of a Chance." Elizabeth found
Colonel Kruzel to be a half head shorter
and a very determined dancer. Maybe he could shed
light on Lubienski's mission. But he began
the interrogation first.
"S. What brings a lovely American
girl to Berlin in such days?"
"Just pleasure. It's exciting."
"You admire National Socialism?"
"Germany's the only nation in the world that's put
its house in order. And there's such a sense of
energy!"
"And where do you live?"
"Warsaw."
The band had shifted to rumba, and the Gestapo
colonel had a difficulty keeping time and
carrying on a cross-examination at the same time.
"So that is where you met the count?" he grunted.
She nodded and moved away, shaking her hips
at him. "I'm sure I surprised him by showing
up here. I leave in a few days for Prague."
"Whom do you know there?"
"The American ambassador. He's an
old family friend."
"Ah, so. Then it is coincidence that you are here
together in Berlin ...."
At that point, Count Lubienski appeared beside
them. "This song was my request, Colonel
Kruzel. Do you mind?"
The colonel didn't seem to know whether to bow
or say "Heil Hitler," but made way for
Lubienski to resume the dance with Elizabeth.
"Please join us at our table," she called
to him.
"What did he ask you?" Lubienski
whispered with a note of desperation. He then had
to move away in time to the music.
"About you." She turned. "Me." She turned
again. "Everything."
As they approached one another again,
he said, "This is a disaster." His face was ashen.
"He's my German contact!"
"Why have you kept me from such a lovely man?"
"This is serious." Lubienski seized her by the
waist and began to spin. "He will demand to know
everything about you!"
"Then tell him the truth," Elizabeth
suggested coolly.
"Are you mad?" Lubienski began to sound
frantic.
"Don't you pass on to the Germans the information
I've been giving you?"
"What do you take me for?" He looked
offended as the music separated them again. She also
saw that he was thinking through her point. "Of course
we do share some intelligence with them," he said
uncertainly.
"Then tell him I'm your mistress"--She
stopped dancing and led him off the dance floor--"and
your agent inside the British embassy.
Meanwhile"--she paused at the table to smile at
Colonel Kruzel--"I think I'll powder
my nose."
Elizabeth was operating entirely on instinct.
Being portrayed as Lubienski's agent might
make her part of their "club," and somehow put her
in a better position to uncover the secret of why
he was in Berlin. When she got to the ladies'
room, she found a line. Once inside she
discovered a woman dressed in a tuxedo hogging the
mirror as she tried to glue on a mustache.
By the time she returned to the table, Colonel
Kruzel had gone. Elizabeth felt
disappointed. Lubienski seemed morose.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Fine, he congratulated me."
"Then why do you look so glum?"
"You don't know this man. He's dangerous,
twisted."
"Don't worry so. How can this Colonel
Kruzel hurt you?"
Count Lubienski struggled. "Through you," he
finally said.
Elizabeth could feel his fear. "What do you
mean?" she said carefully.
His eyes showed his shame. "He accepted my
story about you, but ..." Lubienski clenched his
teeth. "Please understand," he pleaded. "My work
with him is extremely sensitive. I've never
had such responsibility. Oh, God"
--he reached out for her hand--"this could be the end of us
both."
"Michael, tell me what's going on," she
said gently, soothingly.
The orchestra started "Begin the Beguine."
"Colonel Kruzel insists you prove that you are
no risk to our undertaking with the Third Reich."
"What does he have in mind?" She pulled her
hand away.
"He wants you to ..." He shook his head
as if to deny the words. "When you go to Prague, he
wants you to do a "favor" for the Gestapo."

Prague, Czechoslovakia--May 28,

Elizabeth leaned on the railing to survey the
guests. The American minister to Prague,
Wilbur Carrs, was holding an afternoon tea dance
at Barrandov Terrace, a fashionable
restaurant on the city's southern outskirts, which
had been designed to looked like a ship: railings
of iron pipe following the line of curved
concrete walls, porthole windows, tiers of
rounded decks, and a tall central structure,
displaying the Czech flag, that resembled a
forecastle. Terribly moderne, Elizabeth
had thought when she first saw it.
The day was sunny, and the guests had spilled out
on to the terrace that overlooked the river
Valtava and the freshly green forested hills beyond.
From under her broad-brimmed hat, Elizabeth
searched for her targets, two men whom she had
persuaded Carrs to invite that afternoon. She needed
to take them in the right order.
The thought that she was being set up by the Gestapo
had never left her. The assignment seemed
simple. She was to carry a sealed envelope
into Czechoslovakia and deliver it to a Herr
Konrad Henlein.
"Who is he?" she had asked Lubienski as
he briefed her in the German staff car that
carried them toward Tempelhof airport. He
would be departing for Warsaw shortly after her flight
to Prague.
"Henlein's the head of the Sudeten Germans in
Czechoslovakia."
"The pro-Nazis?"
Lubienski nodded. He looked miserable.
Elizabeth had decided it would be better to do
nothing to ease his conscience.
"Why can't they send this thing through their
diplomatic pouch?"
He reached forward and slid the window to the driver
compartment closed. "Kruzel claims that they have
to keep their distance from Henlein because all the German
diplomats and Gestapo officers in Prague
are under intense surveillance by the Czechs.
They're trying to provoke an incident to prove
that Berlin is behind the Sudeten Germans."
"Perish the thought!" Elizabeth waved the
secret message under Lubienski's nose.
At first, she had considered refusing Colonel
Kruzel's proposal, but the more she thought about it,
the more she liked the idea. It fit Vita's
prescription. Lubienski was putting her in a
dangerous situation, and he hated himself for it. That
could come in handy later on, if there was a later
on. She had no illusions about the risks. If
the operation was bona fide, the Gestapo clearly
was not willing to jeopardize one of their own people. If
it was not, she could be in even greater danger.
So far, everything had gone smoothly. She had
sailed through the formalities at Prague
airport. Now, she stood in the spring sunshine
wearing a polka-dot linen dress, pretending
to enjoy the band, refusing invitations to dance, and
looking for Herr Henlein and the British
passport control officer, Clive Dunphy--
Jack Shelly's counterpart in Prague. If
she was going to deliver a secret message on
behalf of the Nazis, she damn well was going
to find out what it said. But she needed help. The
envelope for Henlein was too thick for the bobby pin
trick.
"That's Herr Henlein over there." Wilbur
Carrs came up to her. "I hope you
appreciate the scandal I'm causing among my
diplomatic confreres by inviting such a skunk
to my garden party. Your mother would never approve."
"You're a darling." She kissed him on the
cheek. "But I haven't seen Dunphy."
"He's in the bar getting tight."
When she found His Majesty's passport
control officer and local chief of the Secret
Intelligence Service Elizabeth wondered why
it was called getting "tight." Whiskey seemed
to have had the general effect of unraveling him. He
was leaning on the bar, tie askew, one hand hanging
on to his suspenders, the other holding on to his
glass. Her heart sank. Dunphy
looked like one of those ex-navy officers
Stephenson warned her about. With a ruddy face,
reddish hair, and droopy mustache, he bore a
slightly dazed expression as if he had just been
hit by a yardarm.
"Hello." Elizabeth approached him.
He reacted like she had stepped on his toe.
"Oh, how'd you do?"
"I'm a friend of Jack Shelly's in
Warsaw."
"Oh, are you now?" He screwed up his face
in a semblance of a suspicious look.
"My name is Elizabeth Pack." She
held out her hand. "My husband's assigned to the
British embassy in Warsaw, but I work for
Jack. And not licking visas. I was the one who
arranged for you to be invited here this afternoon."
It was too much for him to absorb all at
once. He decided first to shake her hand. "I'm
Clive, Clive Dunphy."
"We must find a place to speak
privately," Elizabeth insisted. "Come with
me."
"Slow down, young lady," he complained,
following along after her with a sort of seaman's
stagger. At the top of a short flight of stairs,
she turned into a vestibule. Holding up her hand
to keep him back, she opened the door to the
ladies restroom. It was empty.
"You can't be serious, miss," Clive
protested as she dragged him inside and propped
him up against the door.
"I'm in possession of a sealed document from the
German SD to Herr Konrad Henlein," she
said quickly. "I don't know what it is but I
thought we should find out."
"How'd you get such a thing?" he asked
skeptically.
"I can't tell you that, right now." She was not about
to share her story, let alone Lubienski's
identity, with a drunk.
His eyes narrowed. "This is irregular." He
shook his head, as much to clear it as to disagree.
"Definitely irregular. We should meet in my
office." He blinked firmly and looked
uneasily around the ladies restroom, tilting his
head to see if there were any ladies in the stalls.
"There's no time for that." Elizabeth reached under
her dress and pulled out an envelope bearing an
elaborate wax seal. He averted his
face. "This is the document," she explained.
"I'm supposed to deliver it today. Can you help
me open it?"
He took the envelope in his knobby hands.
"Just pull the bloody thing apart!"
"God no!" She snatched it back. "I've
got to hand it over intact. Don't you have
equipment for removing and replacing the seal?"
"No! And if I did, I bloody well
wouldn't tell you!" He was trying to recover his
manhood by getting belligerent. "I don't
even know who you are!"
She lifted her skirt and pushed the envelope
back into her garter belt. "I'll have to think of
something else. Go back to the embassy, and wait
for my call."
"See here, young lady ..."
"Cable Jack Shelly to check on me. But
I swear, if you don't do as I say, you'll be
back in Broadway cleaning dust bins before the
next bank holiday. Now, get going before I
start to scream."

When she introduced herself to Herr Konrad
Henlein, f@uhrer of the Sudeten Germans,
Elizabeth found it hard to keep from laughing.
Stumpy, dark, swarthy, and pockmarked, he did
not exactly fit the Nazis' ideal of a tall
blond Teuton. She spotted him standing alone
at the edge of the terrace pretending to be interested
in the scenery. Not a soul at the party had gone
near him.
"Herr Henlein, so good of you to come,"
Elizabeth greeted him.
He clicked his heels and bowed.
"I bring you greetings from mutual friends in
Berlin," Elizabeth continued.
He looked quickly around. "You are an
American?"
"Yes, but I have something for you from Colonel
Kruzel."
He became agitated. "We cannot speak here,"
he hissed.
"No one can hear us, but if you wish, we can
talk in your car on the way back into the city."
"Who are you?"
"Elizabeth Pack." She took his hand.
"And I'm a friend." At that Henlein looked even
more wary.
"Look, I can prove it," she said
warmly. "I'll even dance with you in front of
all these people."

The smell of the oil from the two-cycle engine of
Henlein's Tatra coupe filled the interior of the
car. Elizabeth lit a cigarette to cover the
odor.
"You can hand it over now," Henlein said from behind the
wheel.
Elizabeth reached out and touched his arm. "I
would, but it's concealed on my body."
"I will take you to your hotel. You can get it
then."
She thought she detected a hidden agenda in that
suggestion. "Unfortunately I'm staying at
Ambassador Carrs's residence. Don't you
have some place where we could go?"
Henlein appeared uncertain. "My office.
But my apartment is right above it."
Perfect. She put her hand on his arm again.
"I think we can be discreet, don't you?"

The afternoon sky was becoming overcast, and
Elizabeth found that Prague had taken on a
strange menacing quality. Built on a series
of hills along the Valtava, it was a baroque
city of damp winding streets and brooding Gothic
towers. Henlein had headquartered his movement in
an undistinguished four-story house in a small
German neighborhood tucked under the ramparts of
Hradcany Castle near the Charles Bridge.
Through the windows of the ground-floor storefront,
she could see uniformed workers in Sam Brown
belts scurrying around under posters of Adolf
Hitler and Konrad Henlein.
She and the Sudeten f@uhrer entered a separate
doorway on the left and climbed a flight of
stairs to the first landing. Elizabeth surmised that this
was his private office and that his apartment occupied the
next two floors.
He quickly closed the door behind them. "Would you
like a schnapps?"
The place looked less like an office than a
storeroom. Piles of papers, pamphlets,
posters, and books covered most of the floor.
Mysterious wooden crates were stacked in the
back. Ominously, the walls were covered with gun
racks holding a variety of rifles and
pistols. Was this armory designed to make Herr
Henlein feel secure, she wondered,
or provoke a raid by the Czech police?
"I'll drink, if you're having something. We
should toast," she replied invitingly and perched on
a leather sofa wedged into the mess.
"Yes, yes." He rubbed his hands together
eagerly. From his desk, which was set between two
windows that looked out onto the street, he
produced a bottle and two glasses. Weaving
his way through the debris, he sat down beside her and
filled their glasses.
"Now, you give me the documents?"
"Oh, let's have a drink first."
"Jawohl." He tossed his back. "Now,
the documents, please."
She smiled coquettishly. "You must hide
your eyes." Elizabeth thought she could detect a
hint of a blush under his sallow complexion as he
turned away. She reached under her skirt and
pulled out the envelope. When he took it in his
hands, she knew he could feel that it was still warm.
Henlein examined the seal carefully. "Sehr
gut!" he declared. He got up and went to his
desk where he slit open the envelope and
unfolded the document, spreading it out across the
desktop. He reached into his vest for a pair of
spectacles. "Oh! Oh!" he rhapsodized.
"Fra@ulein, you have made my dreams come
true!" He folded the paper again and put the
document into the top drawer, locking it with a key.
He hurried to the sofa, his little eyes red with
excitement. "We must toast again!"
Elizabeth shuddered the next one down. She was
starting to realize that the plan she had been
developing had certain major flaws. To get
her hands on the document, she first had to get the
key. To do that, she had to put Henlein to sleep.
To do that, she would either have to drink him under the table, have sex with
him, or both. But then what?
"Prosit!" He had refilled her glass.
She couldn't steal the document. The Gestapo
would come after her. And Lubienski. But with her
rudimentary German, she might not be able to read
it, let alone commit it to memory after her third
schnapps. In fact, if she had one more drink,
she'd be the one that passed out first. Of course, if
she was going to have sex with Herr Henlein, that would be
the only condition to be in.
Already his hand was on her knee, his face looming
close to hers. What an idiot she'd been
to get herself into the situation! Henlein's
forehead and cheeks gleamed, not with perspiration
exactly; it looked more like the film on the skin of
an amphibian.
"Herr Henlein." She firmly pushed him
away. "You presume too much! I'm happy for
your success, but we must maintain our sense of
decorum." She tried to get up, but he roughly
pulled her back down. His grip was strong.
"I am the f@uhrer here. My will is law."
His eyes had turned flat and evil. If he
decided to rape her, what could she do?
"If you force your attentions on me"--she thought
quickly--"you'll have to answer to my lover."
He laughed. "Who might that be?" he asked
scornfully.
"Colonel Kruzel."
That stopped him. But only for a moment. His
ugly smile returned. "Colonel Kruzel
would never have anything to do with you!"
"Because I'm not an Aryan?" She yanked her
hand away.
"No, because you're not a young boy!" And he
shook with laughter.
Elizabeth leaped off the sofa and stumbled to the
nearest wall where she yanked a Mauser pistol
off its peg. "Herr Henlein, I've completed
my mission. If you stay out of the way, I'll not
report you to my superiors in the Gestapo. If
you don't, I'll shoot you."
"Not with that," he moved to block the door, "it
has no magazine."
Elizabeth glanced at it. He was right.
He stepped toward her. "I like that you struggle.
It excites me. Do you want to see?" He
began to unbutton his pants.
She could try to hit him with the gun, or as the
saying went, she could relax and enjoy it. The thought
made her sick. Maybe she could bite it off,
but when he exposed himself, she nixed that idea. His
penis was short and fat, like the head of a
sledgehammer. She could scream, but in this place,
a scream might not be unusual. It would
probably keep people away.
So she did the only thing she could; she laughed.
Elizabeth laughed as loud and as lustily as
possible, throwing in some sharp "oohs" and "aahs"
for good measure. Henlein looked baffled. But then
his expression turned to panic when he heard the
knock on the door.
"Katzi! Katzi!"
"Mein Gott! Meine Frau!" The
color drained out of his face.
"Open up, Katzi! Open up!"
"Ja, Shatzi! Einen Moment!"
He bent over to stuff himself back into his
pants. Elizabeth flew to the door and yanked
it open.
"Whatever is this foolishness?" Frau Henlein
demanded. She was tiny but she carried a large
wooden spoon. The f@uhrer of the Sudetenland
Germans looked as spent and guilty as if
he'd had an orgasm.
Elizabeth handed him the Mauser. "Heil
Hitler." She saluted. His other hand
flapped up involuntarily. Smiling, she then
reached into his fly and gave his schwanz a
vicious twist. As she dashed down the stairs,
she could hear Frau Henlein striking him with her
spoon, and yelling, "Schwein!
Schwein!"
Six hours later, Elizabeth was back on
Henlein's doorstep.



Chapter 21

Mal@a Strana, Prague--Sunday,
2:00 A.m., May 29, 1938
Clive Dunphy remained behind the wheel of his
Austin while Elizabeth, dressed in a
navy-blue turtleneck, pea coat, and wool
sailor's cap, all several sizes too
large, picked her way past the simple outside
locks and into Herr Henlein's stairwell. The
risers were the most formidable obstacle. With every step
they groaned like the oppressed of Europe, the
sound echoing upward into the dark as Elizabeth
inhaled the odor of Frau Henlein's rabbit
stew, a pungent Hasenpfeffer. It took
five minutes for her to climb up to Henlein's
office door on the second floor, but with the
help of Dunphy's burglary kit, less than
a minute to get through it.
She paused. Everything was quiet. With a hooded
flashlight, she made her way across the room
toward Henlein's desk, then tripped over a
pile of books. Frozen, she listened for sounds
coming from the apartment above. Did she hear the ceiling
creak? Footsteps? She waited, breathless and
impatient. Clive had given her
only fifteen minutes. Otherwise the chance of
encountering the police or a patrol of Henlein's
Blackshirts became prohibitive.
Straining, Elizabeth could hear nothing. She
stepped to the desk and tried the drawer; it was
locked.
Immediately, she went to work, using a small hook
to snag the lever inside. With a snap, the lock
opened and she could pull out the drawer. She found it
jammed with papers. Was it the document on top?
No! He must have come back and moved it! She
clutched. Maybe it wasn't in the drawer at
all!
She had to calm down and think. Did he put
it back in the envelope? She couldn't remember.
What did the contents look like? How did it
feel when she was carrying it? Not a simple sheet
of paper and not a heavy document. And when Herr
Henlein looked at it, what had he done?
He'd unfolded it.
She searched through the drawer. At the bottom,
she found the envelope with the seal. It was empty.
But under it was a folded paper that felt right.
Placing it on the top of the desk, Elizabeth
opened up the pages. In the glow of the flashlight,
it appeared to be a map.
The contours were of Czechoslovakia, but there were
other lines and marks cutting across the country with
arrows pointing in different directions. A huge
chunk of western Czechoslovakia had an arrow
pointing west and the legend Nach
Deutschland: To Germany. Attached to one
corner was a brief memo to Herr Henlein. As
far as Elizabeth could make out, it instructed him
to demand that the Czechs allow all of the Sudetenland
to be unified with Germany. This was Hitler's plan
for the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia!
Time was running out. She reached into her tool
bag and took out the bulky Argus camera and a
short tripod. She set it up, extending the
legs as far as they would go. Still, she realized that
several pictures would be needed to get the whole
map. Measuring the distance from the camera to the desk,
she adjusted the focus, shutter speed, and F
stop accordingly. Attaching the cable release, she then
snapped the first picture.
What an idiot! It was dark! Digging into the
camera bag, she came out with the flash attachment
and a box of bulbs. Remeasuring the distance between the
map and the flashbulb, she had to reset the
F stop. Time was speeding by. She could imagine
Clive starting to work on the flask of whiskey she
knew he kept in his pocket. Finally, after
checking the apparatus three times, everything seemed
ready. She released the trigger.

Sitting outside in the darkness, Clive thought
the building had exploded. My God! he thought,
she's forgotten to close the bloody curtains!
The flash lit up the entire street. Then
another bolt of light bounced off the buildings and
then another. He could see lamps being switched
on in windows up and down the block. Another
flash and the window of Herr Henlein's apartment
began to glow. Clive panicked and hit the
horn. Lights suddenly appeared everywhere.
Windows and shutters were opened. People looked out.
He dropped the gearshift into first and stepped on the
gas.
* * *
The horn stunned her. Wait for me you
bastard, she swore silently. Elizabeth was
trying to pack away her equipment and get her
eyes reaccustomed to the dark at the same time.
Overhead, she heard a dull thud. Was that
Henlein walking across the floor? Quickly, she
refolded the map and stuffed it in the bottom of the
drawer. Then she suddenly realized: She had
been taught how to pick locks, but not how to lock
them again. As she struggled at the keyhole, she
thought she could hear steps coming down the stairs. She
tried to relax, to concentrate, to visualize how
the lock worked. No, the footfalls were
unmistakable. A light appeared under the crack
in the door to the landing. A hand rattled the
doorknob. The latch on the drawer finally
slipped back into place.
Elizabeth rushed to the back of the office and
ducked behind a stack of crates. She was
trapped. Should she call out to Clive? Would he
hear her? Would he get to her in time? Would he come
at all? As the door opened, she discovered that her
back was pressed against a railing. It was a
spiral staircase. It lead to the ground floor.
She heard Herr Henlein cursing and stumbling
over a pile of fallen books as she scampered
down the steps. Elizabeth moved swiftly to the
front door. It was bolted. While she
frantically picked at it, the lights suddenly
went on. A portrait of Der
F@uhrer glared down at her. Herr Henlein was
coming down the spiral staircase.
The lock gave way. She pulled open the
door and rushed outside. The street was empty.
Where the hell was the car? Where the hell was
Clive?
Dropping to the sidewalk, she began to crawl,
dragging her tool bag and camera behind her. She
prayed Henlein could not see her through the
storefront window. Just as Herr Henlein stepped
out, Elizabeth made it to the next doorway.
Pressed against the wall, she listened helplessly
as his footsteps came toward her. Then he
paused. Cursing again, he walked back inside,
slammed the door, and locked it. She could not
breathe until the lights went out.
Now what should she do? Wait for Clive to come
back? God no. The American embassy was
nearby, but how, at that hour of night and without
identification, could she explain herself to the Marine
guards, let alone her friend Wilbur Carrs?
Going to the British embassy would violate every
rule of security. She had to make it to the safe
house near the old town square where she had
changed clothes and Dunphy had a photo lab.
Elizabeth had a vague idea that the square
lay across the river and up a hill. In the maze
of streets at night she could easily get lost.
Still, it was better than standing there paralyzed waiting
for a police patrol or a group of Henlein's
Nazis to show up.
The cobblestone streets were damp and dark with long
shadows cast by the infrequent lamps. A mist was
drifting up from the river. All the buildings
appeared closed and shuttered. It might have felt
menacing, but exhilarated by her escape,
Elizabeth's imagination ran toward triumph.
She could have been in the eighteenth or seventeenth
century, a revolutionary fighting for Jan Hus
against the Hapsburgs, or a spy in the service
of Napoleon. She'd done it! Stolen the
Nazis' secret map. And all on her own!
She felt very proud of herself.
Walking under the streetlamps, she played
happily with her own shadow, watching it grow
to cover complete buildings, an entire side of a
street. But as she did, she suddenly thought she
detected another shadow, a shadow that seemed to be
following her.
The twin towers of the Charles Bridge
loomed ahead, the chisel-shaped Gothic roofs
floating above the fog that lay on the river.
Glancing furtively backward, Elizabeth
passed under the towers and hurried out onto the
ancient medieval bridge. Mist rose in
spindly tendrils to envelop the dozens of
religious statues that lined both sides of the
span like holy sentinels. She passed St.
Wenceslas, pious and heavily armed, and farther
on, the figure of St. Vitus arrived out of the
night. Why was St. Vitus garbed as a Roman
Legionnaire, she wondered, her mind seeking
to escape the growing fear that she was being trailed.
She began to walk faster.
From the left, St. Augustine with a burning
heart in his hand came toward her out of the fog. A
tortured St. Francis Borgia
materialized from the right. A vacant-eyed St.
Wenceslas appeared again, then St.
Christopher's staff thrust at her from the mist and
John the Baptist, swathed in hides and
sheepskin, revealed himself momentarily in the
swirling damp. Whenever Elizabeth strained
to look behind her into the nebulous night, she found it
difficult to distinguish the statues from the apparition
that seemed to be stalking her.
If she hurried faster, the figure seemed
to keep pace. When she slowed down, it dropped
back. Nearing the Old Town Tower at the end
of the bridge, the last statue, St. Bernard,
appeared to bend toward her in a useless offer of
help. Once past the tower, the fog cleared and
Elizabeth started running. The street was steep.
Her breath came harder, the bag of tools felt
heavier and heavier. At the top of a short flight
of steps, she looked back. A man had emerged
from the mist. He headed straight toward her.
Down the street she saw a high wall and then
a church. Hurrying forward again she opened the bag
and took out the Argus. By the time she reached the
wall, Elizabeth had removed the film. She
heaved the camera and the bag over the wall and made
for the sanctuary of the church. Only it turned out not
to be a church. It was a synagogue, and it was
closed. She began to run again. Rounding the
corner, she found two more synagogues, and between
them a low iron gate that barred the way to a
graveyard. It was the only place to hide.
She had never seen a cemetery like it. A
jumble of tombstones leaned against each
other like dominoes. Thousands and thousands of them,
only inches apart, stuck out of huge mounds of
earth with narrow footpaths running in between.
Elizabeth realized that this must be the ghetto
cemetery. For hundreds of years, it was the only
place in Prague that Jews could be buried.
Generation after generation had been stacked one upon the
other in an area no larger than a city block.
She heard the gate crash. He was coming in after
her. And he had a flashlight. Lying down, she
began to crawl through the thicket of headstones. A
misty rain had started to fall.
Elizabeth could not see her pursuer but could
follow his movements from the beam of his flashlight.
As far as she could tell, he was staying on the
paths, not venturing into the wilderness of
gravestones. She continued crawling through the mud
until she found a spot where she could wedge herself
in between a sizeable mausoleum and several very old
and tall stones that leaned against it. With her face
pressed against the black earth she began to pray.
Given her circumstance, she addressed her
prayers to Jehovah.
Suddenly, the flashlight lit the stones near
her head. Unknowingly, Elizabeth had picked a
hiding spot only a few yards from another path.
Should she get up and run? Surrender? Craning
her neck, she could see his feet coming down the
path. Who the hell was he? The police? Why
didn't he shout for her to stop? Henlein? Why
didn't he curse her? The man had on heavy
shoes with thick soles, the kind someone who had
to stand around a lot would wear. She felt a chill
colder than the ground. Maybe he was Gestapo.
As he passed by, Elizabeth could see that the
hand not holding the flashlight held a gun.
He continued down the path a few paces and
stopped. Then he came back toward her.
Sweeping the light in a circle around him, he
stood still, listening. Elizabeth's heart beat so
loudly in her ears she was certain it would give her
away. She could feel the flashlight stabbing at
her between the gravestones. Fear erased all thought.
She pushed her face against the ground until mud
filled her mouth. He was almost on top of her.
She heard the metallic rasp of his pistol being
cocked. A thunderclap shattered the air.
The skies opened up and the rain poured down.
Seconds, minutes, hours all seemed the
same. Time remained suspended,
paralyzed, until finally, he clicked the
safety back into place and slowly moved away.
When the dawn came up, Elizabeth was still
huddled under the gravestones like one of the dead.

Trans-Carpathian Express--May
31, 1938
"He was probably from the Czech secret
police," Count Lubienski said, "watching
Henlein's house." He had flown down
to Prague to accompany her back to Warsaw
by train. They were sitting in a nearly empty dining
car finishing lunch. Elizabeth continued to gaze out
the train window at the sharp snow-clad peaks of the
High Tatras.
"I don't think he was out to kill you."
Lubienski tried to sound reassuring, but succeeded
only in belittling her.
"Michael, I want to know all about it."
"What more can I say?" he protested.
"Why you, why me, why the map?"
He remained silent for a minute. The guilt
was etched in his face. "You must understand, I've
only given you information about the Germans or
Russians. I've never told you anything about
my country's secret plans."
"You told me about the Enigma."
"Only to help you against our enemies. But if
I explained the map, it would be treason."
So this was the line that he had drawn in his mind,
the line she had to get him to cross.
The sound of the train against the track turned into a
roar as they crossed a bridge that spanned a
wide ravine. A waterfall tumbled down the
mountainside and disappeared beneath them.
"Michael, I almost lost my life for you.
If I had refused to cooperate, what would the
Gestapo have done to you? Think about it. I have."
Lubienski rolled his eyes as if he
refused to hear what she had to say. "You put me
at risk by going to Henlein's!"
"I could have easily handed the envelope over
to British intelligence in Prague, but I
delivered it as promised. And do you know why?
To save you." She could see the shame spread across
his face. "What does a gentleman do in
response to such a generous gift from a lady?"
"Is that why you have rejected my attentions?"
"Michael, you don't want to make love
to me"--she had kept him at bay for
two nights--"you want me to tell you that
everything's all right. That you're still a man in my
eyes. You are! But only if you've the courage
to tell me why you put me in such a position.
What if the Czechs had caught me? You know you
were risking my life."
He stared out the window at the clean white
mountains rising to a bright blue sky. When he
looked back his eyes were full of sadness. "I
know we are going to part, you and I, and one day I
feel we are going to meet as enemies. You must
wear a white carnation on that day to show that you won't
kill me or denounce me!"
"What are you saying?"
"We're going to take a bite of the apple."
"You're going against Czechoslovakia too?"
"That's what the map shows. When Hitler
invades Czechoslovakia, Poland will also take
a piece, the province of Teschen. That's what
I was arranging in Berlin."
"You'll be Hitler's ally! That could mean war
with Britain!"
"Yes, we will be on opposite sides.
I'm against it, but I have my government's orders!
You must protect me!"
Elizabeth sat quietly for a moment. She
could see the worry on Count Lubienski's
face.
"Of course I'll protect you. They'll
never know this information came from you."
Lubienski sagged with relief.
"But on one condition," Elizabeth continued.
"What more do you want?" he begged her.
She smiled and reached out her hand, placing it on
his arm in a gesture of reassurance. "The
secret of how you've broken the Enigma."


Chapter 22

Hollywood Kino, Warsaw--June 4,

"Don't you bloody lie to me,
Elizabeth," Shelly whispered fiercely. "You
didn't do it all by yourself."
They were sitting in the plush loge seats of the
Hollywood cinema on Hoza Street watching
The Lady Vanishes. Margaret
Lockwood had just returned to her train seat
to find that her friend, Dame May Whitty, had
disappeared and everyone else in the compartment
pretending that they had never seen her.
"Of course Clive helped me,"
Elizabeth whispered back. "He checked with
you."
"I mean that cock-and-bull story you fed
Dunphy about a stranger on the plane giving you
an envelope to deliver to Henlein. Do you take
me for a fool?"
"I told you ..."
"That map is tantamount to a declaration of
war!" The whispering frustrated him. "No Nazi
agent would just hand that over to some American girl
he'd just met on an airplane! And why did you
accept it?"
"I'd no inkling what it was about until
Wilbur Carrs explained that Henlein was a
Nazi ...."
He glared at her in disbelief while she
pretended to watch the screen: Margaret
Lockwood was trying to persuade everyone on the
train that her friend had been abducted, but they
wouldn't believe her. Elizabeth had to admit that
leaving Michael and Colonel Kruzel out of her
story made it sound quite lame. But she had
promised to protect Lubienski.
"I want you to leave the theater," Shelly
growled, "walk over to Marsza@lkowska, and
take the number three tram toward the Place
Wilson. Get off at the next stop and take
the first one back. We've got to talk!"
Elizabeth did as she was told. When the
tram hissed to a stop, and Shelly climbed
aboard, the car was virtually empty. She
assured him that none of the passengers got on with
her.
She could see that he was in a rage. "Let me
explain something to you, Elizabeth. Downing
Street plans to warn Hitler that Britain will
side with the Czechs and French--all because of your
map! But we don't know if it's a deception,
a provocation, or real. We must know how you got
it. If you don't come clean, it's back
to London with you. And don't think that'll be the end
of it. You'll spend weeks, months, even years
being interrogated at Prae Wood. Only you
won't have that comfy little room overlooking the downs,
you'll be living in the cellar."
She could not look at him. Instead her mind had
fastened on the women bustling along
Marsza@lkowska Street preoccupied
with their daily shopping. What would their kind of
life be like? To go to the stores in the afternoon with
girlfriends. To go back to a modest apartment and
prepare an evening meal and then have your husband come
home and share it? To have someone in your bed the entire
night. There were children too, in Elizabeth's
fantasy.
"Answer me!" Shelly said angrily.
"But I gave my word," she said quietly.
"You also gave your word to me. And to His
Majesty's government. If you break it, that's the
first step in being turned. Is that what's happening
here? Are you being turned by someone?
By Lubienski?"
Good God, Elizabeth thought, maybe that was the
setup after all. Maybe Michael was trying
to get her under "positive control." Maybe
that's why she'd been followed ever since returning
from Prague.
"Was it Lubienski who got you to carry this
map to the Sudeten Germans? The Poles are
becoming thick as thieves with the Nazis now.
Once you start to lie to me, you can never tell me
the truth."
Shelly was right. But how, Elizabeth asked
herself, can I explain having knowingly worked for the
Gestapo? That will really send him and the boys in
Broadway around the bend.
"Tell me what happened, or I won't ever
be able to trust you again!"
He doesn't trust me now, she realized.
He won't if I lie, and he won't if I
don't. She had been too clever by half. Was
her career over just as she was about to succeed? She
decided to tell him everything.
His face went blank in amazement. "You'll
have to go back to London for a debrief," he
gasped.
"I can't do that," Elizabeth said firmly.
She had not finished her explanation.
"It's not a question of can or can't!"
"If you force me, I'll have to cancel my dinner
party."
"Pity," he said sarcastically. "Should I be
crushed?"
"Only if you care about getting your precious
Enigma machine."
"Now what are you talking about?"
"Lubienski told me that in breaking the
German code, the Polish Cipher
Bureau also figured out how to duplicate the
Enigma machine."
"No." His mouth hung open in disbelief.
"They've made a dozen copies, and I've
a scheme to get the plans."

The Broadway Buildings, London--
June 9, 1938
Menzies thumbed through a black folder tied
together with crimson ribbon, "Cynthia's"
operational plan for getting the schematics for the
Enigma machine. The concept looked simple, but
he saw that the execution could be quite tricky.
Cynthia proposed to invite Edward
Fokczynski, founder of the AVA Radio
Manufacturing Company, to dinner along with the
British assistant commercial attach`e and
Count Lubienski. Ostensibly, the purpose
would be to discuss the export of AVA radios.
The real reason was that AVA was the company
manufacturing copies of the German Enigma
machines. Where there were copies, she reasoned, there
had to be diagrams of how to make them. Menzies
turned to the key parts of her plan:

MOST SECRET/CYNTHIA page 2 of 2
-- Fokczynski usually spends 18 hour
days in his office on Nowy Swiat. It is
only 10 minutes away from the Villa
Frascati.
-- The Enigma machines and other secret
equipment are produced at a modern factory
in the suburb of Mokotow. Unfortunately,
surveillance has established that the factory is
impossible to penetrate, because of the guards and the 24
hour work shifts. However, Lubienski believes
copies of the schematics are also kept at
Fokczynski's laboratory in Nowy
@swiat.
-- Fokczynski is usually the last to leave,
exiting by the back door and putting the keys in his
coat pocket.
-- At the dinner party, Lubienski will
pretend to be called back to his office. He
will take the keys from Fokczynski's coat and
enter the AVA laboratory. There is only one
guard stationed at the front door.
-- Lubienski has visited the laboratory
several times and knows where to look for the plans. The
drawers have only simple locks, and the
keys should be on Fokczynski's ring. If not,
I have taught Lubienski how to pick them.
-- After photographing the relevant
documents, Lubienski will return to the party and
replace the keys.
-- Cost of the dinner should be about 30 pounds.

A stack of memos followed with various
amendments and changes. They added up to a
bureaucratic muddle. If the plan succeeded
everyone could claim credit; if not, it would be
Menzies's mistake. He pushed the button
on his intercom.
"Are they all here?" he asked his secretary.
"Everyone but Dilly .... No, here he
comes."
They all filed in, Lance, Denniston, and
Knox bringing up the rear as usual. Menzies
began tapping a pencil on his desk.
"So, how do we all come out on the Cynthia
caper? I've read your memos and I'd like your
candid opinions."
Captain Lance spoke first. "The chaps in
operations think it's damn silly, a dinner party
and all, but when I pressed them they had no
better ideas."
"Well, I question the whole thing," Knox
broke in. "Here's this woman who admittedly
did a job for the Nazis, and lied about it at first,
coming up with a plan that puts our best source in
jeopardy."
"Best source?" Denniston noted. "That's the
kindest thing you've ever said about our Cynthia."
"I don't follow you, Dilly," Captain
Lance added. "If she's been turned, it would have
been Lubienski who did it. He wouldn't be
blowing himself."
"Shelly says"--Menzies picked up a
cablegram--"that "if this comes off, we can stop
worrying about whether Cynthia or Lubienski have
been "doubled" by the Nazis.""
"And if it doesn't?" Knox insisted.
"What if it's all a provocation? An
excuse for the Poles to break with Britain and
side openly with the Germans?"
That gave them all pause.
"Poland is already siding with Nazi Germany over
Czechoslovakia," Denniston observed. "So
we must expect that Cynthia's days are numbered
as a conduit of Polish intelligence on
the Germans. That's all the more reason to spare no
effort to get enough information on the Enigma so we can
break the code ourselves."
Menzies rubbed his face. "All right then,
we'll go with it. But I want each of you
to monitor every detail with the utmost care." That
meant if something went wrong, he intended to blame
down.

Warsaw--Thursday Evening June 23,

Elizabeth's plan turned out to be misleading
in one respect. Her dinner became an
elaborate affair that cost over one hundred
pounds, not counting the price of her gossamer gown,
a copy of a Jean Patou that revealed more than it
concealed.
For the sake of security, Elizabeth decided
to invite all four of the founders of AVA--
Fokczynski; Antoni Palluth; and the
brothers Danilewicz, Ludomir and
Leonard. She wanted to make sure that none of
them accidentally showed up at the laboratory
while Lubienski was rummaging around inside. But
to make the event more festive, she had also invited
the popular tenor Jan Kiepura and the architect
Bohdan Pniewski. Everyone brought his wife
or mistress.
This was the first dinner party Elizabeth had hosted
since returning to Warsaw. Her American
Revere silver, traditional English china, and
Spanish table settings looked out of place in
her sleekly modern apartment, so Shelly's
financ@ee kindly lent her Jugenstil flatware
and dishes from the Josef Hoffmann studio in
Vienna. She reinforced the kitchen with two
sous-chefs, and for the occasion, hired two
waiters as well as a butler from the British
embassy who was given instructions to make very
large drinks for the cocktail hour.
In Elizabeth's experience, it was easy
to get the Poles to drink but not to get them drunk.
However, having talked her guests into trying
American dry martinis, things were moving right
along. By the time they sat down to dinner, everyone was
quite merry. Halfway through the quail eggs @a la
Russe, the butler arrived at the table with the
prearranged telephone call for Count
Lubienski.
"I've got to go into the office,"
Count Lubienski apologized when he returned
to the dining room.
"Is it war?" Elizabeth asked in mock
horror. "Should we pack our bags?"
"No, it's far worse," Lubienski
replied. "It's Colonel Beck."
Everyone laughed and raised their eyebrows at his
candor.
"Your foreign minister needs a social
life," Ludomir said.
"But who would invite to their table," the architect
Pniewski asked, "a man that Paderewski
describes as "that little shit"?" He got up
and bowed to Elizabeth. "Forgive me, madam, for
my language."
Joining in the laughter, Lubienski also bowed,
then kissed Elizabeth's hand. That brought her a
surge of relief. The kiss indicated that
Lubienski had gotten the keys to the AVA lab
out of Fokczynski's overcoat. "Hurry
back," she said as he departed.
The issue of the keys had been a major point
of dispute with London in planning the party.
Broadway wanted a black tie dinner on a
weekend in order to minimize the chance of anyone
being at the lab. SIS preferred black tie,
because Fokczynski was known to be very fastidious about
his appearance. They assumed that he would leave his
bulky key ring in his overcoat rather than spoil the
line of his tuxedo.
Elizabeth overruled them. It would be a
weeknight and business dress. She wanted to be
able to explain Lubienski's departure more
easily, and to ensure that Fokczynski came
directly from his laboratory. If he went
home to change, he might well leave his keys
behind.
She examined Fokczynski as he finished his
Baltic salmon. He was the most reserved of the
four partners. When Lubienski had balked at
becoming a burglar, Elizabeth threatened
to introduce herself to Fokczynski and seduce him
into giving her the plans. Lubienski had flown
into a rage, but in the end, agreed to do what she
wanted. He needn't have worried. As far as
Elizabeth could tell, the AVA founder would have
been completely impervious to her charms. Spare
and austere, Fokczynski accurately fit
Shelly's profile as a man passionate only
about his work, his country, and his church.
She checked her watch. It was nine-ten.
Lubienski should have arrived at the lab. She
took another sip of Chablis to calm herself.
There was a time when she had thought the operation would never
get under way. Even when Shelly's
surveillance had confirmed that the plan should work, and
after they'd gotten a preliminary green light and
all the dinner invitations had been sent out and
accepted, London still had not given its final
approval.
"What's taking them so long!" Elizabeth had
demanded one day from Shelly.
"Our superiors are arguing over the cover
story."
"If we fail?"
"No, if you succeed."
"They're planning to take out an ad on the
front page of The Times?"
"Don't be silly. But we'll have to explain
to our cryptographers how we got hold of the
plans."
"I see. And who's going to get the credit?"
"I'd say that right now, the leading contender's a
nameless Polish mechanic who works in a German
factory where the Enigma machines are made."
"And who gets the blame if something goes
wrong?"
He smiled sympathetically. "It's a man's
world, Elizabeth."
"And I'll be odd woman out?" Shelly
didn't have to answer.
The butler suddenly arrived at Elizabeth's
side. "Sorry to disturb you, madam, but I have
a phone call for Count Lubienski."
She was startled. "Who could it be?"
"It's from the Foreign Ministry." Everyone at
the table heard him.
Elizabeth felt her heart constrict. They
hadn't planned that his office might actually need
him! "Say he's on the way." She tried
to sound casual as possible.
But her mind raced. It was nine-thirty. If
everything went smoothly, Lubienski would be back
in a half hour, and he could call his office with
some excuse. He'd been busy with Beck and
hadn't seen whoever was calling, or something like that.
She told herself to relax, and rejoin the conversation.
The assistant commercial attach`e and
Antoni Palluth were exchanging experiences about
crystal sets in high school. As they
talked, Elizabeth could not keep from imagining
what Lubienski was doing at that moment. She could
see him inside the laboratory trying
to determine which of the dozens and dozens of thin file
drawers held the plans to the Enigma.
Lubienski had made several visits to AVA
and saw that the lab had no special storage
vault for highly classified material. By the
same token, there was no way to know which file
drawer might contain the Enigma drawings. With
growing nervousness, Elizabeth could picture
Lubienski frantically unlocking and ransacking
every file in the place.
To clear her guests' palate between courses, the
waiters arrived with a champagne sorbet. Behind
them, the butler appeared again to tell Elizabeth
that the Foreign Ministry had called once more.
"They were very insistent. I took the liberty,
madam, to say he had left for the ministry a
half hour ago."
She felt helpless. She was helpless. By now
Lubienski should have found the drawings and be
photographing them. Shelly had warned that it was
bad luck when Lubienski had refused his
Argus and insisted upon using an eight-millimeter
Minox given to him as a gift by Colonel
Kruzel. She had to stop being superstitious.
She had to calm down. She had to pay more attention to her guests. Lubienski
was late, but not overdue. Besides, Shelly was parked outside the
lab to cover him. The only person they had
to worry about was the guard, an old man who
hardly ever left his office. As for the Foreign
Ministry, what could they do? Nothing. She and
Lubienski would make up a story.
"Sorry, madam. It's the telephone again,"
the butler whispered. "A Colonel Beck.
He asked for Count Lubienski but now insists
on talking to you."
Elizabeth excused herself from the table to receive the
call.
"What have you done with my aide?" Beck
demanded.
"I might well ask you the same thing," she
responded coolly, but trembling inside.
"Don't be impertinent. This is a matter of the
utmost urgency. Your servant says he was
there."
"Was, yes."
"Well, he has not arrived here!
Perhaps you're not the only woman in his life,
Mrs Pack."
"I expect him back," she protested.
"When?"
"Soon."
"I'm dispatching a messenger to your home with
important documents which he is to read and then
phone me at my office." He hung up without
saying good-bye.
What was she to do? If her guests saw the
Foreign Ministry messenger, they might begin
to wonder what was going on. Damn! When she
took this job, she knew she was going to need an
apartment with two entrances and three exits!
By the time she returned to the table, her guests were
well into the roast veal. She made sure that their
wine glasses were refilled. Leonard
Danilewicz was telling a story.
"This peasant was under his apple tree holding a
huge pig in his arms. He was lifting it up
to reach one of the apples. Each time the pig ate
an apple, the peasant, exhausted, would have to set
it down to rest. Then he would pick up the pig again
and maneuver it into a position where it could get at
another apple. Finally his neighbor came over
to him and asked what he was doing.
""This is my favorite pig," the peasant
replied, "and he just loves apples."
""But why don't you simply shake the
apples from the tree? It would save a lot of
time."
"The peasant grunted as he struggled to lift
the pig up to another apple. "But what is time
to a pig?"'"
Everyone laughed except Elizabeth. Time was
everything! Her guests were enjoying themselves
enormously, and she was dying inside. Her watch
indicated that Lubienski should be out of the lab and on
his way back. She prayed that he would arrive before
the messenger. That way he could explain to the guests that he forgot
something .... "We started AVA with what for you would be one
thousand dollars." Fokczynski had finally warmed
up and was talking about the origins of AVA. "It
was 1925. We all had other jobs ..."
The butler appeared again. This time he merely
put his fist to his ear and Elizabeth knew she
had to take the phone.
Beck was on the line again. "Is he there
yet?" he said peremptorily.
"No, I'm sorry, he's not here. Neither is
your messenger."
"I didn't send him. I'm coming myself!"
"But I have guests!"
"And would it be a disgrace to have the foreign minister
of Poland call on you?"
He was getting on his high horse, and that was when
Beck could be most troublesome. Once when he was
to go to London to receive a huge amount of
economic aid, he postponed the trip until
he was assured that a red carpet would be unrolled
from the steps of his train, all the way through
Waterloo Station, to the door of his
Rolls-Royce.
"Of course you're welcome to come,"
Elizabeth said soothingly. "Would you care for
dinner?"
"That won't be necessary. Just produce Count
Lubienski." He rang off.
The Foreign Ministry was in the Br@uhl
Palace on the Plac Theatralny, less than
fifteen minutes away. When Beck got there,
would he recognize her guests? Of course.
Everyone knew everyone in Warsaw and AVA was
renowned in the government for its secret
projects. And, when Beck saw the directors
of AVA gathered together at Elizabeth's table
while Count Lubienski had mysteriously
disappeared ... Lubienski had to get there first.
Where the hell was he? Maybe Lubienski had
already been caught. Maybe Beck's call was
designed to keep her there until the security
police arrived. Stop it, Elizabeth warned
herself.
"Competition is very difficult," Palluth was
saying when she rejoined the table. Elizabeth saw
that bottles of cold Goldwasser vodka had
replaced the wine. Her guests were happily
settling in for a real party.
"If only we could handle our competition the
way Fuch's handled Wedel," Palluth
concluded.
"Do you know our famous candy makers?"
Pniewski asked, and Elizabeth nodded.
"Wedel was advertising," Kiepura the tenor
inserted himself in the conversation, "that he had "one
hundred flavors and each one different." He
bragged about having a shop in Paris and a private
plane to bring in fresh candies every other day. How
could Fuch's beat that? To Poles, what
could be better than things French? Only the
fruits of our own countryside! So Fuch's
comes back with signs proclaiming "Ten tastes
and each is Polish!""
There was a murmur of approval around the table.
"Of course it was also a subtle way to remind
everyone that Wedel is Jewish," Pniewski
noted.
Elizabeth felt a grin frozen on her
face. What a nightmare. Beck would arrive
momentarily and then what? She could imagine the
scene.
"I'm waiting for Count Lubienski," he would
explain to her guests.
"But we thought he went to the ministry to see you,"
one of them would respond. Uncertain and
uncomfortable, they would start to thank her and ask for
their coats. When Fokczynski put his hand in his
pocket and found his keys missing ...
Cut it out! Elizabeth told herself. She
waved to the butler. "Serve the cheese tray and
then please go out on the balcony and watch for
Colonel Beck. His car will have flags flying from
the fenders."
Over the Bleu de Bresse the architect and the
singer fell into an argument. Jan Kiepura, the
tenor, declared, "I admire what Hitler's
done for Germany. Particularly his architecture.
It's grand, bold, new, not soulless like the Jew
architecture from the Bauhaus."
"How can you like Albert Speer's buildings,"
Bohdan Pniewski demanded, "and also the
design I did for your house?"
"Ha! My house, I could have designed
myself," the tenor sniffed, "for half the price."
"And for half the price," the architect
retorted, "I could sing you an aria!"
Elizabeth jumped up about to intercede, then
saw the sign from the butler. "Excuse me," she
said abruptly. She rushed into the foyer, and
grabbed her fur cloak. Beck had to be kept
out of the apartment at all costs. But what could she
say to him? Damn Lubienski! Where was he?
Then she felt a stab of guilt. She could
imagine him handcuffed on a stool, a bare bulb
over his head, being beaten by the Defensywa, the
security police.
When Elizabeth opened the front door,
Colonel Beck was already getting out of his car.
He was small, thin, with a beaked nose
and a black stripe of hair down the middle of his
bald head. She hurried down the path to meet
him. The foreign minister greeted her with a cruel
smile as if he were about to make another rude
remark about Count Lubienski's liaisons. Of
course! That was it! She knew what to say.
"Your wayward count has still not returned?"
Beck appeared to be enjoying her discomfort. "You
should get another man." He leered.
They stood face-to-face. In the glow from the
fluorescent porch light, his skin, like the
tulips in the flower boxes, looked gray. "I
look forward to meeting your guests."
"I have to ask you not to come in."
Beck was taken aback, but before he could be
offended, Elizabeth let her cloak slide
open so that he got a view of her breasts rising
above her low-cut gown.
"You're right about Michael," she continued in a
pleading tone, "there is another woman. He had
to go and see her."
"It's a wonder he gets any work done at
all."
"He told everyone at the party that he was going
to the ministry and would be back. Obviously, she's
delayed him. If you go inside, it will be a great
embarrassment for me." She managed to bring a
tear to her eye.
Beck slowly inspected her from head to toe.
She felt like her dress was transparent. Then
he clicked his heels and bowed.
"If you hear from him, tell him to call me."
Elizabeth escorted Beck down the path
to his car. Getting in, he shot her one last
malign look. "And do you know who this other woman
is?"
"Of course." She made herself look brave.
"His wife."
Beck grinned and the driver closed the door.
Elizabeth clutched her cloak tightly in a
gesture of pain and to hide her relief.
As the car made a U-turn another pair of
headlights appeared at the entrance to Frascati
Street. Drawing nearer, Elizabeth could see
that it was Lubienski.
The two automobiles stopped in the middle
of the street facing in different directions. She
saw Lubienski get out to talk to his foreign
minister. Then he returned to his car and pulled
it to the curb.
Lubienski got out again and joined Beck.
Helpless, Elizabeth could only stand there,
watching them disappear into the night.

"Well, at least he had the presence of mind
to leave Fokczynski's keys on the front
seat," Elizabeth said to Jack Shelly.
Nervously, she tried to fit another Craven
A into her cigarette holder. It broke.
"Oh damn!"
Her guests and the help had gone. The party, at
least, had been a smashing success. On leaving,
a tipsy Edward Fokczynski had confided,
"It just goes to show you don't need Count
Lubienski to have a good time."
"I think you ought to pack," Shelly said. "He
can't know what you said to Beck, and when he invents
yet another story, the alarm bells are sure
to go off."
"What about the plans?"
"If he doesn't get arrested, he can get
them to me."
"Where will I go?"
"A safe house in Danzig for a few days,
then a boat to Stockholm or Helsinki."
"I meant, what will happen to me?"
"Back to Arthur, I suppose. I'm
sorry, Elizabeth, but it's better than a
Polish jail."
"Can't you get Michael out?"
"Would he come?"
"He's talked about us running away together. The
more I manipulate him the more devoted he
becomes. God, what will happen to him?"
Before Shelly could say anything, the door
chimes rang. Elizabeth crushed out her
cigarette and started eagerly for the foyer. Shelly
stopped her.
"Let it ring again," he mouthed silently and
moved toward the balcony. The chimes rang a
second time. He stepped outside and motioned for
her to follow.
"We can't jump four floors," she
whispered. A quiet knock began and rapidly
grew more insistent. "You hide out here. I'll answer it," Elizabeth decided.
When she turned the knob, the door was pushed
open in her face.
"I did it! I did it!" A flushed and
excited Count Lubienski swept her
up and carried her into the apartment.
"You got the plans?"
"I told Beck all about us!"
"Michael"--Elizabeth caught her breath--
"I think he's known for some time."
"Yes, but not like this." He sat her down.
"What did you say?" She forgot all about the
Enigma.
"He brought it up. Whatever did you two
talk about? Well, it doesn't matter."
Lubienski made straight for the decanter of
Scotch. "I was glad he didn't ask me where
I'd been! He just wanted to know my intentions
toward you."
"What are they?"
"I'm going to divorce my wife so that I can
marry you."
Elizabeth was nonplussed. "What about my
husband?"
"You're going to get a divorce too!"
What gall! She tried to control her anger.
"And how did our dear Colonel Beck react
to all this?"
Lubienski took a large gulp of Scotch.
"He hit the roof, isn't that how you say it?"
He smiled, but the look was a little uncertain.
"He said it was "Unthinkable. International
developments rule it out!"" The steam seemed
to go out of him as he repeated Beck's words.
"If I persisted in what he called "this
folly," he said I'd have to leave the service.
If I changed my mind, he'd allow me to go
on seeing you, but only if I were much more discreet.
I believe he's actually jealous! He added that
I'd have to bring my wife to all official
functions. Imagine!" He concluded with a burst
of defiance.
Elizabeth turned her back on him and lit
another cigarette. "Colonel Beck's right,
Michael. I can't be responsible for destroying
your career or wrecking your marriage!"
Lubienski's jaw went slack. "But don't
you love me?"
"I don't know what I'm capable of." She
faced him. "I'm a loner really. I come and I
go and no bones broken, and no hearts either, I
hope. I don't like broken hearts." She went
to the bar and poured herself a Scotch. "I'm not
sentimental at all. Does that shock you? Can you
understand that, Michael?"
He had dropped onto the sofa. His head was in
his hands.
"But I love you," he said miserably.
"I have to be free." Elizabeth's tone
became softer. "That you must accept."
"Do you mind if I intrude on this delicate
scene?" Shelly stepped in from the balcony. His
clothes looked a mess, as if he had tried
to climb down the drainpipe and failed.
"How long have you been listening to us?"
Lubienski demanded indignantly.
"Not long enough to find out whether you got the bloody
pictures of the bloody plans!"
"That's all either of you care about!" Furious,
Lubienski sprang from the sofa and headed for the
door. "You want your "bloody
pictures"?" He reached into his pocket.
"Well, here they are!" He hurled the little
camera down onto the marble foyer floor and
shattered it into bits.





Chapter 23

The Broadway Buildings, London--
July 8, 1938
"Stephenson's being a pest, so I've been
asked by C to have this little get-together," Menzies
began. "He's understandably eager to learn about your
progress with the Enigma."
Dilly Knox glanced uncomfortably over
at Denniston. "May I be frank?" Knox
shifted his anxious gaze to the note taker.
"Please," Menzies commanded gently, but saying
nothing to deter his secretary from recording
Knox's comments.
"It's been a disaster," Knox sighed.
"But I thought Cynthia got you the plans."
"Not all of them. The camera was broken and some
of the pictures ruined. Still we thought we had the
drawings for all the vital bits, but somehow ..."
His voice trailed away.
"Cynthia suggests the French could help,"
Captain Lance offered.
"Bloody Frogs!" Denniston exploded.
"It turns out they've been holding out on us for
years! Had an agent in the German
Chi-Stelle and gave the take to the
Poles! That's their gratitude to us for saving their
necks in the war!"
"Agree with you there." Menzies lit his
second cigar of the morning. "Lost most of my
Eton chums at Ypres."
"We built a machine according to Cynthia's
plans," Knox explained, "and we've applied
everything the French have finally given us to a number of
German messages. Still, all we get is
nonsense."
"How am I to explain this to C?"
Menzies's voice was bored, deadly.
"He has to understand the Poles are five years
ahead of us," Denniston complained. "We've much
to learn even with the Polish plans to the Enigma."
"If they are the plans to the Enigma," Knox
interjected. Denniston shot him a warning look.
"What do you mean?" Menzies seemed
genuinely interested in the conversation for the first time.
"Oh, don't start," Denniston protested.
"It's Dilly's old song that the whole thing's a
deception. A plot between the Germans and Poles
to keep us chasing after chimeras."
"Well, the plans don't work, and that's a
fact," Knox declared. "The photographs are
spoiled just enough so that we think there's something we
haven't got right, that something's wrong with our
approach."
"Perish the thought," Denniston murmured loud
enough for the note taker to record it.
"And I consider it passing strange," Knox
continued, "that our agent suddenly has no contact
with her Polish source, so we've no ability
to follow-up."
"Shelly reports they had a lovers'
quarrel," Menzies observed. "He witnessed
it."
"Such things can be staged," Knox noted.
"So you think our agent is in league with the
Poles and Germans?"
"Look at the facts. A
twenty-two-year-old American girl suddenly
provides intelligence that Sidney Reilly
would envy?"
"Hold on," Lance protested. "We found
her, not the other way around."
"So why has Colonel Beck allowed one of
his closest aides to carry on openly with
Cynthia?"
"The Poles are playing all sides
at this point."
Menzies drew long and hard on his cigar. The
smoke drifted up to add to the yellow patina of the
ceiling and walls of his office. "What would make
you a believer, Dilly?"
"Clear text."
"And what does that require?"
"An Enigma machine. Not on paper. A
real one."

Saski Park, Warsaw--July 18,

"You've got to see Lubienski again,"
Shelly demanded. He was sweating in his white
wool suit as they walked along one of the wide
paths through the formal gardens.
"Don't be a bully," Elizabeth
responded. She stopped at a cart to buy an
ice cream.
"It's not just me," he said, exasperated. "And
it's not just Broadway. Lady Kennard's on
my neck about you. She sees no reason for you
to be in Warsaw. I've only held her in
check so far by telling the ambassador that your
contacts with Lubienski are crucially
important. He's hated it, but gone along.
Now, with you putting Lubienski off at every turn
..."
"And how do you know that?" She let her irritation
show. "Is it you that's tapping my telephone and
following me everywhere?"
"At this point Elizabeth, you've got the
secret services of at least three nations
keeping track of you."
"Well our secret service can relax. I
know what I'm doing."
"If you think"--Shelly pursed his lips
to measure his words--"that this other young man, Adam,
can replace Count Lubienski as a source
you're gravely mistaken."
For several weeks, since Lubienski had
stormed out of her apartment, Elizabeth had been
seeing another young officer at the Foreign
Ministry, Adam Kianowski. The two of them
were out every night at the same spots she used to go
to with Lubienski: the Theatre Ateneum in
Czerwonego Krzy@za and the Narodowy in Plac
Teatralny; the QPQ; dancing at the Adria
and the Aquarium; dinner at the Bagatelka and the
Gastronomja; oriental food at the
Mikado, and even lunch at The Lunch on
Nalewki Street. By crossing paths with
Lubienski, she was proving that she could have a
marvelous time without him. And when he called her,
or sent notes or flowers, she consistently
refused to respond.
"He's going to give up on you," Shelly
complained worriedly.
Elizabeth looked at him and shook her head.
"Men can be so stupid, sometimes," she said.

Behind the Warsaw Opera stood the Br@uhl
Palace, a grand eighteenth-century confection that
was the home of the Foreign Ministry. As he often
had before meeting Elizabeth, Count Lubienski
was taking a break in the evening to attend the opera.
Afterward, he planned to return to his office
to read and summarize the late cables from the Polish
embassies in Berlin, Prague, Paris, and
London for Colonel Beck's breakfast
reading. With each passing week the reports on the
crisis over Czechoslovakia had been growing
more ominous. The Soviet Union had said it would
come to the defense of Czechoslovakia against
Nazi Germany. Paris had declared that its commitment
to Prague was "indisputable."
If the opera offered Count Lubienski an
escape from Europe's agonies, it provided
little respite from his own. Almost every time he
attended, he would see Elizabeth Pack,
looking radiant and beautiful on the arm of
Adam Kianowski. In fact, there seemed no
place in the city where he could go without running
into them. And tonight, there they were again sitting in the first
tier, laughing and whispering together throughout the first two
acts of Moniuszko's Halka. It was
maddening! What did she see in the little worm?
He was a mere assistant desk officer for the
Balkans!
From his box looking down on her through opera
glasses, Lubienski could see Elizabeth in
her sky-blue dress, its tight bodice pushing
up her breasts so that they quivered as she laughed.
An ache ran through him. He couldn't bear it!
Excusing himself to the others in his box, he went
directly to the bar. Two quick vodkas and he
felt he was getting control of himself. He still had
work to do that evening, so he decided to switch
to champagne.
Standing in the still-empty foyer, he could
hear the music swelling for the second act
finale. Halka always moved him deeply,
made him feel his Polishness and his pride. But
tonight, the tragedy of a squire who traduces a
peasant girl made him feel ashamed of himself.
He had betrayed his country and his marriage for a
woman who now openly humiliated him. What
had he done to deserve such treatment? Only
declared that he loved her and wanted to marry her!
He finished his champagne and ordered another
vodka.
A roar of applause signaled the second
act curtain, and people began pouring out into the foyer.
Lubienski knew that Elizabeth would head for the
promenade room. There, under a vaulted ceiling
covered by frescoes of battling gods and
warriors, the audience stretched its legs by forming
two concentric circles, each proceeding in
opposite directions around the long narrow room.
He could imagine Elizabeth and Adam joining
one of the circles, strolling arm and arm, nodding and
smiling to the important figures in Warsaw
society. Hating himself, Lubienski could not stay
away. Downing the vodka, he made his way to the
promenade room.
And when he saw them, her hand gripping
Adam's arm, their bodies touching as they walked,
their eyes flashing with intimacy, Lubienski
felt impaled on a pike, like one of the soldiers
painted on the ceiling. He no longer cared about
shame or humiliation. The whole charade had
to stop!
He joined the outside circle. Everyone
else seemed to be part of a group, chatting,
laughing, enjoying themselves. He never felt so
utterly alone. At the far end of the room,
Elizabeth, in the inner circle, turned toward
him. He saw a flash of recognition on her
face and then she averted her eyes. As they
approached one another, he realized that she was
going to ignore him.
"Elizabeth," he called out.
She turned away as if to whisper into Adam's
ear.
"Elizabeth!" he shouted, and reached for her.
Heads turned, the promenade stopped, and
strollers in both directions started piling up.
A thrill went through the crowd. A scene was taking
place!
"Take your hands off her!" Adam
demanded.
"Shut up," Lubienski ordered, "or
I'll have your pig's ass shipped off
to Bulgaria."
"Michael," Elizabeth declared, "you're
drunk!"
"Drunk? I'm destroyed! Devastated! A
dog dragged through the dirt!" Tears started down his
face, and he couldn't control them. "My God!
What you've done to me!" He grabbed her arm.
Adam raised his fist, but Elizabeth turned
on him. "Don't you dare strike him!"
Count Michael Lubienski sank to his
knees, clutching the hem of her dress. "I just
want to see you. Talk to you."
"Get up, Michael," Elizabeth ordered.
"Adam, help him."
They both lifted Lubienski to his feet, and
began to walk him through the tittering crowd. There was
nothing like scandal to give zest to an evening of
opera.
In the corridor near the grand staircase, they
sat Lubienski down on a marble bench.
"Adam," Elizabeth said gently, "be a
dear and leave us alone for a minute." Looking
rejected, the young man headed for the bar.
Lubienski felt consumed by remorse.
"I've embarrassed everyone." He could not look
at her. "Oh God, I don't care!" He
seized her face and kissed her. Elizabeth
jerked away and slapped him hard.
That sobered him. "I'm sorry," he pleaded.
"I'm coming undone. I don't know what to do!"
The tears were pouring down again. "I must talk to you!
See you! Please!" He was begging.
"You know my phone's tapped. My letters
opened. I'm followed almost everywhere. The only
privacy I've got is in public. Are you
determined enough to brave that?"
"Anything you say."
"Sunday then. At noon. Take the road
on the other side of the river. Go past the
embassy's summer lodge."
"But where will we meet?"
Adam had returned. The third act was
starting. Elizabeth stood up.
"Just keep driving south. I'll find you."

It was the first warm day of the summer and the British
embassy's riverside retreat swarmed
with families and children. On the terrace overlooking
the beach, Elizabeth found Shelly swimming in a
gin and tonic.
"You look like a happy man," she said.
"You're making me so," he admitted. "How
do you think it will go?"
"You know I do care for him." She took off
her hat and sat down. "I'm afraid I'm
going to ruin him."
"That's my girl!" Shelly toasted her.
She frowned. "Anyway, I think what
Broadway wants is quite mad."
He looked at his watch. "The car is the
green Opel four-door." He handed her the
keys. "When you're done, bring it to my flat and
I'll drive you home to the Villa
Frascati. We can come back here tomorrow to pick
up your car. were you followed?"
"Right across the road. Obvious as can be."
"Well, wear my hat." He handed her a
floppy Panama. "Maybe you'll fool them."
Elizabeth planned to wait inside the
driveway to the lodge until she saw
Lubienski's Fiat go by. She would then pull
out and follow him for several miles making sure that
neither of them were being tailed.
It worked smoothly. Lubienski was shocked
to see her wave as she passed by him. He raced
down the highway after her, finally catching up when
she had to slow down behind a fragrant manure
wagon. Soon they were again hurtling down the
road, past truck gardens and tin-roofed
farmhouses, along the crest of levies built
to hold back the Vistula and through spare
villages of bare unpainted stucco and shoeless
children.
Shortly beyond the twenty-kilometer mark, he
saw Elizabeth turn off toward the river along
a dirt road lined with bushes and aspen. Soon
he was following two muddy tracks running beside a
split-rail fence that crossed a deep green
pasture dotted with black-and-white Holsteins.
When the ruts gave out, Lubienski found himself
driving upon a carpet of wild flowers, purple
clover, and yellow buttercups.
Ahead, Elizabeth's car navigated around a
fallen tree and came to a halt under a stand of
willows on a grassy bank above the broad,
flat river. Before he could reach her, she had
leaped from her car and was racing toward the
water, progressively shedding her sandals, then
her cotton blouse, then her brassiere, pausing
only to wiggle out of her peasant skirt. He
skidded to a stop, and without hesitating dashed after
her. She was already splashing into the sandy shallows,
her breasts bare and sparkling in the sunlight. As
he sloshed toward her through the water, she stopped
on a sandbar, and smiling mischievously, bent
to peel off her underpants. Just as he reached out
to grab her, Elizabeth laughed and dove into the
deep water.
He plunged in after her. The freezing river
came as a shock. Lubienski suddenly felt
extremely heavy as the water filled his clothes.
He could barely lift his arms to take a stroke
and kicking was impossible. His legs were dragged
down by the weight of his pants and shoes. He
stopped trying to swim in order to take off his
jacket, but found it difficult to keep his head
above water. Then he sensed the current pulling
him out from the shore, moving him faster and faster
downstream. Water filled his mouth when he tried
to breathe. He struggled with his coat, but it was a
tangle. He went under. He was drowning!
Terrified, he gave a powerful kick and broke
the surface, gasping, coughing, and thrashing.
"Elizabeth!" he cried and began to sink again.
His jacket had wrapped over his head so that he
could no longer see. Desperately he held his
breath until his lungs felt like they would
explode. In panic, he exhaled and suddenly
sank deeper. He fought not to inhale, but his body
refused to obey. The water rushed into his lungs
strangling, burning, sending a blackness into his
brain. And as he slipped over the edge of
consciousness, he could sense being lifted up, being
transported, as if the angels had already come
down from heaven to claim him.

His throat and chest felt on fire but the rest
of him trembled with cold. Lubienski opened his
eyes. Elizabeth lay next to him on the sand,
peacefully absorbing the midday sun. She was
completely naked. Beads of water gleamed on
her stomach, breasts, and thighs. A flurry of
pale freckles were spreading across her chest. And
her skin was so smooth. Was he alive, or was this
a dream of death? He had to touch.
"Don't." She turned to him, her eyes
nearly chartreuse in the sunlight.
He jerked back.
"Are you all right?" Her voice softened.
"I thought I had died. Then I thought I was in
heaven."
"You went down twice."
"Thank you."
They lay side by side in silence for a moment.
He reached for her again.
She sat up and pushed his hand away.
The movement of her body made his flesh
groan. "Why?" he muttered miserably.
"I'm not trying to make you suffer," she said in
earnest. "I'm trying to protect you."
"I know what I must do to have you." He shuddered
uncontrollably again.
"That's my point, Michael. The things I
ask of you, you must not do for me. I don't want
you to hate yourself, and I don't want you to come
to hate me."
What the hell did she want? Lubienski
felt angry and confused. But he said nothing, because
she now was kneeling next to him, her hands stroking
his face.
"I want you to appreciate what you've been
doing for your country." She helped him slip off
his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. Her
lips were warm against his chest. "I want you to be
proud of yourself," she murmured. Her hand had
reached into his pants. "Future generations will
see you as a hero in the struggle against Germany."
"But we're on their side ...."
"No, no." She smothered his mouth with kisses,
while she caressed him. "Time and again you've told
me Poland's future lies with us."
Her words seemed surreal. Lubienski could not
argue. His mind was shutting down and his body taking
over. "Yes ... yes." He lay back and she
knelt across him, gently, purposefully,
reuniting her body with his. He was home.
Home, in a sweetness Lubienski had feared
he would never feel again.
He forgot the pain in his chest and throat. He
forgot his fear and guilt. There was only
Elizabeth fondling, touching, moving above him with the
sun making a halo of gold in her hair.
And then his strength returned with an urgent need
to possess her. He was on his feet, her legs
wrapped around him, splashing in circles through the
shallows, her back arched as he devoured her
breasts, the laughter and crying bursting out
of both of them, until finally, he placed her on
the grassy bank and slowly lowered himself into her.
They lay still, staring soundlessly into each other's
eyes. Her body clutched him. Her breath
came faster. As her grip intensified, her
eyes focused harder. Still she did not move.
He tried to disengage; her body refused. It
massaged him, drawing his passion toward a peak.
Suspended above her, he felt himself a
captive, his desire enmeshed in her internal
rhythms that relentlessly provoked him, urged
him, goaded him. Lubienski started to cry out.
His body yearned for release. Yet he was not quite
there. In exquisite agony, he hovered on the
brink, and Elizabeth, teasing and tugging, could not
pull him over.
So she pushed him off. And with that sudden
decompression he exploded.
"I'm sorry," she gasped.
"No, no," he said, desperately pulling
her against him as his pleasure surged over and over,
at last becoming painful before it would subside.
Lubienski realized he must have slept. For
how long, he did not know. The shadows of the
willows had moved over him. He saw that his
clothes were spread out on the sand bar to dry.
Elizabeth stood in the river washing her hair.
A barge moved silently along the far shore,
ignoring them. Overhead, large white clouds
moved majestically across the summer sky. He was
suffused with a vast contentment.
She came up the bank, drying herself with a
towel. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "I've
a picnic."
"Ravenous." But as they lay there naked on the
grass, he found himself picking at the wursts and
sausages and salads spread out before him. The
calm had ebbed away.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"I can't help wondering what you will want me
to do next."
"It's not so formidable," she answered lightly.
"We need to get ourselves an Enigma machine."
Lubienski laughed. "That's ridiculous,
Elizabeth. You're joking."
"No, I'm deadly serious."
How could she change so suddenly? He felt a
tickle of fear in his abdomen. "I can't
imagine how it could be done."
"AVA made a dozen of them, or so
you said."
"But they're all being used twenty-four hours
a day!"
"Well, you'd better find a way."
"Better?" The tickle had grown into a
puncture of anxiety. "What if I
refuse?"
"My colleagues are quite keen on this,
Michael. I'm afraid that if you don't
cooperate, they'll reveal how you helped us get
Hitler's plans for Czechoslovakia."
Lubienski was stunned. What kind of devil
was she? "Colonel Beck would never believe
you!" he declared. Then she reached across to him.
"It won't be Colonel Beck," she said,
taking him in hand. "They'll tell the Germans."
With that, she once more started stroking him, and
despite her threats, her reckless ideas, and her
suicidal determination that he feared would be the death
of them both, he again began responding to her touch.

MOST SECRET JIC/PST011/7-22-38
EYES ONLY FOR PRINCIPALS
To: The Joint Intelligence Committee
Operations Working Group
Subject: Operation Encounter
Approval requested for following operation.
1. Purpose is to obtain principal
German cipher machine (enigma) used for
radio communications by all armed forces and
security services.
2. To this end, special Commando unit consisting
of a dozen officers and men will be infiltrated
into Poland by SIS. (see Annex A
to Operations Plan attached.)
3. Unit will intercept Wehrmacht
communications van carrying an Enigma transiting
Danzig corridor from East Prussia.
(see Annex B attached.)
4. Under Polish German agreements,
German army units have the right to cross Polish
territory on a periodic basis.
Communications vans usually precede the main
body by 4-6 hours. By allegedly reading the
Wehrmacht Enigma messages, the Poles know
the precise schedule of such transits. Our
agent in Poland will provide intelligence for
proper timing and coordination of attack on van
described in the attached Operations Plan.
5. Team and Enigma machine will be
exfiltrated via submarine on Baltic coast
(see Annex C attached.)
6. Target for initiating operation late
August.
7. Costs for non-naval expenditures
to be covered by supplemental Treasury allocation
T/S-5487m.
C

MOST SECRET July 26, 1938
Eyes Only for C
From: JIC
Subject: Operation Encounter
1. Foreign Office considers proposed
operation too high profile, too risky, and
potentially extremely damaging to British
relations with both Poland and Germany at a time when
the Government is seeking to ease tensions over
Czechoslovakia.
2. Accordingly, Operation Encounter is
disapproved.
3. Whatever substitute plan may be
developed must be carried out with assets in
place, be small in scale and utterly deniable.

MOST SECRET/CYNTHIA
FOR BROADWAY
WARSAW SENDS
0853/2-have-chst14:25GMT
CYNTHIA HAS DEVELOPED
ALTERNATIVE PLAN FOR CARRYING OUT
VAN INTERCEPT. DETAILS VIA
POUCH. REQUEST PRELIMINARY AUTHORITY
TO PROCEED ON CONTINGENCY BASIS.
FINAL APPROVAL NEEDED BY 15
SEPTEMBER.
SHELLY

Queen Anne's Gate, London--
September 15, 1938
"The next transit is September 25."
Jack Shelly placed the pointer on a
rickety easel as he concluded his presentation.
"I won't deny it's audacious, but it's the
best we can do under the circumstances."
This was the first time he had ever been in the
residence of the chief of the secret service. In
addition to C, the meeting in the library was also
attended by Menzies, Denniston, Knox, and
Captain Lance. Instead of books, the library
walls were covered with drawings, paintings,
and engravings of an armada of Royal Navy
dreadnoughts.
Captain Lance took advantage of the awed
silence. "May I comment? I find Cynthia's
plan audacious to the point of being foolhardy.
It depends critically on split-second
timing. She's under constant surveillance by the
Polish secret police and possibly the
Gestapo. She and Lubienski are trying to do the
work of a dozen commandos!"
"Cynthia anticipated such an objection,"
Shelly responded. "She wrote a note for
me to read." He unfolded a paper from his breast
pocket. "May I?"
C nodded.
""Gentlemen. You have repeatedly impressed
upon me the vital importance of obtaining the
secret of the Enigma. I have given much in the
effort to do so, and now I am prepared to give my
all. This is not because I enjoy being reckless. A
grave conflict looms in Europe. We are
already engaged in the secret skirmishes that
precede war. I am volunteering for this mission as
would any soldier. I can only pray that my
commanders have the courage of their troops."
Signed, "Cynthia."
"As you can see," Shelly continued as if
to apologize for the tone of her message, "having
gotten the bit in her teeth, Cynthia refuses
to give up."
"I'm not criticizing her," Captain Lance
insisted. "It's the weak sisters in the JIC who
vetoed a sensible operation. It's so typical of
frightened bureaucrats to cut back our plans to the
point that they'll surely fail ...."
"Yes, yes." C cut him off. "It's
dangerous, no doubt. But Hitler's deadline
on Czechoslovakia's only a week away.
That's likely to mean a state of belligerence with
Germany and Poland by the end of the month. Today"--his
voice became more grave--"the cabinet will put the
Royal Navy on full alert."
The others tried to hide their surprise.
"Under the circumstances," he sighed, "it's
essential to make the attempt. After all,
Cynthia's made clear that if she and Count
Lubienski fail, they should be considered
casualties of war."


Chapter 24

Warsaw--Saturday Morning, September
24, 1938
"We're evacuating!" Mrs. Norton
announced. "All women, children, and nonessential
personnel. I need your help tomorrow to organize
a convoy to Danzig."
Elizabeth stared at the phone. What could she
say? "I'm afraid I can't. I'm helping
Jack Shelly in the Passport Office.
We're quite overwhelmed."
"The ambassador's wife specified that you be
in the first group to leave Warsaw," Mrs.
Norton insisted.
"Tell her I appreciate her concern,"
Elizabeth cooed. "But it would smack of
favoritism."
She immediately called Shelly. Keeping her
voice calm for the benefit of anyone tapping her
phone, she relayed Mrs. Norton's
message.
"I'll take care of Mrs. Ambassador.
How's it going?"
What kind of a question was that with half the
intelligence services in Central Europe
listening in? "Jack," she responded lightly,
"you know I never talk about my private life."
For more than a month, Elizabeth and Count
Lubienski had worked to establish a pattern that
she hoped would enable her to escape later that morning
from the watchful eye of the Defensywa, the Polish
counterintelligence police. As the crisis over
Czechoslovakia deepened, their surveillance
had intensified to the point of harassment.
Lubienski claimed he could do nothing about it.
He even argued it was to their benefit, since it would
show that they were having a completely innocent
affair. However, to gain some privacy, she and
Lubienski spent every Saturday night on board
the Ko@sciuszko, a side-wheel steamer that
made weekend excursions down the Vistula. It
was the only place they were not followed. But every
Sunday evening when the boat returned to Warsaw,
her watchers were waiting at the dock in their
telltale black Chevrolet sedan.
Elizabeth checked herself in the dressing table
mirror. The days now gave a crisp hint of
autumn, and she had chosen a green tweed suit
with a pleated skirt along with a new felt hat with a
bright collection of pheasant feathers in
the brim. Standing back, she decided that her low-
heeled brown alligator pumps gave a
suitably sporty panache to the ensemble. More
important, she would be able to run when she had
to. She judged herself ready.
The maid helped carry her two suitcases
down to the taxi. Since she usually took only
one bag, Elizabeth prayed that her watchers would
not become suspicious about the second. It
contained pieces and parts of the Enigma machine that
Dilly Knox had fabricated according to Polish
plans. Smuggled into Warsaw in the British
diplomatic pouch, they would play a vital part
in covering up the operation.
The Ko@sciuszko was tied up at
Riverside North under the battlements of the Old
Castle. With the black Chevrolet dutifully
following behind, Elizabeth's taxi turned at the
entrance to the Old Town, taking Nowy Zjazd,
the New Descent, under the viaduct Pancer to the
steamer dock. Lubienski, waiting at the foot
of the gangplank, embraced her while a cabin
boy took her bags. The chase car stopped a
few yards away, but no one got out. As
Elizabeth looked back at them, she could not
help wondering if they sat there all weekend.
A steward showed them to a tiny cabin on the main
deck. It was wide enough for only a small double
bed, an armoire and a sink. Lubienski appeared
flushed and tense. Before he could say a word,
Elizabeth put her finger to her lips. She had
become worried that the secret police did not
follow them on board because they had an agent among
the crew, a microphone in their cabin, or both.
Until they were off the boat, they would play
carefully the role of lovers. From the anxious
look on Lubienski's face, Elizabeth
wondered if he would be up to his part.
When she felt the unmistakable sensation of the
boat floating free of its moorings,
Elizabeth pulled Lubienski outside to the
rail. Instead of the usual crowd, there were only a
handful of other passengers on deck and
well-wishers on the dock. Autumn and the
prospect of war over Czechoslovakia was
keeping people at home. That made her uneasy. It
might be more difficult for their absence to remain
unnoticed when they slipped away from the boat at
Toru@n.
As the surging side wheel pushed the
boat away from the shore, Elizabeth took in the
spires of the Old Town, peacefully gleaming in
the morning sun. She felt excited and
apprehensive but, above all, a surprising
sense of being free. A glance down on the dock,
however, gave her a sudden chill. One of the
secret police was out leaning against the side of the
car pointing something in her direction. It was a
camera. They were taking her picture. They had
never done that before. Why now?
The trip down the broad placid river
proved uneventful, except for a fight that broke
out on the rear deck among members of a wedding
party that had consumed too much Goldwasser. In
typical Polish fashion, there was more pushing than
punching, and the only knockdowns were scored against
tables and chairs.
At Toru@n, the Ko@sciuszko docked
for the night. As was their habit, Elizabeth and
Count Lubienski dined early and went for a stroll
in town. That also gave them a chance to check out the
warehouse where their car was waiting. As soon as they
returned to the boat, they retired to their cabin.
At four in the morning, Lubienski stole out
on deck and down the gangplank. Half an
hour later, having changed into slacks and a
sweater, Elizabeth followed him. She locked
the door behind her, and dropping to her knees,
inserted a wire tool to trip the inside bolt.
Before slipping away, she hung the PROSZ`E
NIE PRZESZKADZACENTS, PLEASE DO NOT
DISTURB, sign on the doorknob.
The large bright red Aero Type 50
roadster with silver exhaust manifolds flowing out
of the hood gleamed in the dim light of the warehouse.
As she thought, the car was perfect for the operation, but
getting it had been a three-week battle with the
SIS comptroller. While Lubienski busied
himself with strapping their luggage to the rear trunk
lid, Elizabeth took a nap in the front
seat. With the dawn, they were off into the Polish
countryside, heading east with Lubienski at the
wheel.
The early Sunday morning roads were empty of
traffic. Birch trees flashed by on either side,
their leaves already turning a bright yellow. In the
fields, the harvest appeared well advanced.
Peasants had rolled up the hay like giant
crullers from Ziemia@nska's confectionery. For
long stretches, the ground showed dark
scars where the potatoes had been ripped up from the
earth. Unlike England and France, Poland's
farms were organized into large estates, but nowhere
did Elizabeth see the huge combines,
threshers, and other machinery that would cover
Minnesota at that time of year. She took off
her hat and let the wind blow through her hair. It
was a glorious early fall day, and she found it
hard to accept the fact that it would end in violence and
death.
From time to time they would come up behind horse-drawn
carts that looked like long rowboats on wheels--
complete with a pointed prow where the farmers perched
to drive the horses. Laden with hay, the wagons
sometimes filled the whole road and crept along
at two miles an hour.
"I hope we don't run into one of these at the
wrong moment," Elizabeth called out
to Lubienski over the rushing wind. "It could ruin
our timing."
"I hope that's our biggest problem."
"What's wrong?"
He said nothing.
"What is it?" There must be a secret reason
he had been so quiet and moody. "Don't
keep bad news to yourself."
"It's more like no news," he finally admitted.
"We planned on confirming the movement time of the
XIX Panzer Corps, but it hasn't been
possible."
"Why not?"
"On the fifteenth, the Germans changed their
keying procedure for the Enigma. It's part of their
preparations for invading Czechoslovakia. We
haven't read a single message since then."
"You mean our last information on the van's
schedule is ten days old?"
"Yes. And since then, the Germans have been
mobilizing, moving units all over the place."
"Why didn't you tell me? This could be a
colossal waste of time."
"We can stop right now." He said in a tone of
relief and started to pull over to the side of the
road.
"No, dammit!" Elizabeth swore.
"It's our only chance! What's the likelihood
that they'll stick to their schedule?"
Lubienski shrugged. "We'll just have to count on
the Germans being Germans."
Their destination was Jab@lonowo, a
small town at a rail junction in the
Lutryna River valley near the East
Prussian border. Because Elizabeth had been
so closely followed, she had been forced to do all
of her planning from photographs, maps, and
timetables supplied by Lubienski and Shelly.
Now, she wanted to take a look for herself.
It was much as she had expected. Outside of
Toru@n, the countryside had been dead flat,
as it was for hundreds of miles in almost every
direction. But now, to the northeast, she could see
the land rising into a range of low hills that ran
into East Prussia. They followed Route 52
until a turnoff shortly before Brodnica. The
secondary road took them over the hills and
down into the river valley. As they approached the
town, she found that the inn was located precisely
two kilometers before the even deeper descent
into Jab@lonowo. More village than town, it
consisted mainly of poor wood houses with a handful
of two-story stucco buildings and an old brick
church. A thicket of willows separated the town
from the Lutryna River, which was crossed by a
one-lane high arched bridge better suited
to oxcarts than automobiles or trucks. On
the other side, the road intersected a railroad
track before proceeding across the flat farmland, all the way to the Vistula
and the Polish-German border beyond. If everything went according to plan,
the
Wehrmacht communications van would never reach its
destination.
With a stopwatch, they retraced the route several
times, then returned over the bridge through the town
and past the inn until the odometer counted off a
kilometer and a half. At the first left turn,
they took a dirt path through a small pasture and
into a stand of fir trees. There, as planned,
stood the big Ursis dump truck, with the name of the
well-known construction firm, K. RUDZKA,
lettered on the side. Lubienski got out of the car and
tried to start it. They held their breath until the
big diesel finally rattled into life.
"So far, so good," he said, returning to the car
and offering Elizabeth a cigarette. "Be
careful when you get to the bridge"--he exhaled--
"too fast, and the car could bounce right over the side
into the river."
She nodded and checked her watch. It was
11:40. If their information was still correct,
Elizabeth should spot the communications
van shortly after noon. Adhering to their usual
pattern, the Germans would stop at the inn for a
meal lasting about forty-five minutes, leaving no
later than one o'clock. Elizabeth had to delay
them so that they arrived at the bridge sometime between
1:14 and 1:16. Too early, and the plan would
unravel, and she would be in grave jeopardy.
Too late, and it would be too late.
"Should something happen"--Lubienski interrupted
her thoughts--"I want you to know I love you."
She reached up and gave him a kiss. He
responded eagerly. As his hands started to move
over her body, she gently pushed him away.
"It's time you got moving. We've time for that
tonight."
"If we're alive." He let go of her and
climbed back into the truck. After a prolonged
grinding of gears, he lurched down the dirt path
toward the highway.
"Do you know how to drive that thing?" Elizabeth
called out. Lubienski merely waved back and
crashed another gear change. Elizabeth winced.
If he did not arrive at exactly the right time
... She didn't want to think about it.

"Die Fahnen hoch! Die Reihen dicht
geschlossen.
S.a. marschiert mit ruhigem festem
Schritt ..."

As Von Aufenaker's unit rode through the
Polish countryside, Sergeant Hans
Beekman was leading them in song--as usual, a
rousing chorus of the Nazi anthem, the "Horst
Wessel Lied."

"Raise the banners! Stand rank on rank
together.
S.a. march on, with a steady, quiet tread
..."

Sitting in the front seat with the Enigma machine
between his feet, Lieutenant von Aufenaker
shook his head. The stupid Nazis were always marching
around in circles, he thought disparagingly. But at
last they were preparing to march forward, and he was
thrilled to be part of it.
He had objected to his assignment at the
outset, but when he was sent to his home region
of East Prussia he felt even
worse. Relatives and friends asked why was he not
in a combat unit, as if he had made a
cowardly choice. Added to this humiliation,
Sergeant Beekman had been assigned to his
small group. Beekman was a Nazi and an
informer. Von Aufenaker complained to his commander,
who stiffly informed him that the Gestapo insisted that every
Enigma unit have a Party member for security.
That made him even more angry, a Prussian
officer being watched by a plumber's son from
D@usseldorf! But the other two members of his
unit were solid fellows. Fritz, his driver,
was a veteran of the Great War and took no lip from
Beekman, and his radioman, Kurt, was a
schoolteacher who kept a diary--giving the little
Nazi something to worry about.
The only good thing about his posting was that he could
get home to his family estate on weekends
to ride his horses. However, that also meant that his
social contact with the ladies was confined
to Freidle von Papke. She was attractive
and charming, and ever since they were children, both
families had expected that they would marry. He
had no objection to this, but Dietrich wanted
to live a little first. Now with his unit on the move,
he might at last have the romantic experiences
he had been dreaming about.
When the mobilization against Czechoslovakia was
begun, it looked like his unit would be left out
completely. He felt crushed. But suddenly
orders had come through on his Enigma machine that his
Panzergruppe was to move out and redeploy in
the second echelon behind the Sudeten front.
He prayed that he might see some action at
last. The weather was fair, the ground firm,
perfect conditions for battle. As the van rolled
down the road toward the inn at Jab@lonowo,
Lieutenant von Aufenaker was so full of
anticipation he wondered if he could even eat.


Chapter 25

Jab@lonowo Road, Poland--September
25, 1938
It was eleven fifty-five. The minutes
moved slower than the patches of white cloud that
floated overhead. Elizabeth focused her
attention on the road. She remembered her father
talking about ambushing Muslim rebels in the
Philippines after the
Spanish-American War. "It was generally a
life of complete boredom, punctuated
by moments of desperate fear," he would say. "But
I never felt more alive."
Her mother hated it when her father told her his war
stories. "It's nothing for a lady to know about," she
would lecture. Ignoring her, he'd continue,
"Oh, our boys never got killed unless the
plans went wrong. Of course, the plans always
went wrong."
As she sat in the car, keyed up, smoking her
fifth cigarette, Elizabeth wondered if her
mother wasn't right. What was she doing there? She had
justified it in her mind a hundred times, but now,
on the brink, she couldn't help thinking about the
Germans. What would they look like? Monsters?
Villains? Or just regular people with families,
parents and maybe even children?
And where were they? Had they changed their itinerary in
the last ten days? The thought gave her more relief
than disappointment. Rummaging in her purse for
another pack of cigarettes, she almost missed the
van coming down the highway as it vanished behind the
trees. Quickly, she fumbled to start the car. When
the Aero's engine fired, it sounded like a
popcorn machine. Blue smoke poured out of the
exhaust from the two-cycle motor.
Stepping hard on the gas, she found that the car
moved forward sluggishly. My God, what a
gutless wonder! Then, as it gained momentum, she
felt the rear end sliding uneasily on the muddy
track. Oh, no, don't get bogged down,
Elizabeth thought desperately. With one foot
on the gas and the other on the brake, she nursed it
across the pasture, using sheer willpower
to levitate the car over water-filled holes
left by Lubienski's truck.
When she finally reached the road, the van was out of
sight. But she took her time following it. The
sooner she got to the inn, the more time she would have
to spend talking to them. That was one of the trickiest
parts of the plan. She had carefully scripted
what she would say, and had taken special
German language instruction for several weeks,
but she was still far from fluent.
As she approached the inn, Elizabeth's
concern at being too early evaporated; the van was
nowhere to be seen. They hadn't stopped! She
stepped on the gas again, and the car slowly gained
speed. Where did they go? Someplace
else? Maybe she could still make the plan work.
What if they were not stopping at all! Could she
follow them? Extemporize? Extemporize
what?
Already she was entering the village, but saw no
sign of the van. Driving up and down the few
streets she found nothing. Then she headed toward the
bridge. In the thicket of willows she turned
off to where Lubienski was waiting. He was shocked
to see her.
"Have you seen the van?" she called to him.
"No! What's going on?"
"I've lost it. Stay here!"
She turned the car around and headed back through
town the way she had come. Where the hell was it?
She stopped at a crossroads. Jab@lonowo
had been picked because it was a shortcut from the
Wehrmacht camp at Scharnau to the
Pomeranian border of Germany. The van could not
have turned off on the other road. And she couldn't
have missed it in town.
The inn was coming up again on the left. Two old
cars and a truck were parked in front. Wait!
What was that in back? The van! Painted in
camouflage and discreetly hidden among the trees
at the rear of the inn. She swerved across the road and
slid the Aero to a stop on the gravel near the
front door. Taking a deep breath, she tried
to calm herself for her next performance. Her watch
said 12:35.
When she walked in the front door, all
eyes turned toward her. The inn was a converted
farmhouse with two public rooms. To the left was
the dining salon with white tablecloths and patrons
dressed in their Sunday best--black wool
suits, black wool dresses. In the bar on
the right, four German soldiers were sitting at a
large round table. The bar looked even dirtier and
darker than she had anticipated. The only
decorations were posters for Egyptskie
cigarettes and Haberbusch and Schiele beer.
Following her plan, Elizabeth asked the
barman in English, "Where can I find the road
to Grudziadz?" She expected that he would
respond by shaking his head and otherwise indicating
that he could not understand her. Then as a natural
alternative she could approach the Germans.
But the barman did not cooperate. "You're
American!" he exclaimed. "I'm from
Chicago!"
Elizabeth was speechless.
"I live South Side twenty-five years.
U.s. citizen! Speak good English, no?"
He beamed.
"Extraordinary," she managed.
"Here I retire from stockyards," he added
proudly. "I start real American roadhouse.
Good steaks! Where you from?"
"Minnesota."
"Burr," he muttered and wrapped his arms
around himself. "Colder than Chicago! Cold as
Russia!"
The Germans, except for a young officer, had
lost interest in their conversation.
"I will direct you." The innkeeper put an
arm around her shoulders and led her toward the front
door. This was going all wrong!
"No," she said a little too loud. "I'd like
something to eat first." She turned to the Germans.
"What are they having?"
"Sausages," he replied a little perplexed.
"They look maybe different in Minnesota?"
"Sehr gut?" she asked the soldiers in
German, trying to keep desperation out of her
voice. Her script was in tatters. The oldest
soldier, who had heavy jowls, a gray crew
cut, and a bushy mustache, answered with a burst of
goose noises that she found completely
incomprehensible. She looked for help from the
others: the blond, fresh-faced lieutenant; a
bookish corporal with wire-rim glasses; and a
dark-haired scowling sergeant in his thirties. The
old-timer continued grinning at her, waiting for an
answer.
"He asks to know if you his sausage want,"
the young lieutenant said with a slight blush.
"I'll have one of my own, thank you."
When the young man translated, they all burst
into laughter, except the dark-haired sergeant.
"Please, you sit down?" The lieutenant
pulled over a chair from a nearby table.
"Please to introduce, I am Lieutenant
von Aufenaker and these are my men--Hans,
Fritz, and Kurt."
"And I'm Cynthia." Elizabeth shook his
hand. "Cynthia Beresford." She took a seat.
"I'll have the sausages too," she said to the
innkeeper from Chicago, "and some mineral water."
The Pole could not keep the disapproval from his
face, muttering, "I did not know that they
so much liked pig in Minnesota," as he went
off to the kitchen.
Lieutenant von Aufenaker was smiling
eagerly at Elizabeth as if he were trying
to think of something to make conversation. "Minnesota
is home of Charles Lindbergh, "the Lone
Eagle," isn't it?"
"He was born there," she explained.
The Germans then began an animated discussion
of Lindbergh, his solo flight to Paris, the
kidnapping of his baby and the trial of Bruno
Hauptmann the kidnapper. Elizabeth could
follow only part of it, but she did not mind. The
minutes were ticking away.
"Sergeant Beekman"--the lieutenant
pointed to his dour companion with black hair--
"believes Hauptmann was innocent and that it was
all a plot to dirty the Germans."
"Who would do that?" Elizabeth asked. She
anticipated the answer.
"Juden," the Jews, the dark sergeant said.
As she was served her bratwurst, she peeked
at her watch: 12:52. The soldiers had almost
finished. Somehow she had to keep them there another
fifteen minutes. "But Lindbergh is of German
background. He was the victim." She began
to eat slowly.
"That is how they are clever," Beekman said
through Lieutenant von Aufenaker. "First the
Jews bring misfortune on a great German, then
they blame it on a poor one."
The others, Elizabeth noted, appeared
uncomfortable, particularly the young lieutenant who
was translating. Then she noticed the wooden box
with the handle sitting next to his chair. That had
to be the Enigma! She could just grab it and dash out
the door! But she wouldn't get three steps before
she got a bullet in the back.
The old-timer looked at his watch. The
corporal with the glasses excused himself to go to the
toilet. They were getting ready to leave, and it was
not yet one.
"Lindbergh is a great admirer of Germany."
Elizabeth tried to change the direction of the
conversation. She was slicing her sausage thinner and
thinner.
"A great admirer of Der F@uhrer," the dark
one corrected her. "Lindbergh knows America
would be foolish to side with England against the Reich.
We are so powerful and we are the
future." Translating, the lieutenant blushed
again.
The corporal with the wire-rim glasses
returned to the table. It was one o'clock. She had
to delay them at least five more minutes.
"Don't worry about me, I can finish eating
by myself."
"Not at all," Lieutenant von Aufenaker
declared. But the corporal pointed at his watch.
"To Hitler." Elizabeth raised her glass
to the soldier who seemed to be a Nazi. They
all obediently raised their glasses.
"You favor him?" The Nazi looked
suspicious.
"He's made the trains run on time," she
said with a straight face.
"In Germany, the trains have always run on
time," the bookish corporal declared.
"To trains running on time!" Elizabeth said
coquettishly.
"Madam, you must excuse," Lieutenant
von Aufenaker apologized. "We have a
schedule." He stood and bowed with a click of his
heels. "Possibly, we meet again?"
"That would be charming."
"So, my card, please. Have you one?"
"Of course." She took another minute
looking through her purse. The others congregated at
the door. "No, sorry, I don't." Von
Aufenaker looked crestfallen.
At 1:06, he kissed her hand, picked up
the Enigma and departed. A minute later the van
pulled out of the drive and onto the highway.
Elizabeth paid quickly and rushed out to her car.
By 1:09 she had caught up to the van on the
road winding down to the town. She honked and
waved. Suddenly the van put on its brakes and
slowed to a crawl. Pulling out, Elizabeth could
see the way was blocked by a hay wagon. It was
1:10. Only five minutes to go. Slowly they
crept along behind the wagon: 1:11, then
1:12. At the entrance to the town square it came
completely to a stop.
The lieutenant jumped out of the van and began
arguing with the farmer. Finally after an exchange of
rude gestures, it moved out of the way at
1:14. They were late!
Elizabeth stayed behind the van as it threaded its
way out of the village. But the plan required her
car to be in front by the time they reached the
bridge. As soon as the road widened, she
stepped on the gas to pass. The car responded
anemically. She could see the bridge looming
ahead. Her car pulled abreast of the van. They were
waving at her, having fun, giving her a race.
Fritz, the old man at the wheel, blew her a
kiss. She moved slowly ahead. Out of the corner
of her eye, she saw Lubienski's truck
ready on the side road as she flashed by. The
car had gathered speed, and the bridge was coming up
fast.
She hit the brakes. The nose of the car
dipped down, then bounced into the air as the front
wheels struck the ramp of the bridge. Next, the
rear wheels became airborne. Elizabeth could
feel the whole car drift sideways until it
slammed against the stone railing and began scraping
along the right side.
Luckily, that got her pointed in the right
direction as she came off the bridge. The car was
under control, but she could feel the fenders rubbing
against the tires. The train tracks lay ahead.
If she had a blowout before reaching them, everything would
be ruined.
Her watch said 1:15. The van was fifty
yards behind her, coming over the bridge. As she
mounted the railroad crossing, she braked again, this
time more carefully. But she stopped too far beyond the
tracks. For a panicky moment, she couldn't find
reverse. Then she managed to back the car up to the
edge of the crossing, just as the van mounted the
tracks. She jumped out of the car waving her arms.
The van bounced to a halt behind her.
"Something's happened to my car!" she shouted.
"Kaputt!" In the distance she could see
Lubienski approaching in his truck. The young
lieutenant opened the door and stood up on the
running board. "What is it?" he shouted.
"I don't know! It won't move!" she
called back but her voice was lost in the shriek
of a whistle from a train hurtling around a bend right
toward them.
Elizabeth saw the lieutenant freeze. The
van sat squarely on the tracks. The driver
was working madly at the gears. But just as he
managed to get the van moving backward,
Lubienski and his truck slammed into their rear.
The collision hurled Von Aufenaker onto
the ground. He rolled over and came up with a
Luger in his hand. The train was bearing
down on him less than a hundred yards away.
Confused, he pointed his gun at the truck, then
at Elizabeth. The train's whistle screamed
again and he whirled around to face it. The sound of
broken glass and machine-gun fire came from the
back of the van. The train closed in. The
lieutenant tried to dive to one side as the
locomotive plowed into the van, picking it up,
tumbling it over and over down the track before casting
it aside like a crushed paper cup.
The Baltic Zephyour roared by without slowing, a
few startled passengers curiously peering out the
windows. In a few seconds it was gone. The
track was clear. The Aero and the Ursis dump
truck bracketed the crossing and the space between them
stood empty.
Elizabeth forced herself to move. If she did
not, she knew she would go into shock.
"Are you all right?" Lubienski called out.
"Yes, and you?"
He nodded and poked two fingers through
machine-gun holes in his windshield.
"We've got to get moving!" Elizabeth
opened the trunk of the car and took out the bag with the
bogus Enigma parts. By the time she got to the
crumpled van, Lubienski was using a crowbar
to force open the rear door. Inside, they found a
horror. Blood was spattered everywhere. The
bookish corporal's arms and legs were tangled
in knots, his glasses embedded in his face. The
dark-haired Nazi seemed to have come apart; his
severed head, a leg, and an arm were scattered
amidst the trash that had once been radio
equipment. Elizabeth threw up.
"We've only got a few minutes,"
Lubienski said with an edge of hysteria. "The
town will be all over us."
"You get the gasoline," she coughed. "I'll
find the Enigma."
She feared that it too had been smashed
to pieces. A few crates remained intact, but
they contained paper. A trunk proved to hold
dress uniforms. The Enigma was nowhere in the
mass except possibly under the corporal's
torso. Steeling herself, she rolled him over.
Nothing.
Lubienski returned with the gasoline, and began
to pour it all over the inside of the van.
"Wait! I haven't found the machine yet!"
Elizabeth yelled at him.
"We can't! We'll be caught!"
"I've looked everywhere!"
"Then let's go!" He pulled her out, and
threw in a match. Flames roared up.
"There's one more place!" She pulled away from
him.
"It could explode!"
She rushed to the front of the van. The doors were
crushed shut, but the windshield had been smashed
out. The old-timer hung through one of them staring up
at her with a lifeless grin.
Already the flames were surging into the driver's
compartment. Elizabeth had to climb onto the body
of the driver to look inside. There it was, wedged
against the firewall on the passenger side, its
wooden case cracked. But there it was!
"Help me, dammit!" she shouted at
Lubienski, who hovered indecisively nearby.
The metal body of the van was getting too hot
to touch. She reached down and grabbed hold of the
handle on the case. Lubienski lifted both of
them away from the van.
Stumbling back toward the car, Elizabeth
clutched Lubienski's arm. "The phony parts!
They have to go into the wreckage!"
"It's too late!"
"We have to, or the Germans will know!"
Lubienski raced back to the van, picked up
the bag, and heaved it into the flames.
"Don't leave the gas cans!" she shouted after
him. Closing the trunk, Elizabeth went around
the side of the car to get in. Suddenly, she
stopped. She screamed.
Lieutenant von Aufenaker had crawled
halfway into the front seat; his face was a
bloody mess. "Help me," he moaned.
Lubienski ran up beside her. "Oh, my
God," he said. "What shall we do?"
"Please," the German whimpered.
"Get the crowbar," Elizabeth said.
While Lubienski did what he was told,
she sat in the car with her hands over her ears trying
to block out the sickening sound of the young man having his
life beaten out of him.


Chapter 26

Warsaw--Sunday Afternoon, September
25, 1938
BRINK OF WAR! The headlines of the
Warsaw Courier blared from the kiosks.
TROOPS ON THE MOVE. TESCHEN IS
OURS! In the thirty-one hours since
Elizabeth and Count Lubienski left Warsaw
on the boat, the city had been put on a war
footing. The government had deployed police and
soldiers throughout the city. Troops and concertina
wire guarded the Co-op Bank and an
antiaircraft gun had been installed between the
two giant stone eagles on the roof. Armored
cars protected the post office and the railway
station. And when Elizabeth approached the
British embassy to deliver the Enigma, she was
shocked to find it completely blocked off. A
mob of Silver Shirts numbering in the thousands
surrounded the compound, spilling into Nowy Swiat,
snarling traffic. The demonstrators carried
signs proclaiming TESCHEN IS POLAND,
Hitler Our Savior, HANG CHAMBERLAIN.
Only the surge of the mounted Horse Guards
kept the crowd from tearing down the gates. A
column of black smoke could be seen rising from the
courtyard.
"Good Lord!" Elizabeth exclaimed.
"They're burning the files!" That was the last
stage of evacuation. There would be no more
diplomatic pouch. How would they get the Enigma
out of the country?
"Take me home," she told Lubienski.
They were driving in his Fiat with the Enigma in the
trunk. Lubienski had ditched the truck in a
barn not far from the "accident," and the roadster in a
garage on the outskirts of Warsaw. As they
turned into Ulica Frascati, Elizabeth
shouted, "Stop!"
Ahead she could see four of the Defa's sinister
black Chevrolets blocking the street in
front of her apartment house. She pointed to the right
and Lubienski quickly turned down Senacka
Street, and then into a driveway that cut through the
Foreign Trade Ministry. They picked up an
alley on the other side that wound through a complex of
heavily guarded government buildings.
Elizabeth bit her lip. If the troops
stopped them, searched them ... Finally, they emerged
next to the Sejm, the Polish
parliament. It was surrounded by tanks. An army
patrol waved them over.
Elizabeth started shaking. Lubienski
arrogantly waved his Foreign Ministry
identification. The soldiers saluted but were not
intimidated. They wanted to see her papers as
well.
"She's my wife," Lubienski protested.
They insisted. She showed her American
passport.
"Actually she's my mistress," Lubienski
admitted.
The officer in charge raised his eyebrows,
smiled knowingly, bowed, and let them pass.
In a few minutes they had managed to get
back to the downtown area. Elizabeth directed
Lubienski to pull over on D@luga in front
of the Caf`e Gogolewski. She had an
emergency telephone number. The cashier took
her time giving her a token for the pay phone. It was
in the back near the coat rack.
"Da?" a voice answered.
"I need a return call," she said without
identifying herself. "Two-four-one-seven-eight."
Again she repeated the telephone number of the
caf`e and hung up.
Her stomach was empty. She had not eaten
anything since the sausages at the roadhouse, but
the sight of the huge cheesecakes and the smell of the
strong coffee made her nauseated. Forcing herself
to take deep, even breaths, Elizabeth waited. A man wanted to use the phone.
She smiled and shook her head. He went away. But
a few minutes later, a bullet-headed woman
would not be denied. Elizabeth stood by anxiously
as the woman talked without apparent haste.
Outside, she could see Lubienski arguing with a
mounted policemen. Michael, she silently
screamed in her head, don't pull rank! Do
whatever he says! Finally the woman hung up
and the phone rang immediately. It was Shelly.
"Don't go home," he said first.
"I know. What's going on?"
"They have orders to arrest you."
"Do they know about--"
"No," he cut her off. "It's a general
security sweep. Many of our people have been picked
up."
"But I'm a diplomat!" she protested.
"Arthur's the diplomat, and he's not
here."
"What should I do?"
"Did you finish your "shopping"?"
"Yes." She could hear him sigh. When he
spoke again, he had less tension in his voice.
"We've got to get you and your new purchases
out of the country immediately. Do you have your American
passport?"
"Yes, it's in my maiden name, Amy
Thorpe." Elizabeth saw that Lubienski's
car had disappeared. She felt a stab of concern.
"We'll get you on a flight this afternoon. Can you
stay where you are for a few hours?"
Through the front windows of the caf`e, she could
see Lubienski pass by. He was circling the
block.
"No. I'll go to Michael's. His
family's away for the weekend."
"Someone will call with the time of your flight. But
don't stay there too long. Once the
Ko@sciuszko docks, and you're not on it,
that's the first place they'll come looking."

In all their days and nights together, Elizabeth
had never seen Count Lubienski's home. He
lived across the river in Saska Kepa, a new
and fashionable residential area, which had been
built since the end of the war. Unlike Warsaw
with its palaces, flats, and town houses, this was
a suburb of single and attached homes set on
lots surrounded by grass and trees. It strongly
reminded Elizabeth of Minneapolis. Riding
through the curving tree-lined streets, with children playing
happily in the yards and the precious bloodstained
Enigma machine in the rear of their car, she had a
sudden, powerful, almost desperate desire to be
back in America, to be safe and content, and to be
ignorant of the world.
The modesty of Count Lubienski's home
surprised her and made her feel closer to him.
Like the others in the neighborhood, it stood two
stories high, and was made of tan stucco with a
peaked roof covered in flat red tiles. The
exterior was completely plain, with no shutters,
moldings, or other adornments. Inside, it had
a small foyer with a narrow stairway that led up
to the bedrooms. Lubienski took her to his
study, which was behind the living room looking out over a
garden.
They stood awkwardly and apart in the
center of the book-lined room. In the long drive
back to Warsaw, neither had spoken much.
Elizabeth's feelings had run the gamut from
remorse and fear to a gradual sense of
triumph. After Lubienski had killed the young
German and gotten back into the car, she had said,
"I'm sorry." His reply had been terse and
bitter. "It's the destiny of young Germans and
Poles to kill each other."
Looking at him now, she wanted so much to comfort
him, but there was so little time. She stepped closer and
put her arms around him. They kissed and embraced
one another silently for several minutes.
"I can't bear to think of the days ahead," he
whispered. "I don't know what could be worse,
war or losing you."
"Do you want to make love?" She
unbuttoned her sweater and unsnapped her
brassiere.
The phone rang. He picked it up.
"Five-fifty," a voice said. "Someone will
meet you."
Lubienski put down the phone and repeated the
message.
"How far is it to the airfield?" she asked.
"Mokot@ow is twenty minutes."
"We have to leave right away."
"Not yet." Lubienski came to her.
She expected him to sweep her into his arms,
but instead, almost shyly he took her hand. "I
want you to touch," he said hesitantly, leading
her toward the bookshelves.
Half naked, she moved along the walls,
caressing the bound leather volumes with her body.
He opened a glass vitrine and took out a
handful of medals. "Press them against your
breasts," he whispered. Then he led her to his
desk. "Sit in my chair, I want you to touch
everything that's mine."
She sat at his desk and passed her hands over
his pipe, his pens, his lamp, his diary, the
inkwells, the document boxes.
"Michael," she finally said, "I'm sorry,
but we have to go."
He lifted her from the chair, placing her on the
desk. Then he pulled down her slacks and
panties, and she opened her legs to envelop him.
In a moment he was inside. A moment later, as
they soundlessly stared into one another's eyes, he was
spent.
"Now," he said, "there will always be something of you
here."

As they drove away from Lubienski's house,
Elizabeth pulled over the rearview mirror
to check her makeup. She gasped. Two black
Chevrolets had just turned the corner behind them.
"Step on it," she ordered. "It's the
Defa!"
Lubienski made a hard left and then a quick
right.
"They've spotted us!" she cried. "They're
gaining!" He hurtled through a stop sign, and
crossed into the thickly forested Paderewski
Park. Jumping the curb, he drove onto a
bridle path. Startled horses reared in the air
and bolted for the woods, their riders tossed to the
ground or hanging on in panic. Desperately
twisting to look through the rear window, Elizabeth
could see the Chevrolets sliding around on the
dirt trail, but doggedly still in pursuit.
"We're running out of time!" She had barely
ten minutes to meet her contact. "Look out!"
The car plunged through a hedge, crashed a fence,
tore across a picnic area, and emerged onto a
wide boulevard that led to the Poniatowski
Bridge.
Picking herself off the floor of the car,
Elizabeth glanced back. "I think you finally
lost them."

Located near the village of Mokot@ow,
south of the city, the Warsaw airport consisted of
two huge hangars, flanking a small
three-story building topped by a central control
tower. The diminutive terminal looked like a gay
summer pavilion with several terraces that the
public would visit on Sunday afternoons to watch the
planes take off and land. The terminal was fully
adequate to handle the dozen flights and the four
hundred passengers that passed through it each day.
But when Elizabeth and Count Lubienski roared
up at 5:51, the building was surrounded by at
least five thousand people desperately trying to flee
Poland.
Elizabeth could see no way to get through the
crowd. She would never find her contact. She
wanted to sit down and cry.
"Here we go." Lubienski picked her up by the
waist.
"What are you doing?" she protested.
He put her over his shoulder, bent to pick up
the Enigma machine and began to shove his way into the
building toward British European Airways,
shouting, "Emergency! Emergency!"
He set her down next to the BEA desk.
A sign indicated that the London flight left
at 6:00. Through the large glass windows that
faced the runways, Elizabeth caught sight of
passengers boarding a large Vickers
airplane. "Can I make it?" she asked the
attendant. He nodded and asked for her name and
passport. As he checked his list, Elizabeth
spotted two men at the departure gate in the
telltale black leather coats. They were making
all female passengers take off their hats and
then were checking them against a photograph held
next to their faces.
Elizabeth snatched back her passport.
She turned to Lubienski and pointed toward the
counterintelligence police.
"More trouble." He nodded toward the exit to the
street. Two more Defas were pushing their way into the
building.
"Oh, God, I know them! They sit in
front of my flat all day!" She ducked down
and tried to elbow her way toward the restrooms,
stumbling over feet, suitcases, dogs, children.
Lubienski, lugging the Enigma, struggled
to follow her. Just as she reached the door to the
ladies room a hand reached out and seized her arm.
Elizabeth started to scream.
"Shussh, for Christ sakes!" It was Jack
Shelly. "Where's the machine?" She pointed
back toward Lubienski, who was squeezing through the
crowd. Behind him, one of the Defas was looking in
their direction.
"This way," Shelly herded them through a door
marked PRIVAT and into a massive hangar.
Outside on the tarmac, a Junker trimotor
with the markings of Finnish Airways stood warming
up.
"What's going on?" Elizabeth cried over
the noise of the engines.
"Second prize," Shelly explained.
"You'll be met in Helsinki."
Shelly and Lubienski lifted Elizabeth
and the Enigma up the steps and into the plane. Before
she could turn around, the door was closed and the
aircraft had begun to taxi onto the
runway. An attendant led her to a seat at the
front of the plane. As she looked back toward
the hangar, Elizabeth saw a squad of
Defensywa seize Shelly and Lubienski.
She strapped herself into the wicker seat, and gripped
the Enigma between her legs.
The door to the cockpit was latched open with the
curtain tied back. She could hear the pilot and the
tower talking to one another on the radio in
English. The pilot spoke with a British accent
and looked like a grizzled Royal Flying
Corps veteran.
Finally she heard the magic words from the tower:
"Finnair Seventy-seven, you are cleared for
takeoff."
The airplane turned and started down the bumpy
runway, gathering speed.
Abruptly the tower came on the radio again.
"Finnair Seventy-seven, do you have a female
passenger on board? Over."
"Roger. Several. Over."
Fear shot through her. She waited for the next
message. The plane continued to accelerate.
"Finnair, you're requested to return to the
hangar area. Over."
"I'm already behind schedule. It'll be dark when
I get to Helsinki. Over."
"Just a second. Over." Then an excited
voice came on the air.
"Tower," the pilot said dryly, "I don't
speak Polish. Over."
The aircraft was beginning to bounce, signaling
a desire to be airborne. Elizabeth strained
forward against the seatbelt to hear her fate.
"You must stop!" the Polish voice demanded.
"Tower, I'm going to file a complaint of
interference on takeoff. Over."
And with that, the Junker lumbered into the air.
"Roger Wilco, Finnair
Seventy-seven," the tower operator came
back. "We'll sort it out on your return.
Over."
Elizabeth collapsed back into her seat.
She had escaped! But there was no exhilaration, no
sense of triumph. As she watched the city of
Warsaw turning beneath her, looking all golden and
untroubled in the autumn twilight, she felt a
tremendous sense of loss, for she had left her

whole life behind.

CROSSING BY NIGHT

Part III (cont.)


Chapter 27

Palace Hotel, Stockholm--
September 30, 1938
Elizabeth stood at the window of her room
gazing out at the harbor. Sailing boats drifted
lazily by, framed by the medieval town rising
on the island across the water. The scene was
tranquil; she was not. She hated the waiting.
In Helsinki, a middle-aged Finnish
woman from the British Passport Control
Office had met her at the plane with a
suitcase full of fresh clothes and a case of
toiletries. She took Elizabeth
directly to the port and put her aboard the ferry
to Sweden. In the dark, she had seen little of the
Finnish capital except for a remarkable number
of extremely modern glass buildings sprouting
up between old wooden houses that reminded her of
pictures of Russia.
On the boat to Stockholm, she locked herself
in her cabin. The Swedes returning from a
weekend in Finland drank all night. Several
times she could hear them toast in English, "To the
next war, may it make us rich!" And later when
the party became morose, they turned to French:
"Au fin du monde!" To the end of the world.
The young Englishman who met her at the dock
in Stockholm and whisked her through customs showed
no interest in the Enigma machine. When he
dropped her at the Palace Hotel, he
merely told her to wait and she would be contacted.
That was seventy-two hours ago. Why had no one
shown up? Had something gone wrong? Didn't they
care? Was all the sacrifice in vain? As the
hours slowly passed, Elizabeth had stayed in
her room with the Enigma machine, ordering from the
hotel kitchen, listening to news of the Czech
crisis on the BBC.
In a surprise move, Mussolini had
asked for a conference among himself, Hitler,
Chamberlain, and French Prime Minister
Daladier. The Czechs were left out. But as the
Big Four powers met in Munich, Hitler
remained adamant that he get a third of
Czechoslovakia and war still seemed inevitable.
Germany and Poland were fully mobilized.
Children were being evacuated from London. Gas
masks were being distributed to the populace and
antiaircraft emplacements dug into Green
Park. The news made Elizabeth worry all
the more about Lubienski and Shelly. It made her
think about death.
The image of the train striking the van, the
bodies inside, the driver's last grimace, the
young man pleading for his life, would not go away. But
it wasn't the violence and horror that obsessed
her. It was the finality, the irreversibility, the
irrefutable truth that the avalanche of the coming war
would destroy everything in its path. Youth, she
realized, would offer no protection. The war would be
a youth festival of death.
Elizabeth had tasted the irreversible; she
herself had not only killed, but she had died a little,
perhaps a lot. If life's purpose was to beget
more life, she was dead already. Was that what lurked
behind her inability to sustain a sense of pride
over the operation? The guilt that she had secretly
been taking revenge on the living? Killing had
always been an essential element of her plan.
Was she proving that she too could be violent,
competing with men when she could no longer compete with
women?
The face of the young German lieutenant came
to her again and again with surges of remorse. Why was
she obsessed with him? Because he was kind to her? Because
in a different time and place they might have fallen
in love? were the others' lives less valuable?
Had she any more right to take them? How could she be
so indifferent about the soldier with the spectacles or
the old-timer? How could she have been so glad about the
Nazi sergeant? Because he despised Jews?
Arthur, her mother, and plenty of her parents' friends
often talked just like he did. So what right had she
to take satisfaction in killing him? For that was how
she had felt, even as her body made her
vomit. Was it her Viking blood, the blood of the
Thaarps? Had she something of the berserker in her? Was
she becoming a monster, like the Nazis she was so
proud of fighting?
The self-flagellating questions circled endlessly
through her mind, allowing no rest and little sleep.
To distract herself she wrote letters: a short note
to the Porters asking about Antony, and a long
sprawling one to her mother trying to explain her
feelings about the last few days without revealing what
she had done. Much of the letter dwelled on
how her father must have felt after killing the enemy.
Did his patriotism, his love of country,
erase the horror of taking human life? Had
he ever even met his enemy as she had? The letter
closed by asking her mother how she had comforted her father.
When Elizabeth was finished, she tore it up.
When you're young, she thought as she sat in the
window overlooking Stockholm Harbor, death is
a game of cowboys and Indians, cops and
robbers, and time is like the air; there's so much you
hardly notice it exists. There is always the
possibility of new beginnings. What new
beginning did she face now? Another assignment
from Broadway? They seemed to have forgotten her
already. A new lover to replace Lubienski and
offset the tedium of life with Arthur? The
prospect held no interest. Against great odds,
Elizabeth had gambled and won a victory for
Britain, but somehow she felt she had lost
everything.
She worried helplessly about Lubienski and
Shelly. She was afraid to try to call them,
both for their sake and for fear of letting Polish
intelligence know where she was. Why had she pushed
the plan forward even when they were prepared to give it
up? She had persevered in the belief that the
Enigma in British hands would save untold
lives. But where were the British now? All she
had done was kill four German soldiers and
jeopardize the lives of her friends. If the
Poles had any inkling of the operation, Shelly would
face a brutal interrogation. She prayed his
diplomatic status would save him. Lubienski
might be treated as a traitor. He could be
shot. The thought made her weep.
Arthur was also on her mind. If he had heard
of the embassy evacuation, he might be concerned about
her. Not long after her arrival at the hotel she
placed a call to him in St.-Jean-de-Luz where
he was now recuperating. When she finally got through,
Barbara Brasswell was there to answer the phone.
Arthur was out taking a walk. Barbara said he would
be relieved to hear that she was safe in
Stockholm.
As the harbor shimmered in midday sunlight,
Elizabeth decided to order lunch from room
service. A few minutes later, she heard a
knock on the door. That's Swedish efficiency,
she thought opening it.
Her surprise was complete. There,
with a bouquet of flowers in one hand, and a cart of
champagne and caviar behind him, stood William
Stephenson.

"What you've done is spectacular," he
toasted her. His ostensible reason for coming
to Stockholm was business with Svenska
Metallverken; his real purpose was to escort
both her and her prize back to London. "If
the Government Code and Cipher School boys
can't break the Enigma now, I say sack the
lot of them."
For the first time, Elizabeth allowed herself to feel
proud. Still, she choked back her emotions.
"The Enigma's vital," Stephenson
assured her. "Parliament is to declare war tomorrow.
What you've done will not only save thousands upon
thousands of lives, it may well save Britain
itself."
"It's a relief to hear you say so," she
whispered, then burst into tears, and he held her
for a long time like a child.
Unwilling to risk leaving the Enigma in the
suite unguarded, they ordered up a party.
While Elizabeth happily changed clothes,
room service delivered more champagne and a
timbale of crayfish. The radio provided
music--Lasse Thomassen and the Stockholm
Strings.
After lunch, as they stood close together at the
window, Elizabeth could sense that he was preparing
himself to ask her a question.
"I hope you won't think of me as crass
..." he began.
"Bill," she said softly, "you can ask me
anything you like."
"Well then"--she saw the eagerness growing in his
eyes--"could I see the machine?"
"Of course!" Elizabeth laughed, leading him
into the bedroom. She took the Enigma out of the
closet and set it up on the writing table near the
windows.
Stephenson opened the case. A broad
smile took over his face. He pulled a
sheet of paper from his inside pocket and began
to set the rotors. When he was finished, he
pressed the letter n. Nothing happened. He
looked alarmed.
"Is it broken?"
"I don't think we'll know," she
said kindly, "unless we turn it on."
"Oh, of course!" He searched around, turning
several switches before the machine lit up and began
to hum.
"Oh good! Good!" He was like a child at
Christmas. "I've got a message fragment
that we intercepted some time ago. We know we've
got the key right, but we still can't decipher the
bloody thing. Can you take down the letters as the
bulbs light up?"
Every great man needs a secretary, she thought as
she fished in the desk for a pencil.
He began pressing the keys: "KZLTO
FQNPY WAEMG SIOUD ROFGH ..."
Elizabeth wrote the letters that appeared on the
bulbs. "HIMML ERKOM MTBAL
DNACH KOLNX ..."
"It still makes no sense," said Elizabeth,
dismayed.
"Yes! Yes!" Stephenson was even more
excited. "It's German of course. Break it
up this way."
He drew slashes through the five letter groups:
"HIMML ER/KOM MT/BAL
D/ationach stKOLN/X."
"Himmler is soon coming to Cologne!" he
shouted triumphantly. Elizabeth hugged him with
joy and relief, and then they realized that the phone
had been ringing. Elizabeth had to dash into the other
room to answer it.
"Hello," she said, wondering who it could be.
"Elizabeth, is that you? It's Hallet
Johnson."
"Hal!" He was an old friend she and Arthur
had known in Madrid. "Where are you calling from?
How did you find me?"
"I'm now the U.s. consul general in
Stockholm. I've just got a wire from Arthur
asking about you."
Wasn't it just like him to answer her phone call
with a cable. "What does he say?"
"He wants to know why you're here."
"Because Britain's about to go to war with Germany and
Poland, that's why!"
"You haven't been keeping up. The Big
Four powers reached agreement in Munich.
There'll be no war. You can probably go back
to Warsaw tomorrow."
"That's wonderful!" She put her hand over the
phone and turned to Stephenson.
"Chamberlain and Hitler worked it out."
"I hope we can see each other before you
return," Johnson said.
"By all means. If I've time, I'll come
by and send a message to Arthur." She rang off.
Stephenson had already gone to the big Ericsson
radio and was tuning in the BBC overseas
service. It confirmed that Hitler, Chamberlain,
Daladier, and Mussolini had reached an
accord. But peace had its price. The British
and French had capitulated to Hitler's demands.
Czechoslovakia would be dismembered just the way the
Nazis outlined it on the map Elizabeth had
stolen from Henlein in Prague.
But the people of Britain were joyous. The BBC
reported that cheering crowds greeted Chamberlain
at Heston Airport and lined the streets
into London. While room service set the table
for dinner, Elizabeth and Stephenson leaned
close to the radio to catch the British prime
minister's voice as he stepped to the window of 10
Downing Street and waved the Munich Agreement
to the throngs below.
"My good friends, this is the second time in our
history that there has come back from Germany to Downing
Street peace with honor.
"I believe it is peace for our time!"
Stephenson looked as if he might be ill.
"A disgrace, a sham," he muttered.
"Well, maybe Chamberlain's weakness has
bought us time to get ready when the war finally does
come," Elizabeth said.
The phone rang. The switchboard operator
announced that the call was from Warsaw.
"Elizabeth! You're safe!" Count
Lubienski shouted over a poor connection.
"And you?" she shouted back, thrilled to hear his
voice.
"Everything has come out fine! You have the news from
Munich?"
"Yes."
"It changes everything. I've talked
to Beck. You can come back."
"I don't know." She looked at
Stephenson.
"Don't worry. You'll be perfectly safe
now," Lubienski insisted. "You won't even be
followed by the Defa."
"That's a break." She felt an
uncontainable happiness. "I'll have
to contact the embassy, of course."
"Certainly. Call me back. I'll meet
your plane, train, boat, however you can get
here."
"What about Jack?"
"Expelled, declared persona non
grata. He can't come back, I'm afraid.
But he told me where you were."
"I'll call you as soon as I have plans."
"I miss you. I love you," Lubienski
declared through the static.
"I miss you, too," Elizabeth called
to him, cradling the phone as if it were his face.
"You don't know how much."
As she hung up, she cried, "I can go
back!"
"I understand completely," said Stephenson, but
there was a touch of regret in his voice. "I was
supposed to fetch you to London. C wanted
to meet you. I think tea at Buckingham
Palace is in the works."
Elizabeth felt overwhelmed. The importance
of what she had done was finally sinking in.
"I don't want to disappoint the king!"
"Well, the Queen Mother, actually."
"But isn't Poland even more significant
now?"
"It's either going to be Hitler's ally or his
next conquest."
"So shouldn't I go back before they change their
minds? Beck has cleared it."
Stephenson smiled and shook his head in
respect. "You're a marvel," he conceded.
"I'll square it with the chaps at Broadway."
While Stephenson packed up the Enigma,
Elizabeth booked a telephone call to the
British embassy in Warsaw.
"I'll have to hurry to get the last flight out
tonight," Stephenson apologized for his hasty
departure.
"It's been lovely." Elizabeth smiled
warmly. He was a man who spoke little, yet she
felt they somehow deeply understood one another.
"Don't take too many risks. You're too
valuable to the cause," he said at the door.
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and watched
him lug the heavy Enigma down the hall to the
elevator. The ringing telephone called her
back into the room. It was Clifford Norton from
the embassy in Warsaw.
"I'm planning to take the first plane or
boat that I can," Elizabeth explained.
"No, you mustn't."
"Why not?"
"I've got orders that you're not to return."
"Why not?" Elizabeth was flabbergasted. "You
know what I've done for the embassy."
"If it weren't for you," Norton admitted,
"we might as well not be here."
"Go to the ambassador, please. Tell him
it's all right with the Poles. Tell him my
husband ordered me to go back."
"I'll try my best, Elizabeth. But I
don't have much hope."
She hung up. This was preposterous! She
tried to call London, but all the circuits were
booked until well after midnight.
Two hours later, after she had watched the
lights come on along Stockholm's
waterfront, Norton called back.
"The ambassador says no."
"For God's sake, why?"
"He said that it's in the best interests of the
Foreign Service that you not return."
"But my work ..."
"With the Munich Agreement, he believes that
your kind of work will no longer be necessary."
"What an ass! What's really going on,
Clifford?"
She could sense his hesitation.
"Promise you won't get angry with me?"
"I promise." She was furious.
"It's Lady Kennard. She's put her
foot down. She sent a message refusing to come
back to Warsaw if the embassy, and I'm
quoting here, "continues to be disgraced by that
tramp."
"Sorry, Elizabeth."

Part IV

My best and most vivid memories come from
"aloneness." It's not fantasy or dreaming, but
things and life seem more real to me when I'm
alone, my impressions are sharper and all of me
is focused. I even associate love with
aloneness--and parting from love. For when parting comes--and
it nearly always does--then it is the rememberance
of it, in solitude, that sustains one far more than
the company of friends.
--Elizabeth Pack, interview with H.
Montgomery Hyde


Chapter 28

Toronto, October 10, 1938
Dear Winston,
I read your masterful speech in Commons,
denouncing the Munich accords. Historians will
endlessly debate whether it would have been better for
Chamberlain to stand up to the F@uhrer at Munich.
I believe he was right not to do so because we are so
woefully unprepared for war. However, he is
tragically wrong to present this as a victory for
peace. Instead of letting the public go back
to sleep, he should be using Munich to sound the
alarm, to mobilize the Commonwealth and ready
ourselves for the inevitable battle to come.
Yours,
Bill Stephenson




The Other Club, London--December
12, 1938
When Admiral Sinclair arrived, they all
abandoned the library and climbed the creaking stairs
to the greater privacy of the small paneled dining
room on the second floor. Winston
Churchill, as a tireless critic of the prime
minister, was somewhat surprised to be invited into the
company of Chamberlain's men: the minister of war,
Thomas Inskip; Maurice Hankey,
secretary of the cabinet and the Imperial Defense
Committee; Major Desmond Morton, who
headed the Industrial Intelligence Center, and of
course, Admiral Sinclair, who as C
headed the SIS. Only the slim and elegant
Morton, a neighbor of his in Kent and a sometime
confidential source, was a friendly face.
Over drinks, they had been arguing about
Munich, with Churchill pointing out that Hitler's
appetite had only been whetted, and he was now
hungry for Poland. After they had sat down
to dinner, Admiral Sinclair refueled the
debate by stating that all the intelligence prior
to Munich underscored that the Germans were thoroughly
prepared for war over Czechoslovakia, and that
Britain would have been foolhardy
to challenge them.
"My sources," Churchill responded,
"tell me that the Fuhrer would have backed down if
Chamberlain had taken a resolute stand."
"Don't confuse opinion with intelligence,"
Sinclair responded tartly. He looked up
to see if the door was closed. "One reason for this
gathering, is to address the intelligence situation."
Inskip, who had the shrewd eyes of one who
had advanced in politics by avoiding
responsibility, nodded to Morton to pick up
the conversation. They were all clearly proceeding from a
script, so Churchill waited.
"I know you are aware of the German Enigma
machine," Morton began. "What you may not know
is that we have at last been able to break it."
Churchill did know. In fact, Morton
himself had told him. He had also been the one who
reported to Churchill that the Enigma messages
indicated that Hitler's generals had warned against
provoking a war that could draw in Britain and
France.
"We had a storehouse of intercepted
signals from our antennas at Bridgewoods and
Flowerdown. As we went back through them, it was
clear that Hitler had carefully prepared for a
Czech invasion. We could have done little to stop them."
Churchill was in no mind to argue over the past.
"Well, can I hope that the prime minister has
learned from this debacle that the Nazis are not
champions of peace?"
"Quite," Maurice Hankey spoke up.
Fine-featured and meticulous, he spread his
manicured fingers on the table. "I am
authorized to tell you that the PM has instructed
Admiral Sinclair and his chaps to spare no
effort in carrying out a clandestine program
to undermine Nazi influence throughout Europe."
"That's gratifying to hear," Churchill said,
"but what is he going to do publicly to halt
Hitler's march? Covert means cannot substitute
for overt means. They can only support them."
He directed this last remark to Admiral
Sinclair.
"We shall do what we can," C replied. "But
we need some help."
"Mine?" Churchill looked surprised.
"Winston"--Inskip spoke again--"we've
been trying to persuade you that the government is
alert to the dangers ahead and so enlist your
cooperation."
"I take it that it's not a position in the
cabinet that you've in mind," he responded
dryly.
"No," said Hankey carefully, "it has to do
with Poland."
Admiral Sinclair continued. "On
September fifteenth, not long before we were able
to break the Enigma, the Germans changed their
keying procedures, making breaking the code all
the more difficult. Now it appears that they also have
made new and significant modifications to the
machine, adding new rotors. The details are not
important. The essential thing is that we can
read all the old messages we had in our
inventory, but we've not been able to read a single
new Enigma message since the middle of
September last. We need some assistance, and the
Poles are the only ones who may be able
to provide it."
"The Poles?" To Churchill, this was getting
curiouser by the moment.
"My chaps will give you a full briefing on
what's been going on," Admiral Sinclair
pressed ahead. "We've been trying to approach
them through the French who have an intelligence
relationship going back several years, but
Colonel Beck, the Polish foreign minister,
wants to have an "off the record" chat with us
first."
"What do you want from me?"
"You're our choice for interlocutor,"
Hankey explained. "Since Munich, the
Poles are convinced that Britain lacks"--he
searched for a word that would not be too embarrassing--
"lacks calculability."
"Your opposition to Munich lends credibility
to our offer of cooperation," Morton explained.
"Well, I can well imagine what they want
from us--arms, and assistance--but what,
specifically, do we seek from them?" Churchill
asked.
Admiral Sinclair made an unhappy
face. "It all has to do with a device they've
reportedly invented. Supposedly, it's a
sort of electrical brain that helps them
solve the Enigma."
"Why "supposedly"?"
"There's some question among my chaps as to whether this
thing actually exists."
"That's one reason we too want an
off-the-record talk," Hankey added. "We
don't want them to see what's in our hand before we
see theirs."
Churchill frowned. "On the remote chance that
this is a useful exercise, what is this thing I'm
supposed to be asking for?"
They all looked at C.
"It's called the bombe."

Villa Ttirritta,
St.-Jean-de-Luz--December 26,

The rain battering against the terrace door made
Elizabeth shudder. All the heat was on in the
house, and still it was cold. She couldn't use the
fireplaces; if she opened the flues, the gale
would come right down the chimney. For months since
she had returned to St.-Jean-de-Luz, the sky
had been overcast and dark. When the weather wasn't
damp, it was drizzling; and when it wasn't
drizzling it was blowing. Often, the windows rattled
and whistled so loudly that she had to raise her
voice to be heard. No wonder the French saw
St.-Jean-de-Luz as fit for year-round
habitation only by the English.
Her Boxing Day luncheon that afternoon would be a
gloomy affair if it were not for the Brasswells,
who were still stationed at the rump British embassy
in Hendaye. Barbara had been a tower of strength
in London when Elizabeth was trying to get
Arthur proper medical treatment. And while she
was in Poland, the Brasswells had arranged for
him to recuperate back in St.-Jean-de-Luz,
where they continued to be extremely attentive.
Elizabeth would not have been surprised if they had
a poor opinion of her for having abandoned
Arthur, but upon her return, Barbara
Brasswell had become her first real female
friend, apart from Vita, since leaving Washington.
After the excitement and the horror of Poland, her
time in St.-Jean-de-Luz seemed like limbo.
Unable to return to Warsaw, she had stopped in
London to be "debriefed." Stephenson already
had gone on to Canada. Denniston and Knox
had listened politely to her report until she
added that the Poles had developed a machine they
called the bombe to help them crack the new
German ciphers. As usual, Knox was
skeptical. He had no faith in what
he called "clumsy machinery," and Denniston,
typically, saw both sides to the question. C had
been indisposed, but she had met with Colonel
Menzies who gave her five minutes, and then
stood and said, "Well, we're all terribly
grateful. Thank you very much. Good-bye." A
visit to Buckingham Palace was never mentioned.
Since then, she had heard nothing from Broadway.
The only bright spots of her stop in England were
a visit to Bath to see her son and high tea with
Vita at Claridge's. Vita arrived wearing tweeds and tall boots fit for the
country. Elizabeth noticed that she was letting her hair
go gray.
"An instinct told me to bring along this,"
Vita said, handing Elizabeth a copy of her
book Saint Joan of Arc.
"How dear." She thumbed through the pages.
"I've always been fascinated by her. What do you
think turned so simple a peasant girl into such
a patriot?"
They skipped the scones and pastries, and
ordered watercress sandwiches.
"Well, in her case, she heard voices from
God," Vita replied.
Elizabeth could feel Vita inspecting her
closely.
"You're not hearing voices these days, are you?"
she continued.
"Certainly not." Elizabeth laughed a little
sharply. "But sometimes I'm mystified by my
feelings for this country. Lord knows I've had my
share of bad experiences here, yet I find myself
more patriotic than most of the English I
meet."
"And do you feel that way about America?"
"Even more so. And I believe the fates of the
two countries are linked, as Churchill said at
dinner that night at your house."
"Oh yes," Vita said vaguely as if the
memory was not too clear. She reached out and put
her hand on Elizabeth's. "I don't know what
you've been doing with yourself in Poland, and I'm not
pressing you to tell. But when Joan of Arc
lifted the English siege of Orl@eans, she
said she would be happy to go home and feed her
goats. Unfortunately, she had come to love war
too much. It was her undoing."
"I think I know how she felt," Elizabeth
said with a sigh. "But at least she became
a saint."
Vita had looked at her sternly. "Five
hundred years after she was burned at the stake!"
Once back at the Villa Ttirritta,
Elizabeth had tried "tending her goats," but
found herself incapable of reentering the vacuous round of
dinner parties that constituted the quiet life of
Biarritz and St.-Jean-de-Luz. It was too
soggy for golf and too miserable to ride. Even
walks on the beach were cold and empty and offered
no solace. So she holed up in her library,
reading and listening to the BBC as it reported the
total dismemberment of Czechoslovakia, and,
ominously, Hitler's new demands for the return
of Danzig and large stretches of Poland to the
Third Reich. As she stared at the glowing yellow
dial on her radio and heard Hitler blowing
hot and cold in his demands on Poland, she was
reminded of the opening gambits of his successful
campaigns to take over Austria and
Czechoslovakia. Only this time she knew there
would be war; the Poles would fight. She
desperately wanted to be at Lubienski's
side for the battle.
For in those long gray wintry hours she could not
help but think of him. Elizabeth did not
simply miss Michael Lubienski; she had
to admit that she loved him. They corresponded.
She wrote noncommittal notes to him at the
Polish Foreign Ministry; he wrote
passionate letters to a post office box she had
set up in Biarritz. But why did she find it
so difficult to tell him how much he meant to her?
What was so hard about writing "I love you"? When
she had last talked to him on the phone from
Stockholm, the words stuck in her throat like a
forced confession.
Lubienski was gallant, brave,
passionate, childish, endearing, brilliant, and
often had no sense--an impulsive cavalry
officer at heart. Sometimes she felt there was
something trivial about him, a strange
superficiality that made her uneasy. Was this the
kernel of contempt her teacher at Prae Wood
had warned that all spies develop toward their
agents? Or did she envy the way he had somehow
maintained his innocence while she was losing hers?
As a girl, she had always imagined that the man
she would love would be so far above her: wiser,
stronger, more solidly anchored to the earth.
Antonio had seemed to be that man, until she
had discovered his attentions were more professional than
personal. In contrast, Count Lubienski was in
many ways so much more romantic and frivolous than
she. So how could she entrust her love to him?
All Elizabeth knew for certain was that during
her drifting, cheerless days in
St.-Jean-de-Luz, she never stopped thinking of
him. He had made the world Technicolor, while
life with Arthur was barely black and white.
And yet the less Arthur gave to her, the more she
felt bound to him. When they married, she had seen
him as strong and steady. Now their life together was
steadily going nowhere. What she had seen as
taciturn strength turned out to be uncaring
self-centeredness. She had gotten beyond the point
where he could make her feel guilty with a glance,
but still she found herself trying to please him when he was
in one of his moods. How did he continue to have a
hold on her? She knew part of the answer:
unfinished business. They had a son. In some
inexplicable way, the pain of that fact made her
cling even more stubbornly to her marriage.
At least twice a week, she had tea in
town with Barbara Brasswell, who listened
sympathetically as Elizabeth talked about her
longings, her emptiness, her marriage. But never
once did Barbara criticize her or Arthur;
her only advice and comment was that everyone had a right
to their own life.
Physically, Arthur had gotten much better.
Over the months, his speech had cleared, and while
he occasionally used a wheelchair, he could now
walk some distance each day with the aid of a cane.
He seemed remarkably incurious about how
Elizabeth had spent her time in Warsaw, and his
lack of interest only reinforced the glacial
atmosphere at the Villa Ttirritta. When
she mentioned that she had visited their son, that he was
getting big and starting to talk, Arthur's only
response was silence.
His stroke had given him a new weapon to use
against her. When he did not like what she was saying
or doing, he simply did not react.
Elizabeth was left to guess whether he
disapproved, could not hear her, or was having another
small seizure.
His response to her preparations for the Boxing
Day luncheon was typical. Was he happy with
pressed duck for the entr@ee? Silence.
Did he think she should light the candles on the
tree? No answer. Would he like a drink before the
Brasswells showed up? Grunt. That meant
yes.
But as soon as their guests arrived, he began
to talk. Over lunch he held forth quite
eloquently on the recent Polish/soviet
trade agreement. "Bloody bad business for
us, I'd wager."
He also questioned Tom Brasswell closely
on rumors of year-end Foreign Service
assignments. Arthur had been brooding about them for
weeks, fearful that he would lose his posting. Tom
would know, because he was the sort of ambitious
middle-grade officer who spent much of his time on
Service politics.
"Bit of bum luck, I'm afraid," Tom
responded candidly. "Word has it that your
replacement's been named for Warsaw."
Elizabeth felt the life go out of her. So that
was it. Whatever small hope she'd held that she
would somehow return to Poland was now extinguished.
She looked over at Arthur. He also looked
crushed. She took his hand. It was deathly cold.
He didn't speak again until they opened their
presents.
They sat around the tree. Outside, the gale
had reached the point of driving water from the terrace
under the French doors. The maid sought to block it
with a levee of bath towels. On the radio,
Handel's Messiah was syncopated
by percussive zaps from lightning far at sea. The
atmosphere was funereal.
Elizabeth gave Arthur a new pair of
slippers; the old ones were worn through. She also
gave him a carved Basque walking Stick and
heavy wool jacket. He said nothing. Arthur
gave her a set of lace napkins and an
embroidered tablecloth. Elizabeth thought, How
personal, but said, "How sweet." The Packs
gave the Brasswells a tea set. The
Brasswells gave the Packs an empty
box.
"What's the idea?" Arthur's disappointment
broke through.
Tom Brasswell smiled easily. "I've
got something better than a gift."
Arthur looked at him stony-faced.
"I didn't tell you all the news from the
Foreign Office. A new commercial
minister is about to be named."
Arthur's eyes became expectant.
"It's a new slot, Arthur, and you're to get
it."
"Isn't that wonderful?" Barbara exclaimed.
Elizabeth feared Arthur might have another
stroke.
"You're not joking?" he asked.
"No, it's true!"
Arthur smiled for the first time in almost a year.
"What's the post?" Elizabeth asked
anxiously.
"Santiago! You'll be the commercial minister
in Chile!"
"Isn't that wonderful!" Barbara said again.
Wonderful? It was the far end of the earth! But
Elizabeth could see that Arthur was delighted.
He and the Brasswells immediately fell to planning
the details. Arthur would have six to nine months for
further recovery before he had to be en route.
Tom would become his commercial attach`e.
Barbara wouldn't have to work. They all would rent a
beach house at Vina del Mar for weekends.
"And what do you think you'll do?" Tom turned
to Elizabeth.
"I really have no idea." She tried hard not
to sound dismayed.
A few moments later, the maid entered the
room. "Telegram for Madame."
The others watched closely as she opened it.
Was this another joke present? Dated December
23, it had been sitting at the telegraph
office over the Christmas holiday.

SORRY SO LAST MINUTE STOP CAN
YOU JOIN ME FOR FEW DAYS AT
MAXINE ELLIOT'S IN CANNES DEC.
29 STOP SHOULD BE SMASHING GOOD TIME
STOP REPLY SOONEST CHATEAU DE
L'HORIZON STOP VITA

She read it again, aloud.
Arthur said nothing.
"Is it an invitation for you alone?" Barbara
asked.
"I think so," Elizabeth answered.
Arthur continued to be mute.
"Well, it would be good for all of us if you could
bring good weather back with you," Barbara laughed,
trying to make light of it. "We'll
certainly take good care of Arthur."
He still said nothing. The wind howled outside.
"Go, if you want," he said finally. "I
don't care much for New Year's Eve
anymore. I'll be in bed early."

Cannes, France--December 29,

The sun! Elizabeth leaned her head back
against the seat of the Talbot Lago roadster as it
climbed the palm-lined driveway toward a
magnificent white ch@ateau gleaming at the
summit of the hill. Red, violet, and orange
bougainvillea cascaded over the ramparts of the
chateau's many terraces. The hillsides were
covered with cactus and olive trees and dark
green cypress. The air smelled of rosemary
and sage. Elizabeth could feel life surging
back into her body.
The surprise of Vita's invitation was nothing
compared to her shock upon arriving at the tiny
Cannes railway station. Through a long night of
fitful sleep on the Mistral Express,
Elizabeth had luxuriated in the anticipation
of a holiday with Vita's smart set, a parole
from the somber world of diplomats and spies. But it
was not to be.
On the train platform, among the passengers,
porters, stacks of baggage, flower sellers, and
hawkers of fruit and pan beignat stood
Captain Lance in a white flannel suit and
Panama hat.
"I didn't know you were a friend of Vita's,"
Elizabeth said, offering her hand.
"I'm not, actually. We hope you won't
tell Vita about this little subterfuge."
"You mean she's not here at all?"
"'Fraid not. It was the most discreet way we
could think of contacting you."
"Then what's this all about? Is Bill here?"
"You mean Mr. Stephenson?" Captain
Lance asked. "No, he's not." He helped her into the open car. "You'll find
out what's what when we reach the ch@ateau."
The streets of Cannes had brought back
memories of Spain, the ocher and terra cotta
walls, the wrought-iron balconies bursting with
bright red geraniums, the green shutters framing every
window and the colorful beaded strings that hung in shop
doorways like a north African
souk. She wondered what new scheme the
ungrateful wretches at Broadway had in
mind for her. But with the sun on her face and the wind
tousling her hair, she had found it difficult
to hold on to her irritation. Whatever they had
cooked up, it had to be better than mildewing
away in St.-Jean-de-Luz.
The car was approaching the top of the hill. On
one side, the bright blue Mediterranean stretched
out to the curve in the earth. On the other, the
purple Alpes-Maritimes reached for the sky.
"Who is Maxine Elliot?" Elizabeth
asked as they drew up to the front door.
"A stage actress who married well."
"Welcome to Ch@ateau de l'Horizon."
Maxine met them at the tiled entrance in a flowing
silk gown. Though beyond a certain @age, she
bore the burden with professional elegance. The
jewelry in her blond upswept hair, around
her neck, and on her hands flashed brilliantly
in the winter sunlight as she directed her
servants to take the luggage. Elizabeth felt
like a country mouse.
"You'll be a beautiful addition to our party."
She assured Elizabeth as if reading her
thoughts. "I'd let you go up and refresh yourself but
he insists on seeing you immediately."
Who was "he"? she wondered. But before she could
ask, Maxine whisked her down a flight of
stairs and along a corridor. "He's in the
solarium," she said as if that explained everything.
Full of ferns, orchids, and tropical
plants, the solarium was thick with humidity and
ripe with the smell of cigar smoke. At the
window, overlooking a swimming pool and the Bay of
Cannes, sat a large heavyset man reading a
stack of English newspapers. He wore a red
bathrobe over his swimming trunks and was
refreshing a goblet of orange juice with a
bottle of Pol Roger champagne. It had
been a long time since Elizabeth first had been
introduced to him.
"Winnie," Maxine called out. "She's
here."
He put down his newspapers and struggled
to his feet. "I don't believe we've
met," said Winston Churchill. She did not
feel the need to correct him.
"So you're a spy," Churchill
began ingenuously. Maxine had excused herself and
Elizabeth and Captain Lance were settled in
lounge chairs. "Is it difficult for a woman
to be a spy?" he continued, his old child's face
full of calm wonder.
Thrown by his directness, Elizabeth shot a
questioning look toward Captain Lance. Stephenson
had said that Churchill was an ally, but how much was
she to admit to anyone outside SIS? This could be
some sort of test. "Women make the best
spies, I should imagine."
"And why is that?" He leaned back and drew
on an unlit cigar stub.
"Women have to hide things all their lives,"
Elizabeth responded. "They're trained from
girlhood to conceal their true selves.
To dissimulate. To plot. To get what they want
by stealth."
"No wonder I've never understood them." He
appraised her carefully. "Friends say you've
done first-rate work in Warsaw."
Elizabeth allowed herself to look pleased but
remained quiet, hoping to draw him out on why she
was there. Her curiosity had her imagination racing
a mile a minute.
"We could use your help in settling a question"-- Churchill sucked on his
lower lip--"and perhaps in handling a tricky bit of diplomacy."
Elizabeth felt out her of depth.
Diplomacy was not her line of work.
"Captain"--Churchill waved his cigar like a
scepter--"fetch Commander Denniston and Mr.
Knox."
Elizabeth looked perplexed.
"You're wondering, in your honest American
way," Churchill observed, "what this washed-up
backbencher is doing cavalierly talking the king's
secrets and ordering about the king's officers."
"I've the greatest admiration for you, sir,"
Elizabeth tried to reassure him.
"Good. I can't abide false modesty.
Unfortunately, it's the only kind of which I'm
capable. Still, you want to know by whose leave I've
gotten you here and for what cause I intend to press
you into service."
"That's true."
"Despite my fallen state in Commons,
I've been asked to do a bit of work for the
government. Of course, it's all deniable." He
boyishly put his tiny hands over his
eyes. "Me." Then, over his ears. "Y."
Commander Denniston and Dilly Knox arrived,
the former looking slightly awed by the surroundings and the
latter rumpled and irritable as usual. "Mrs.
Pack." They each nodded to her, and drawing up
chairs, sat down. Churchill indicated that
Denniston should begin.
"Mrs. Pack," he said appreciatively,
"the Enigma machine you secured for us was invaluable
in enabling us to read intercepted German
signals."
"Thank you," she said simply.
"However"--he cleared his throat--"that only
applies to signals intercepted before the middle of
September last, about the time you obtained the
machine."
"Is it the keying procedure?" she asked.
"Yes, every operator now makes his own rotor
settings each day and transmits this key
separately. They also seem to have added additional
rotors."
"I explained that when I was in London,"
Elizabeth said with a note of impatience. "And
I told you that the Poles were working on a machine
to find the keys."
"This is the electrical brain?" Churchill
asked, refilling his glass with champagne.
"In their silly way, the Poles call it a
bombe." Elizabeth explained, "I
suppose either because of the way it ticks, or because it
was invented over a dish of ice cream."
"Well," Knox sniffed, "I think it's
all a confection."
Elizabeth shook her head. He still could not
accept the idea that the Poles were better
cryptographers.
Seeing her reaction, Knox grew
impatient. "Well, then how does this bombe
purport to work?"
"I've no idea," she replied. "You
wouldn't let me go back to Warsaw!"
"We couldn't overrule the ambassador."
"Don't blame Broadway, my dear,"
Churchill interjected. "It was Lord Halifax.
The Foreign Office is the putative master of the
secret service and on occasion feels compelled
to exercise some petty bit of authority--
invariably with disastrous results."
"Why can't you approach the Poles
directly?" Elizabeth suggested.
"Hitler's made clear they're next on his
list."
"Evidently, Colonel Beck is playing
coy," Churchill replied.
"He's no friend of Britain," Knox warned.
They were enveloped in the kind of pregnant
silence that gave Elizabeth a sense of
opportunity.
"Is there something I can do?" she asked.
"We need you to work on the Poles,"
Churchill replied. "We need an intermediary.
Good offices. As you can see, we're as
suspicious of them, as they are of us."
"Am I going back to Warsaw?" She could not
conceal her excitement.
"That shan't be necessary." Churchill stood up.
"Colonel Beck and his party will be arriving for
dinner at eight o'clock tonight."







Chapter 29

Chateau de l'Horizon, Cannes--
December 29, 1938
The servants wore red livery. A score of
guests drifted about Maxine's sparkling gold and
white drawing room, a gathering far more glittering
than Vita's set. Among them, she
recognized Somerset Maugham, looking wan
and dyspeptic; Josephine Baker,
triumphant in a translucent dress of beaded
pearls; and No@el Coward, who surprised
Elizabeth by greeting Captain Lance as if they
were old chums. Lady Rothermere arrived with a
brace of spotted dalmatians trotting along
beside her. Furious, Maxine sent them to the
kennels. "Daisy," daughter of the Duc de
Decacazes, made an entrance on the arms of
two young men whom she immediately banished to the servants quarters. The
Duke and Duchess of Windsor appeared fashionably late.
Elizabeth was startled to see him wearing a white
tuxedo jacket over a Balmoral tartan
kilt with a dagger and long green knee socks.
They then waited for the Polish guest of honor.
Elizabeth felt shy and out of place.
After being introduced, she found it difficult to know
what to say. Maxine, declaring all of her clothes
unacceptable, had loaned her a long clinging
velvet gown with a scoop neck that allowed her
to say nothing and yet still remain the center of
attention.
Maxine also insisted that she try a new drink
that was all the rage in Hollywood--a
Singapore sling. Elizabeth would have preferred the
cold anesthetic of a dry martini.
All afternoon, she had tried to avoid the thought that
Count Lubienski might be in Beck's
traveling party--particularly after she learned from
Captain Lance that it was not Broadway but the
Poles who insisted that she attend the meeting.
She had gone swimming in Maxine's
Olympic-sized pool, had a massage, and
lay in her shuttered room trying to sleep. She
had smoked a pack of cigarettes and brushed her
teeth three times. It was no use. She prayed
that he would be coming.
"It looks like your Polish friends are going to stand
us up," Maxine whispered into her ear at nine.
"We'll have to start dinner soon. Can't keep the
duke and duchess waiting."
"Do give them a few more minutes,"
Elizabeth urged. "They don't operate on
Greenwich time." She went out onto the terrace
where she could see any car approaching up the long grand drive. In the dark,
she could see the necklace of lights from Nice to Cap Ferrat,
with Cap d'Antibes gleaming like a jeweled
pendant in the evening sea. She felt like a waif
with her nose pressed against the window at
Tiffany's. Despite Maxine's
hospitality, this was not her world. She was there for a
reason, like the butler or the chef. And while all
of the women and most of the men could not take their eyes
off her, there was only one pair of eyes she
longed to see.
Down in the valley, she thought she detected a
flash of light from an automobile. Soon,
three pairs of headlights appeared at the
gates at the bottom of the hill. It had to be
them!
"They're coming," Elizabeth told Maxine
who was hovering around Churchill, competing for his
attention with "Daisy."
"The Polish Muhammad has come to the mountain
after all," Churchill grumbled.
"He's guaranteed a grand reception because we're
all famished!"
Elizabeth heard the sound of tires crunching
gravel. Two bodyguards appeared at the top
of the stairway that descended into the salon. Then she
saw Beck's antlike head emerge from under a
top hat. He wore a red sash covered with
medals as he stepped slowly down the stairs
greeting the other guests as if he were royalty.
Holding her breath, Elizabeth searched to see
who might be with him, but no one else followed.
Unable to wait any longer, she rushed up the
stairs to the foyer. There, busy giving instructions
to the bodyguards and the chauffeur, she found Count
Lubienski.
"Do you think you'll have any time to talk to me?"
she inquired softly.
He whirled around. "My God!
Elizabeth!" He dropped to one knee to kiss
her hand.
"Michael, don't make a scene!" she
whispered. "Come, let's get some privacy."
Snatching a Singapore sling from a silver
tray and steering him through the party, Elizabeth led
him onto the terrace. The smell of the sea and the
rosemary from the hillsides textured the night
air. A bright early moon was climbing over the
mountains. Michael stood awkwardly away from
her. "I prayed you'd be here ...."
"We'll be going in to dinner in a few
moments," Elizabeth told him gravely. "And
if you don't kiss me first, I think I shall
burst!"
He took her in his arms. Her body
remembered how to fit against his. The fire in his
kiss ignited her desire. She stepped away
gasping. "I missed you so," she stammered.
"I came with Beck to France hoping somehow
to find you, but I never really believed ..."
"Why is he here?"
"You mean apart from the prostitutes? You can't
imagine how depraved the man is. He likes
little girls, he likes to watch sex shows, women
with women, women with animals. Sick games.
And this is the Christmas season!"
"Then why did he want you here?"
"I'm the camouflage. I make it seem that
he's come for this so-called private chat with
Churchill. But I doubt if he cares about it,
really. It's the general staff that's
pushing him. They're terribly anxious
to establish some contact with the British. We
desperately need military aid. We can't
even handle the Enigma problem without help."
"I can tell you the British are interested
..."
"That's a relief, but I can't figure out
Beck ..."
The dinner bell had rung and the guests were moving
toward the dining salon.
"Will I see you later?" They both asked at
once. "Yes!" They simultaneously
replied, then laughed.
"I've been invited to go along to the casino
tonight," Elizabeth explained. "Churchill
plays every evening till dawn. I'll try
to slip away."
"And I'll leave Beck to his whores."

The walls of the library were covered in a padded
sea-green brocade. Churchill and Beck were
seated on separate sofas in a corner.
Elizabeth and Count Lubienski sat
opposite them in Louis XIV armchairs.
Heavy drapes covered the French doors.
"... he who lies down with dogs, rises with
fleas," Churchill was saying.
"Is that an insult to Poland?" Beck
stiffened.
The "chat" was going badly.
"We're past the point of playing games,
Colonel Beck. Europe needs principled
decisions."
"Like Mr. Chamberlain made at Munich?"
Beck inquired sarcastically.
"You know how wrong I believed that to be. But
at least we British took nothing for ourselves."
Count Lubienski had remained completely
quiet. Elizabeth was dying to break into the
conversation. Her fear of being inadequate to the
situation was fading fast.
"And what," Beck said with a smirk, "would your
selfless nation do if Poland were attacked?"
"I would think that the prospect of the British
Empire and France, not to mention Soviet
Russia, standing shoulder to shoulder with Poland would
give even Herr Hitler pause."
Beck looked unconvinced.
"But let me turn your question around." Churchill
shifted course. "What would England
derive from an alliance with Poland?"
Beck's smile broadened to include
Elizabeth. "I suspect you have some concept of
our strategic resources."
"More games!" Churchill muttered and rang for
another round of brandy. "You'll still be dropping your
veils, one by one, when Nazi jackboots are
echoing in the streets of Warsaw."
Elizabeth stared hard at Lubienski. Why
didn't he speak out?
"May I say something, gentlemen?" She could
not hold back. "As an American?"
Beck appeared too surprised to object.
Churchill looked like he had wondered why she had
taken so long.
"Each of you mistrusts the other because of
Munich," she plunged. "Poland fears that open
cooperation with Britain would provoke Hitler,
maybe Stalin too, and that Chamberlain will let
them down as he did the Czechs." Beck nodded
in agreement. "Britain on the other hand would
assume great risks in backing Poland and stands
little to gain, particularly if that support might be
used in some devious way to actually help
Hitler."
"What do you mean?" Beck replied testily.
Elizabeth knew she was courting an
explosion. "Like exploiting an alliance with
Britain to forestall a Nazi strike on Poland
while also promising Hitler help should he go after
Romania or the Soviet Union."
From the look on Beck's face, Elizabeth
could see that the idea had occurred to him. He
gave her a look of admiration.
"I don't take offense at your
analysis," Churchill said affably.
"So what are you suggesting?" said Beck.
"Why not start out with something quiet, but
important. Something that will build confidence on
both sides?"
"Such as?" Churchill prompted.
"An exchange of intelligence," Elizabeth
said.
Colonel Beck broke into a mirthless
smile. He looked from Elizabeth
to Lubienski. "That's not a self-serving
suggestion, is it?"
Elizabeth responded coolly. "It was
wise of you to permit my contacts with Count
Lubienski. Otherwise I doubt any
of us would be meeting here this evening. I'm suggesting
a further step, something rather more official, but still
secret so as to not complicate our problems with
Berlin and Moscow. Still, London would get a
meaningful token that the relationship was a serious
one."
"And what does Poland get?" asked Beck.
"An ally," Elizabeth said.
"A secret ally? What good is that?"
"I think you'll be impressed with what
Britain can share," she said, glancing at
Churchill and bidding a no-trump.
"If the alliance is genuine from your side,"
Churchill declared, "I've no doubt we could
consider military aid at the opportune
moment."
The waiter came in and poured more brandy for
Churchill. Beck put his hand over his glass.
For a Pole, it was a signal that the discussion had
come to an end.
Beck stood up. "Thank you for your
hospitality. We shall give these ideas"--he
bent to kiss Elizabeth's hand--"all the
attention they deserve."
She looked worriedly at Lubienski as he
escorted Beck out of the room. Churchill
gestured for her to stay with him.
"Well," she sighed when the door had closed,
"that didn't get us very far. We didn't come
close to talking about the bombe."
Churchill shrugged and took a long pull on
his brandy. "Difficult people, the Poles. They
always behave most admirably when they've a
boot on their necks."

The beach was cold. Elizabeth stayed wrapped
in her cloak. The stone seawall pressed against
her back, but all she could feel was Lubienski
around her, urgently consuming her. Music from the
casino drifted down as their bodies
desperately danced against each other. Elizabeth
could hear the words in her head.

I'll remember you.
You're the one who made my dreams come true, a
few,
kisses ago ...

And then the song was obliterated by the strength that was
filling her, making her body come alive
for the first time in so long ....
"We have to ..." she said heavily.
"What?" he gasped.
"Have to talk ..." Oh, how she had missed
him.
"Yes?"
"About how ... how we get ... get the two
sides together," she panted. He was wonderful.
Glorious.
"Uuh," he responded. His hands were over
all over her body, tearing at her clothes. His
hips drove her backward, lifted her up,
suspending her.
"The French ..." she groaned. She felt his
lips on her neck, his hands pulling her open
wider, hoisting her onto him. "... as go-betweens
..." And between her thighs, his pounding was making her
lose control. She grabbed his hair and began
to thrash and jerk.
He slipped out.
"No!" She reached down. He was coming. She
squeezed with her hand to stop him, but he was convulsing
like a mad snake. And suddenly, as she
desperately pressed him against her, she felt
her own climax start, then grow, then without pity
shake her to the core.
They lay on the sand like dead soldiers.
Maxine's dress, she thought, would never be the
same. She felt the tears on her cheeks. There
was something terribly final in their lovemaking. The
song from the casino still hovered in the air.

When my life is through,
and the angels ask me to recall,
the thrill of them all,
I will tell them I remember you ...

On the promenade above, a man who had been
watching them dropped his cigarette and crushed it out
with his foot. Then, Colonel Beck returned
to his limousine and disappeared into the night.

Chapter 30

MOST SECRET
January 4, 1939
To: Menzies
From: Denniston
Subject: Polish British Intelligence
Cooperation
As follow-up to non-meeting between Beck and
Churchill, Poles have responded through French
(bertrand, Chief of Radio Intelligence)
urging tripartite meeting in Paris early next
week.
Request authority to participate on an
exploratory basis.

MOST SECRET
January 5, 1939
To: GCANDCS Denniston
Request for tripartite meeting approved.
However, great care should be taken to avoid
exposure of our sources and methods except
on a strictly reciprocal basis.
Menzies

10-a-ci-bcccdbGMT
MOST SECRET
FOR BROADWAY 0026
PARIS SENDS
EYES ONLY MENZIES FROM DENNISTON
TRIPARTITE MEETING A FIASCO.
POLES REVEALED NOTHING, NOT EVEN
WHAT WE KNOW THEY KNOW. PER
INSTRUCTIONS WE TOLD THEM NOTHING IN
RETURN. FORMAL MINUTE STATES THAT
WE WILL STAY IN TOUCH, WITH FURTHER
MEETINGS IN LONDON AND WARSAW AS
DEVELOPMENTS WARRANT. NOT TO HOLD
ONES BREATH. DETAILS ON RETURN.

Mme. Elizabeth Thorpe
P.o. Box 247
Biarritz, France
January 27, 1939
My Darling,
As you may have heard, the party in Paris was a
disaster. It would have been a glory if you and I could
have been there. I long for you every moment I am
awake and see you in all my dreams
....
All my love,
Michael

Michael Lubienski
The Ministry of Foreign Affairs
The Br@uhl Palace
Warsaw, Poland
February 10, 1939
Dearest Michael,
I have heard nothing from my friends in London, but
I'm sorry they didn't get along with yours
....
It's so awkward trying to put my feelings
into words, all the more so since I can't believe our
correspondence is truly private. Could you
get a post office box or something ....
As ever,
E

Mme. Elizabeth Thorpe
P.o. Box 247
Biarritz, France
February 26, 1939
My Darling,
You can write to me at your old address at the
Villa Frascati. The manager will collect
them for me. I want to know your every thought, wish,
feeling and desire ....
With undying love,
M

Michael Lubienski
Villa Frascati No. 4a
Warsaw, Poland
March 4, 1939
My Dearest Darling Michael,
You may have to destroy the envelope to read this letter. I put on a wax seal
and glued the corners ....
All so I can tell you what is in my heart,
a passion and a longing that leaves me drained and
empty. I dream of the blond hairs on your
thighs tickling my lips and the sweet musky
smell of your secret places ....
Is there no way you can come to me, be with me
....
I love you Michael,
E
March 23, 1939
My Darling,
Your last letter caught fire in my hands. The
words burned into my brain ....
But I cannot come to you now. I cannot abandon my
country in its time of ultimate peril. Nothing
is going right. After swallowing up the rest of
Czechoslovakia, Hitler has taken Memel
away from us without a shot. Your "friends" are no
help. We are abandoned. I miss you so ...

March 27, 1939
Dearest Darling Michael,
I would come to you, but if I leave Arthur, I
will lose all claim to see my son. Yet I
cannot bear the thought that I may never see you again
....
... I also have heard nothing from my "friends." I
pray for your safety ....
Arthur's much better and looking forward to his
next posting. Life without you is so utterly
pointless, I may just go with him ....

March 31, 1939
My Darling,
I will be in London next week with Beck.
Fly to my side ....

April 6, 1939
Dearest Michael,
By now you know I could not get to London.
I've no money of my own anymore, and Arthur
refuses to give me any. I can't get a job
because the French have refused me a work permit ....

The Broadway Buildings, London--
April 17 1939
Menzies glanced through a transcript of the
meeting with Lubienski on April 4, during his
trip to London with Colonel Beck.

Knox. My dear Count, you're simply not
cooperating, are you? We've been given nothing
of value on the Enigma, isn't that so?
Lubienski. And what have we received? Exactly
nothing as well!
Denniston. May I point out that yesterday and today
we've been working out mutual aid arrangements
with Colonel Beck and your delegation on a
wide range of military matters. But
intelligence, which is your
responsibility, remains a blank.
Lubienski. This subject is best handled in
Warsaw. We should have another meeting ....
Knox. The last meeting was a farce. You
didn't even tell us what we know you know.
Lubienski. And you didn't tell us what I
know you know. You must understand how delicate this
matter is in my government. Many are
persuaded that you are asking for the crown jewels.
I'm sure another meeting with all the interested
parties would be productive. You can send
Mrs. Pack to Warsaw in advance to make
sure that it will be so ....

At the top of the transcript, Knox had
attached a note to Menzies complaining:

Can we do nothing in Poland without this damnable
tart?

Menzies wrote back:

Evidently not.

Villa Frascati, Warsaw--Thursday,
July 13, 1939
In the summer heat, the humidity rolled up from
the Vistula and enveloped the city like an invisible
fog. Dressed in slacks and one of Arthur's
old shirts, which she wore tied at the waist with the
sleeves rolled up, Elizabeth was perspiring
through a third day of packing her household
effects at the Villa Frascati. She was
using the same excuse she had employed in
Spain for returning to Warsaw, but her real task
was to find out whether the Poles were finally serious about
intelligence cooperation. If their response thus
far was any sign, they weren't, and Menzies had
only given her ten days to set up a tripartite
meeting that would pay off. While she rummaged through
closets and trunks and basement storage
lockers, Lubienski assured her that he was hard
at work arranging the necessary appointments. He
insisted that in the current crisis, it took time
to coordinate the schedules of all the important
participants. And there were security problems.
German agents were everywhere. Meanwhile, the days
passed.
She had been so excited at the chance to be with
Michael again that her briefing
by Denniston in Paris had been a blur. But from
the moment at the railway station when she stepped
down from the Nord Express and saw him waiting
for her, Elizabeth sensed an unfamiliar
tension. Was it her? Was it him? Was it the
pressure of her mission? They both were
responsible for making it a success. Or was it that
they had been through too many good-byes? Had time
put distance between them?
"My God, you're beautiful!" he had
exclaimed, taking her one suitcase. "Is this
all you have?"
"Traveling light."
Holding her arm, he led her to a side exit
onto Jerusalem Street where his Fiat was
parked. She remembered his touch; it felt good.
"Thank you for meeting me," she said as she got
in the car. "The embassy refused to help. The
ambassador says I can't speak to anyone
there."
"Perfect. You're all mine." He started the
car.
She could sense Lubienski trying to be as
romantic and eager as ever. But he looked
weary; his young and handsome face bore the lines of
unremitting tension. His skin was gray, without his
usual summer tan. The endless hours at the
Foreign Ministry dealing with the growing crisis with
Germany were obviously taking a toll on him.
Warsaw also appeared subtly changed. The
same pig-nosed omnibuses still sniffed after one
another down Marsza@lkowska Street. The
orange awnings over the shops flapped lazily
in the afternoon breeze. But there were fewer shoppers and
no young men unless they were dressed in uniform.
"The city seems so quiet," Elizabeth had
noted.
"Crisis always produces calm. It's the
mobilization."
In St.-Jean-de-Luz the threat of war had
seemed remote, but here it was palpable. As they
passed the British embassy, a line of people wound
out of the consular office and onto the sidewalk.
Lubienski pointed to it. "You should see the lines
outside Cook's and the American embassy."
"Are people trying to flee already?"
"Mostly the Jews," Lubienski sighed.
"We spend decades trying to penetrate the
Enigma to discover when Hitler plans to attack
us, and these people know by instinct."
The tide of refugees explained why her
travel orders were so rigid. She only had
until July 20, to work out an agreement in
principle for an intelligence exchange and set
up a visit on the twenty-third by Menzies,
Denniston, and Bertrand from the French service.
Then she had to return to England by rail with her
household effects.
When she arrived at her apartment at the Villa
Frascati, she found that it looked exactly the
same. The easy days and nights with Lubienski
a year ago had come back to her in a rush,
followed immediately by panic at what she now had
to do.
"Oh Michael, are we making a mistake?"
Her anxiety broke through. "Will your generals
pay any attention to a woman? Why would they
listen to me?"
"Is this what living with Arthur does to you?" he
teased.
She reddened. In the months since their meeting
in Cannes, she had gone into suspended animation
as a defense against the aridity of her daily
life. Now, as if she were emerging from hibernation,
she could not get her reflexes working properly.
She felt hesitant, tentative.
"Michael, I'm sorry, but I'm scared.
I'm no diplomat. I've never felt so much
responsibility. And"--she paused--"I'm also
afraid of being with you again and for so little time."
"That's reason to seize the moment, not hold
back." He swept her into his arms and carried
her into the bedroom. In a moment they were a tangle
of clothes, sheets, blankets, and pillows, as
their bodies broke through the barriers built by their
minds. Later, as they lay exhausted and close,
Michael spoke again. "And don't worry about the
general staff." He tried to lift his head but it
fell back on her shoulder. "You'll do fine."
In the following week, for the first time, they lived
together like man and wife. In the past, she felt she
had been living two lives; but now she realized
that she had only been living two half-lives.
She was sharing an intimacy that she had never known:
the luxury and joy of reaching out to Michael in the
middle of the night and of having him wordlessly
respond. Elizabeth even reached the point that
she would moan over and over, "Michael, I
love you. I never wanted to," she would confess,
"but I love you."
During the days of waiting for the Poles
to respond, she worked nonstop. Because space was
limited on the train, she had to go through everything she owned to see what
could be sold, given, or thrown away. It was like purging life of its
memories.
On that hot and muggy Thursday afternoon, all the
French doors stood open while Elizabeth
worked through a large steamer trunk. Folded on the
top, she found her wedding dress. It gave her
pause. Should she leave it behind? What use was it?
Unable to decide, she put the dress aside,
with a decision to mail it to her mother.
The rest of the chest seemed to be full of
Arthur's old uniforms. She lifted up a
jacket and a pair of pants. Why did he
keep them? They certainly would never fit him again.
Had she the right to throw them away? Farther down in
the pile, she detected a lump, as if something
had been secreted among the layers of clothing.
Uncovering it, Elizabeth discovered a small
rectangular box that somehow looked familiar.
She opened the lid. Hidden in the tissue she
found a small antique silver rattle. It was
the gift Arthur's parents had brought to the
hospital for baby Antony.
Her heart contracted. Why had Arthur saved
it? Was he hiding it from her? Or did it mean that
in some deep recess, he really cared for their child?
Could she bear rekindling the hope that someday the
three of them could be together as a family? The past
and the future collided. Elizabeth sat down
amid packing boxes and cried.
The phone rang. It was Lubienski, and he was
excited. "A staff car will pick you up in five
minutes," he announced.
She stood there disoriented for a moment, tears and
sweat dripping down her neck and staining her
blouse. "Thank you for the advance notice," she
said.
* * *
By the time the car arrived, she had managed to get
into a cotton dress and stockings. She splashed
on My Sin to cover the sweat. For dignity, she
grabbed a straw hat with a veil.
An officer she did not know awaited her at the
curb. He did not respond when she asked about
Lubienski. The car had its windows blacked out.
Getting inside, she found that the opening to the
driver's compartment had been blocked by a painted
metal plate. She could not see where she
was going.
Her sense of direction, however, told her that
they were heading south, out of the city. After about twenty
minutes, the car made several turns, and she then
heard the sound of the tires leaving pavement and
traveling onto cobblestones. Soon, she felt
the car bouncing over a dirt road.
When they came to a stop and the door opened, she
found herself in what she guessed was the Kabackie
Woods. In front of her stood an old
wooden hunting lodge. In the distance through the
trees, she could see a fence and guard tower.
Rising behind the house was a tall radio antenna.
This had to be Station BS-4, the headquarters of the
Polish General Staff Cryptological
Service.
"Follow me, Mrs. Pack," her escort
said.
This was unlike anything she had expected.
Lubienski had led her to believe that she would have a
series of meetings with Polish officials. In
their offices or over lunch or dinner, she would
lay out the British proposals and
requirements. Now, for all she knew, she was
about to be held incommunicado in a camp in the
Pyry Forest.
Inside of the lodge, everything was strictly
military. The space had been cut up into a
series of small offices with metal doors and
frosted glass windows. At the back of the
building, she was led down a flight of narrow
stairs toward a small basement anteroom with a
guard and a heavy steel door. When it swung
open, Elizabeth realized that she was entering a
large underground bunker. Passing along a wide
corridor, she estimated that the installation covered
an area four to five times larger than the hunting
lodge above it. Hallways to the left went off
to what seemed to be sleeping quarters and, if the
smell of cabbage was an indication, kitchens.
To the right, she glimpsed more offices. At the end
of the corridor, she arrived at a set of double
doors flanked by armed guards. They stood
aside, ushering her into a low-ceilinged conference
room.
Two dozen military officers seated at a
long table rose to their feet. The air was blue with
cigarette smoke. Anxiously, Elizabeth
searched for Lubienski's face. He was at the
far end of the room, against the wall. She
was on her own.
Her escort, who had said nothing during the
drive, introduced her to the assembled group in
Polish. He then turned to her in English. "You
may now make your presentation, Mrs. Pack.
There will be simultaneous translation." All the
officers sat down and put earphones over their
heads. She was left standing.
Her mind raced to remember what she was
supposed to say. This was not the relaxed, calm,
intimate discussion she had been planning. The
faces arrayed around the table were polite, but not
particularly friendly and certainly not inviting. They
had put her at a disadvantage. She decided
that they would respect her only if she struck
back.
"Gentlemen, let me begin by offering you my
condolences." There was a shuffling of feet. "I
offer these condolences," she continued, "because in the coming
war with Germany, you will surely lose."
That produced an explosion of protests.
"We have a million men under arms!" cried one
officer.
"We've the best cavalry in Europe!"
shouted another.
Elizabeth held up her hands. "Poland has the bravest and fiercest fighting
men in the world. But your horse cavalry will be no match for German
tanks."
"We beat the Russians in 1922!" an
elderly officer with a monocle stormed.
"A woman knows nothing of such things," declared a
beribboned general with a large white mustache.
"How many of you have seen the war in Spain
firsthand?" Elizabeth demanded. They quieted
down. "I stood on a hill outside of
Madrid and watched the German Henkels and their
PzKpfw II tanks slaughter the elite
Republican assault troops. The Condor
Legion's weapons are nothing compared to what
Hitler plans to hurl against you."
"But England and France are helping us," her
escort remarked.
"Yes, but you know in your hearts that it's too
little and too late." There was no argument from her
audience. "You're gripped in a tragedy and you
must make bold decisions if Poland is ever
to emerge from the coming nightmare."
"What are you suggesting?" The question came from a
middle-aged man with a colonel's
insignia on his epaulets.
"I am only qualified to discuss
intelligence cooperation. We and the French are
prepared to give your cryptographic team
asylum. The French have already prepared
facilities where they can work as we carry on the
war against Germany. My service has organized
escape routes through Romania."
There was silence. No one in the chastened group
wanted to respond.
"If you are confident of peace or of
victory," Elizabeth added, "you can regard this
as contingency planning."
"And what," the colonel asked, "do you want
in exchange?"
Elizabeth paused. This was no time to beat around
the bush, yet she wasn't supposed to know about the
bombe. "Everything you've got," she replied.


Chapter 31

Warsaw--Wednesday, July 19, 1939
"You were wonderful!" Lubienski had assured
her over dinner the night of her appearance before the
general staff.
But as the days passed with no response from the
Poles, Elizabeth began to worry that she had
bungled things completely. On Monday, July
17, Lubienski admitted that he had been cut
out of the discussion of her proposals, and had no
idea what, if anything, was going on. All he
knew was that the French were still angling for a tripartite
meeting on the twenty-fourth. By the evening of the
eighteenth, a discouraged Elizabeth sent a cable
to Broadway over ITT lines through a
fictitious Professor Sandwich at Oxford.

CANNOT FIND BOOKS YOU SEEK IN
LIBRARY HERE STOP ADVISE YOU PUT
YOUR VISIT ON HOLD STOP MUST
DEPART TWENTIETH STOP REGARDS STOP
CYNTHIA

When her household goods were packed and at the
train station, Elizabeth took a suite at the
Bristol. For her last evening with Lubienski,
Elizabeth saved the dress she had worn when
she first met him at the American embassy
eighteen months earlier. Standing in front of the
full-length mirror, she tried
to stifle her despair. Why had the Poles
refused to cooperate? It was her fault. She
had been too harsh, too insensitive to the
masculine pride of the officers in that command
bunker. Behaving like a man instead of a demure
woman had been a fatal miscalculation. She
hated failing. She hated losing. And she feared
the consequences for Britain.
The looming separation from Count Michael
Lubienski deepened her sense of dread. At
first, she had been grateful to have had the time for a
long good-bye. But they had grown so close in the
last ten days that parting would be surgery without
anesthesia. They both sensed that after so many
leavetakings, this was the final evening they would ever
spend together.
Looking in the mirror, the length of her old
dress came as a surprise. In the last year,
hemlines had been rising rapidly, and evening
dresses no longer touched the floor. As she
adjusted the top to cover her breasts, Elizabeth
decided that her gown might be out of date, but it still
showed her to the best advantage.
She heard a knock on the door. He's
early, she thought. It was not quite eight o'clock.
Quickly, she checked the sitting room. The
Veuve Clicquot sat on ice. The mounds of
black Beluga caviar waited in the silver
goblet. Dammit, she was going to enjoy her last
night in Warsaw no matter what! She pulled
open the door with a smile.
Count Lubienski stood with a bouquet of
long-stemmed red roses in one hand and an envelope in the other. He had not
taken off his gloves. The look on his face was of pure
pain.
"My God, Michael"--she drew him
inside--"what's the matter?"
Wordlessly, he handed her the envelope. It was
embossed with the seal of the Foreign Ministry. The
card inside said,

The Minister of State for Foreign Affairs,
Colonel Joseph Beck, requests the
pleasure of your attendance at dinner, 8:30
P.m., July 19, 1939, at his
residence.

Stunned, Elizabeth searched Michael's
face for an explanation. Tears were
running down his cheeks.
"He says," the words choked in his throat, "that
it's strictly business."

The foreign minister's residence was a grand
white palace in French rococo style on
Belwederska. Beck had sent a car, and as it
drew up to the entrance, Elizabeth was met by a
half-dozen military footmen in
nineteenth-century uniforms. They escorted her
across the foyer and up the sweeping marble staircase
to a large library on the second floor. A
table for two had been set in front of a
walk-in fireplace that had been filled with a
bouquet of summer flowers. Books covered the
walls all the way to the ceiling. Every few feet
around the perimeter of the room stood a suit of armor from a different
period of Polish history. Elizabeth was left alone to wander among the
carcasses of Poland's military past.
She did not feel afraid. Her only concern
was for Michael who stayed behind at the Bristol
gulping down the champagne. "If the filthy
lecher touches you," he swore as she left, "I
pledge to God I shall kill him!"
The suits of armor ranged from simple
hammered steel of twelfth-century knights
to even simpler "wooden armor" wired together from
blocks of oak that had been used by peasant
soldiers through the centuries. When she came upon
a suit of elaborately engraved and enameled
armor from the period of Stanislaw Augustus,
Elizabeth wished that she had worn that instead of a
low-cut dress.
The door opened and the Polish foreign minister
came in, accompanied by a waiter with a bucket
of champagne.
"Good evening, Mrs. Pack. So nice of you
to accept on such short notice." He took her
hand and bowed as he kissed it. "I hope I'm not
interfering with any plans for your last night in
Warsaw."
You oily son of a bitch, Elizabeth thought as
she smiled back at him. Colonel Beck
looked as appalling as ever. The streak of long
black hair that he slicked straight back over
his balding head gave him a remarkably
skunklike appearance. His pointy face added
further to the impression that he was some kind of
varmint. But the eyes were his most frightening
feature: whites so yellow that they were darker than
his light blue irises. The hooded lids and the
bags underneath gave Beck an aspect that
struck Elizabeth as utterly subhuman.
"It's an honor to be here," she said
easily, lifting a glass of champagne.
"Let me show you the view from the balcony."
He took her through a set of French doors. The
summer twilight glowed in the sky above the
trees. "Down below is @lazienki Palace,
where your husband had his unfortunate stroke. How
is he, by the way?"
"Almost fully recovered, thank you."
A sly glance belied his condolences. But he
steered the rest of their conversation away from personal
matters. Over champagne and through the first two
courses of the meal, he concentrated on history
... with a point. The point was that Poland had been
repeatedly victimized by everyone. With dessert,
a bombe of ice cream, praline, schnapps,
whipped cream, and wild strawberries,
Colonel Beck turned to Elizabeth's
agenda.
"I imagine you're wondering about my
government's response to your proposals."
"Having heard nothing, I assumed they were
rejected, and I've so informed my colleagues."
A momentary alarm crossed Beck's face.
"That may have been premature." Then he pursed
his wide lips into something resembling a smile.
"And then again, maybe it's not," he said, trying
to recover his bargaining leverage.
Elizabeth decided to wait him out.
"I assure you, we're not going to haggle like
Jews, Mrs. Pack." He took a sip of
Ch@ateau d'allyquem. "It is, as you
Americans say, a "close call." The
Polish government has placed the decision
entirely in my hands. You're here tonight to help me
make that decision." His eyes took on the
aspect of a predator stalking prey.
"How can I clarify our proposal? What
would you like to know?"
"About you, Mrs. Pack, or may I call
you Elizabeth as Count Lubienski undoubtedly
does?"
"As you wish." The drift of the conversation was not
unexpected, but she didn't like it. She had
hoped Beck's penchant for girls under the age of
thirteen would protect her.
Evidently, he was omnivorous.
"And what do you want to know about me?"
"How you do it."
"What do you mean?"
"You've proposed an exchange of
intelligence. I'm testing that offer. Tell me
how you do it. You've seduced and compromised my
closest aide. Do you love him, or is it
strictly professional?"
"I hardly see how that relates to the
Enigma," Elizabeth retorted.
"That's for me to judge, isn't it? I know
all that you've done together, you know. Lubienski
has confessed everything to me. About the Enigma. That
he told you about the bombe. I'm owed an
explanation. Is it love?"
Elizabeth was shocked. Lubienski had told
her nothing about this. Or maybe Beck was
guessing, or lying about where he got his information.
Whichever, she had to remain composed. "Perhaps I
might help you," she replied, "if I understood
what you're driving at."
"If you want me to be crude, so be it."
He sat back. "Can you separate sex and
love? Most women cannot, unless they're
prostitutes."
Elizabeth stood up. "I didn't come here
to be insulted!" She threw down her napkin.
"Please! Forgive my choice of words.
Accept my apology!"
Elizabeth liked him on the defensive. She
sat down again. "How dare you ask such questions?"
"Because I myself do not believe that sex and love
need have any connection," he persisted. "Sex can
be experienced for itself, don't you agree?"
Knowing that this was true gave her a tinge of
guilt. "I suppose."
"And sex can be linked to other powerful emotions,"
Beck continued.
"Like what?" Where was he headed with this line, she
wondered. It made her extremely uneasy.
"Sex can be indistinguishable from anger and
hatred. Rape for instance. Or fear. Sex can
be tied to fear. Hangmen tell how criminals
on the gallows get erections as the rope is
put around their necks. They even ejaculate as
the trap drops out from under them."
Elizabeth had never had such a conversation with
anyone, and it filled her with disgust. "I'm
sorry, Colonel Beck, what does
this have to do with our proposals?"
"Come with me." He stood up abruptly.
"I want to show you something."
He led her downstairs and through a series of
utility rooms to another staircase that descended
to the basement. All of the footmen and servants
seemed to have vanished. She began to feel
trapped.
"This palace was built in the mid-seventeen
hundreds as a showcase for a mogul from
Silesia. Though it served no known purpose
at the time, he even included a dungeon!"
Beck pushed open a heavy wooden door. A low stone room glowed with the light
of torches burning against the walls. Elizabeth stifled a
nervous laugh. It looked like the set of a Lon
Chaney movie. The excitement in Beck's
eyes, however, told her this was no joke.
"You see, he had an iron maiden!" He
proudly pointed to a trunk in the shape of a
human figure standing open to display the spikes that
pointed inward. "And a rack. And a torture
table. I've restored them all to their original
condition." He burnished the waxed wood table with the
cuff of his coat jacket.
Elizabeth could feel fear creeping up on
her. She had to remain calm, aloof.
"This"--he gestured to the room--"is not just a
place of cruelty and pain." His face shone in
the torchlight. "It was lovingly constructed by a
man who saw it as a place of passion."
"You mean perversion, don't you?"
"Oh yes! Perversion." He seemed
stimulated by her anxiety. "The bizarre! That
is sex in its most human form. What people call
"normal" intercourse is merely what
animals do. Human beings are more evolved. For the
most highly developed, the touch of silk
panties or the lash of a whip can bring orgasm."
Elizabeth saw that he was excited. Yet he
had not touched her. She measured her distance to the
door. "What do you want from me?"
Triumph flared in his eyes. "The bizarre!"
She took in the strange instruments that hung from
the walls. How had she allowed herself to get into this
situation? From the moment Beck started talking about
sex she had known that she might have to trade her
body for the bombe, but she was not prepared to lose
her life!
"I won't hurt you," he said as if
he read her mind.
Perhaps if she played along ... what did he
mean by "bizarre"? She must not be squeamish.
Elizabeth steeled herself.
"You understand that I will approve your
proposals," Beck added.
She would be saving lives, striking a blow against
the Nazis. This was the payoff for years of work.
"We want the bombe."
"Yes, yes!" He glowed.
"A high-level delegation"--Elizabeth
pressed--"can be here by Sunday to effect the
exchange."
"I'll arrange everything." He was rummaging
around in a wardrobe. He pulled out a bundle.
It was all leather and metal and black mesh.
"Put this on," he said excitedly.
Her eyes darted toward a folding screen in the
corner.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "You want
privacy. Of course. It is so much better
to begin with modesty!"
She ducked behind the screen. Her hands were shaking
and she could make no sense of the garments. They had
slits and gaps in peculiar places. Finally,
she managed to struggle into what turned out to be a
short leather tutu with metal breast cups that had
holes cut out at the tips. A black garter
belt held up a pair of net stockings. As
she pulled a masked hood over her head, she
began to feel she was making a serious mistake.
She was ignoring the most important lesson she
had ever learned: to get what you want first.
Stepping out from behind the screen, Elizabeth found
Beck in his underwear. His pale white body was
thin and flabby at the same time.
"Tell me to undress," he whispered.
"Undress," she said.
"No, more domineering," he said impatiently.
"Undress!" she commanded.
Beck cringed and pushed down his undershorts. He
was only half aroused.
"Tell me to lie on the table," he
prompted.
"Lie down!" she commanded. The fact was, there
was no way she could be sure that Beck would keep
his end of the bargain.
"Threaten me if I don't obey." He was
climbing onto the table and putting his wrists and
ankles into the restraints.
"Do you want me to fasten them?" Elizabeth
asked.
"Don't ask! Order me! Punish me!"
That was a thrilling prospect. "All right!
Put your hands and feet in the blocks! Don't
move!" She snapped them shut.
"Tell me I'm bad!"
"You terrible man!"
"I'm only a boy!" he hissed.
"You horrible child! I'm going to punish you!"
Elizabeth felt herself getting into the spirit of it.
"Oh yes, I deserve it!" He had become
rigid.
"I'm going to hurt you! You're going to suffer!"
"You're so cruel! Be cruel to me!" he
begged. "Please be cruel!"
Elizabeth did not know what to do next.
"Don't beat me!" He eagerly nodded his
head toward a cat-o'-nine-tails hanging behind
him on the wall.
She took it down and found that the braids were
made of silk. "You disgusting little boy," she said,
"you want me to punish you? I'm going to punish
you!" She lashed him across his chest. Her fear was
turning to anger. "Punish you for all your vile
thoughts!" She lashed him across his thighs. "For all
the terrible things you've done!" For what he was doing
to her! She lashed him across his groin. Beck
pressed against his restraints, his eyes wild. His
skin was turning red as she beat him harder and
harder. A rage had seized hold of her.
"Get that!" he gasped, gesturing with his bulging
eyes toward a shelf next to the torture table.
On it was a thick curved ebony rod with a head
carved on each end. Elizabeth picked it up.
It was heavy.
"Me ..." He panted. "... you! Together!"
Oh no. This was far beyond every line she had ever
drawn in her mind. Even if she crossed over,
her instincts were telling her that he would never give
her the bombe. So would it really matter what she
did?
Elizabeth released his restraints and ordered
him to turn over. "On your knees!" His ugly
rear end was up in the air. She relocked his
wrists and ankles. "You want something bizarre?"
Her voice shook and her breath was coming shorter.
"I'll give you an experience more bizarre than
anything you've ever had!"
"Oh yes, please!" His body
trembled with anticipation.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes! Yes!" His voice cracked with lust.
"You're sure?"
"Now! Please, now!"
"All right!"
With that, she stepped backward out of the chamber and
slammed the heavy door shut, leaving the Polish
foreign minister pinned on his favorite piece of
furniture. For good measure, she jammed the
ebony rod through the handles of the door. Whatever
cry for help Beck may have uttered, it died,
trapped inside the stone dungeon with him.

She inhaled Lubienski's aroma. He
smelled of musk and sex. How many times had they
made love that night? It seemed that they never
stopped, one climax leading to another and another.
There was a fury to her passion, as if she were trying
to exorcise the demons that Beck had let
loose inside of her. But the orgasms did little
to overcome the twin griefs of failure and
loss. In the war to come, the riddle of the Enigma
would be buried along with Polish independence. She
trembled to think of Count Lubienski in the same
grave.
Maybe she had made a terrible mistake with
Beck. She was a professional. Her own
feelings should not have gotten in the way. She should have
paid any price. But how could the Polish
government have delegated such a vital decision?
How could they have let their security turn on the
notorious whims of the degenerate Colonel
Beck? No, they must have already made their
decision, and it must have been against sharing the bombe.
Beck was just trying to exploit her.
She sat up on the side of the bed and held her
head in her hands. What choice did she have but
to leave Lubienski and Poland to their fate?
Broadway couldn't help either of them now. And after
the mess she had made of everything ... There
wouldn't be any more SIS assignments. That part of
her life was over too. Had she any
alternative but to go off with Arthur to South
America? She would be so far from her baby,
Antony. At least she'd done one thing right;
Lubienski knew at last how much she cared,
even if it would only hurt both of them more.
Morning was drifting in around the edges of the heavy
velvet drapes. Her train was at
nine-thirty. She had to get up. A knock from
the hall made her open the bedroom door.
"Come in," she called out. "Leave the
breakfast in the sitting room."
Michael stirred. She kissed him. Then she
slipped out of bed and into the shower. The hot water
did not lift her spirits, neither did the cold.
Michael was awake and sitting up when she
came back to the bedroom. "Breakfast?" she
asked.
"I suppose so." He shared her gloom.
She opened the door to the sitting room and stopped.
"My God!" she shrieked. "What's going
on?"
Lubienski leaped to her side. Standing in the
doorway, the two of them surveyed a sitting
room full of roses. Dozens and dozens of
vases filled with pink, yellow, and white roses
rested on every available surface. A huge
blood-red bouquet sitting on a small trunk
in the middle of the floor had a white envelope
tucked in among the blossoms. Warily,
Elizabeth opened it.
"Bizarre indeed!" was all it said.
Then Elizabeth realized that the trunk was not
hers. Louis Vuitton did not make luggage
of olive green metal. She handed Lubienski
the vase and carefully lifted the top. Inside
she found a bewildering assembly of wheels and
wires.
"What's this?" she asked aloud.
"If I'm not mistaken," Lubienski
marveled, "that's the bombe."

"If they get the cable I sent this morning,
Professor Sandwich should arrive on Sunday
by air from London with two companions,"
Elizabeth explained to Lubienski as he
helped her stow the precious trunk containing the
bombe in her railway compartment. "You can tell
Beck that Sandwich is actually Colonel
Menzies, the deputy chief of the Secret
Intelligence Service."
"Beck can kiss my ass," Lubienski
growled as he jumped down to the platform.
"Michael, nothing happened!" She followed
him down the steps.
"You call that outfit you were wearing, nothing?"
"I'm going to save it as a memento,"
Elizabeth laughed.
"Wear it for Arthur. It might give him
another stroke."
Elizabeth put her hand on his cheek.
"Take care of yourself. I'll worry about you so."
"I'm the one to worry!" he said with
exasperation. "Take that damn machine to the
British embassy. Let them figure out how
to get it out of the country."
"I'm forbidden to have any contact with them."
"You're just being pigheaded!" Lubienski said
angrily. "Think for a minute. You're taking this
thing through Germany! Why can't you leave it with me?
I'll give it to Professor Sandwich!"
"I don't know for certain that he or anyone
else is coming, and I can't wait for a confirming
telegram. Besides, what if Beck changes his
mind?"
"I won't let him," Lubienski declared.
She didn't want to explain that she couldn't
dare count on him. "No," she said simply.
"And I don't want to fight with you in our last
precious minutes."
"Neither do I." He gave up.
"Good." She put her head against his chest.
They stood that way, still and close, while around
them other passengers scrambled to board the train.
"Look," Lubienski pointed to the shafts of
light appearing under the eaves of the vast steel roof
that spanned the railway station. "The sun is coming
up red in the east. That's always a sign that a
storm lies ahead. My career is probably
finished. And my life is not worth much as you are
going off to the west. Someday, I will find you, even
if it takes me twenty years."
She could not respond, for she knew of nothing
to describe how she felt.
The conductor called the all-aboard. At the
steps to the wagon-lit they embraced for the last
time and Elizabeth silently climbed up into her
car. Lubienski stood on the platform watching
her lips form the words "I love you" through the
window. The locomotive began its heavy
breathing, and her coach began to slide away. He
ran after it until he reached the end of the platform.
He then continued staring after the train until it was
well out of sight. She was gone.
As he walked downcast back through the station, he
heard his name being called. Lubienski looked up
to find a young lieutenant from BS-4 rushing
toward him with a slip of paper.
"We just decrypted it from SD traffic."

BEGIN TEXT:
TO: UNIT 107 POZEN
FROM: GESTAPO-AMT BERLIN
1089/Sst07-ai-ci-11:24
SECRET
POSSIBLE POLISH/BRITISH AGENT
ELIZABETH PACK TRAVELING
WARSAW-PARIS VIA BERLIN EXPRESS
JULY 20. ESTABLISH SURVEILLANCE AND
AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. END TEXT.


Chapter 32

Polish-German Border--July 20,

Elizabeth was lunching alone in the dining car when
the Berlin Express crossed the German
frontier and stopped at Pozen for customs. The
border police and customs officers entered at the
far end of the car and began their methodical check
of the passengers' papers. She picked at her
food, too keyed up to eat. Relax, she
told herself. Stop worrying. Your papers are
all in order. The hard part's over. All you have
to do is to act natural and mind your own business.
To distract herself, she watched a long freight
train pulling out of the station. The cars were half the
size of the big boxcars she remembered as a child
rolling across the prairies of the Middle West.
With their arched roofs, the little European freight
cars looked like a Gypsy caravan. Elizabeth
felt like a homeless Gypsy herself.
She had spent the morning in her compartment seated
on her velvet banquette with its lace
antimacassar while she gazed backward at the
retreating landscape. Wanting never to forget
Poland, she tried practicing her "aloneness."
But the act of remembering made her last days with
Lubienski seem like something already distant.
The border guards had reached Elizabeth.
They examined her diplomatic passport and
transit visa, then looked back and gave a
quick nod toward two men in black leather trench
coats standing near the door. She had not noticed
them come in. Handing back her papers, the border
officials moved on, but the two men in black
seated themselves a few tables away. They did not
take off their hats, and they did not
take their eyes off her.
As calmly as possible, she finished her meal.
The men had to be Geheime Staatspolizei.
But why were they watching her? The bombe? She
told herself not to panic. The Gestapo did not
need a reason to watch anyone.
When the train moved out of the station, she stood up
and, trying not to hurry, headed toward her compartment.
Swaying down the corridor, she sensed that she was
being followed. Suddenly, it dawned on her that they
might have already searched her room. Still, she kept
her pace slow and deliberate. Reaching her
door, she quickly stepped inside and looked around.
Nothing appeared disturbed. She threw open the
closet. The green trunk was still there.
Her relief was short-lived. Outside, in the
corridor, she heard steel-tipped footsteps
approaching her door. They stopped. What would
she do if they knocked? What could she do if they
demanded to come in? She heard whispers. Then the
steps moved on. When they finally died away, she
was able to breathe again.
Feeling exhausted, Elizabeth rang for the
porter. He pulled down the bed from the wall and
closed the shades. As soon as he left, she
climbed up into the bunk, and still fully dressed,
shut her eyes and let the train rock her
swiftly to sleep.
When she awoke a few hours later, a
rainstorm darkened the German countryside. Her
nap had made her feel more composed. Her fear
had subsided. Of course she was being watched by the
Gestapo. It was only nat@urlich, as the
Germans would say. Britain was threatening to go
to war with Germany if Hitler attacked Poland.
Elizabeth was traveling on a British
diplomatic passport and had to expect to be
watched by the Nazis as a potential enemy
alien. The important thing was to do nothing
suspicious or provocative. Stay out of
sight as much as possible, and play the part of a
demure British diplomat's wife.
She planned to remain in her compartment when the
train reached Berlin. There, her car would be
switched to the Nord Express departing at
six-thirty. Later that evening, she would order
dinner in her compartment from the porter. That might
seem defensive and arouse the Gestapo's
curiosity, but it was safer than taking dinner in the
dining car and leaving the trunk unguarded.
Keeping the bombe in her room now seemed like a
big mistake.
Elizabeth recognized the outskirts of
Berlin flashing by in the rain and could feel the tension
rising in her chest. Berlin would be an important
test. If she was wrong and the Gestapo had something
unpleasant in mind, this was where they would make their
move.
Hitler's pride and joy, the autobahn,
ran parallel to the tracks for several minutes.
The headlights of the cars gleaming off the wet
pavement made the ribbons of concrete look like
glass. Then came the tiny garden plots, no more
than a few square meters of cabbages, that the
working-class Berliners escaped to on weekends.
Large industrial plants followed and soon
covered the entire landscape. It was late afternoon;
the day shift should have been over, yet smoke still
poured from the tall stacks that towered above the miles
upon miles of corrugated metal buildings. In
time, plain brick apartment blocks started
to appear among the factories, and the city began
to take form.
Rattling over viaducts and dipping under
bridges, the train finally began to slow as it
approached the Banhof. The rails rapidly
divided and multiplied until it seemed that the
train had emerged onto the delta of a steel
river. Elizabeth could feel her coach lurch from
one track to another as the Berlin Express
switched toward its final arrival platform.
As the passengers disembarked, she watched the
two Gestapo agents get off the train. Any
second she expected them to return with a squad
of Hitler Youth to break down her door. But
nothing happened. The railroad police on the
platform showed no interest in boarding. After a few
minutes, she felt the welcome sensation of moving
again as her car tolled out into the switching yard where it
would be joined to the Nord Express. So far--
she crossed her fingers--so good.
For the next half hour, Elizabeth's coach
shuttled back and forth about the yard. She must have
dozed off once more, because she awakened with a jolt
when her car coupled up against the train for France.
The platform for the Nord Express was already
crowded with eager passengers; among them she
spotted the two men with leather raincoats. They
stood huddled with a group of officers in black
military-style uniforms. To her shock,
she realized that she knew one of them.
It was her old acquaintance from the
Wasserspiele nightclub, Colonel
Kruzel. He was saluting a taller and more
formidable-looking officer with the insignia of a
gauleiter, who then turned and began to make his
way toward the steps of the train.
The knock on her door came almost immediately.
When she opened it, Elizabeth had another
surprise. It was not the Gestapo. She was
confronted with a lean, wiry man in a tweed cap
and a Burberry trench coat.
"You're Mrs. Pack?" he asked in
English.
She nodded.
"I am from the Passport Control office of the
British embassy. May I see your
identification?"
Elizabeth checked her sense of relief and
prayed he was genuine. "If I can see yours."
"Q."
They exchanged papers. He spoke with a
knobby Yorkshire accent. Another ex-Royal
Navy officer to the rescue, she guessed.
"I've a message for you"--he lowered his
voice--"from Broadway." He handed her a
slip of paper.

SECRET/MOST Urgent.
4:27People--20-7-39
For Berlin Station. Broadway Sends 2142
Pass following message Mrs. Arthur
Pack arriving this PM from Warsaw on Berlin
Express bound Paris. Wording as received from
Poles. Assume Pack understands sense.
BEGIN TEXT: GESTAPO AWARE YOUR
TRANSIT [STOP] TAKE EXTRA
PRECAUTIONS [STOP] JETTISON YOUR
DESSERT [STOP] END TEXT.
C.

Elizabeth read the message again, then lit the
paper and put it in an ashtray. "I have a
small trunk that you must send to Broadway in the
diplomatic pouch." She opened the closet.
"What's in it?"
"There's no time to explain." The conductor had
just called the all-aboard. "But it's vital,
I'm afraid the Germans will get it."
He shot a glance out the window and then
tried to lift it. "Sorry, but there's Gestapo
all over the platform. If I get off draggin'
this thing, they'll clap me in irons."
"But you've diplomatic immunity!" she
pleaded. The conductor called the second
all-aboard.
"I've no seals to put on the trunk.
They'd be in their rights to open it."
"What can I do then?" She was growing
desperate.
"I dunno. But you've got to excuse me.
I must go ashore."
In a moment he had gone, and again Elizabeth
was alone, trapped with the bombe. The train began
gliding gently out of the station. Soon, it was
hurtling across the Spree River, past the
massive new Olympic stadium, and through the
leafy Berlin suburbs toward the night.

The order to appear before Gauleiter Manfred
Ochs arrived in an envelope pushed under her
door. The note inside invited Elizabeth
to supper in the dining car. She could hardly
refuse, but what could she do with the bombe? Moving
it to the baggage car would only draw attention to it.
The answer, Elizabeth decided on careful
reflection, was to take a shower. She rang for the
porter.
"Is the Dusche free?" she asked. He
nodded. "Good, will you help me with my trunk? I
didn't know what to bring, so I packed everything."
She worried that the weight might make him
suspicious.
"Frauen," he muttered as he hauled it
away on his dolly to the shower room at the far end
of the car.
In addition to a stall shower, the bathing compartment
also held a sink and an enclosed water closet
for the toilet. The room was small. She had
to maneuver the trunk around in order to open the
door to the WC. As she had remembered, it was not
like American trains. When she flushed the
toilet, she could not look straight down onto the
tracks. Some sort of plumbing was involved.
She showered for ten minutes. After drying herself and
putting on her robe, she wadded up one of her
hand towels and stuffed it into the toilet. Then she
pulled the handle. The bowl filled up. She did
it again and the toilet overflowed. Once more, and the
water ran under the sill into the
corridor. Finally, with slippers soaking,
Elizabeth pushed the emergency button. The
porter came running.
"Toiletten kaputt!" she cried
helplessly.
The porter became frantic. Toilet mess
was an unspeakable blot on the honor of the
German railway system. He rushed away for
something to wipe the floor, hurrying back with bed
sheets and a mop. When he was done cleaning up,
he put a sign on the water closet declaring
KAPUTT--EINTRITT VERBOTEN.
BROKEN--ENTRY FORBIDDEN. With profuse
apologies, he offered to help Elizabeth
back to her compartment with the trunk.
"Never mind," she declined. "I'll
manage, and I still must get dressed."
As soon as he was gone, she opened the water
closet and wrestled the trunk inside. But then
she could not get the door to close. It was
enormously heavy, but with the strength of desperation,
Elizabeth managed to hoist it up on top of the
seat. The train lurched and the trunk slid to one
side, crashing against the wall. She pushed and
yanked. It was stable. She could close the door.
Elizabeth took several deep breaths. There was no way to lock the toilet door
from the outside. If someone ignored the VERBOTEN
sign, the bombe would be discovered. She just had
to count on the Germans' horror of bodily
waste and their compulsion to obey orders.
* * *
She had steeled herself for an interrogation but this was
worse. Gauleiter Manfred Ochs was trying
to be charming. With his albino-colored hair and
porcelain face, he looked utterly
humorless, except for the Halloween decorations
on the lapels of his uniform--miniature human
skulls surrounded by lightning bolts. How could a
grown man wear such things?
They were seated in a special compartment in the dining
car, which afforded them both luxury and complete
privacy. The walls were mahogany and
mirrors, with the glass etched with idyllic scenes
from Teutonic mythology. Ochs could pull out
her fingernails and none of the other diners would hear
her. However, he worked hard at being congenial and
showed no interest in why she was on the train. He
introduced himself as Colonel Kruzel's
superior. He talked about how lovely
she looked. How much he appreciated her
gracious acceptance of his invitation to dinner. He
recommended what she should eat and drink. He
behaved like they were old friends. She found it all quite
ominous.
Elizabeth defended herself with smiles,
flattery, and by listening intently. All the while,
she was anxiously trying to figure him out. What
did he want? Did he know about the bombe?
The message from the Poles had suggested as much but
didn't really say so. And how could he, unless
... unless Beck told them. No, that was
unthinkable. Beck might be a fascist, but he was
a Polish fascist. So why was he here,
pursuing her, measuring her? Maybe he knew
about the incident with the van! Stop, she warned herself,
you're letting your guilt run wild. You don't
know what he is up to, but you'll find out soon
enough.
"With dessert we shall have a 1934 Eiswein,"
he announced, concluding his review of the wine
list. "The grapes are left on the vine long
after the others have been harvested," he explained,
"almost becoming raisins. They're picked with the first
frost. The peasants hurry out into the vineyards
to pluck them while they are still covered in ice. The
wine is a tribute to patience and sacrifice."
And like clockwork, with the arrival of the main
course, the cultivated Ochs became the secret
policeman.
"So, what have you been doing in the past year?"
He nodded to the waiter to begin pouring more wine.
Elizabeth explained that she had remained in
St.-Jean-de-Luz with her husband after being
evacuated during the Czech crisis.
"Why did you not go back to Warsaw like everyone
else?"
"My husband was not well."
"He had been sick for a long time. A
stroke, wasn't it? And yet you had remained in
Warsaw."
Ochs knew more about her than she had expected.
This was a dangerous line of questioning. She took
refuge in the truth. "To continue our allowances,
we wanted to maintain the impression that he would
soon return."
"They are not generous with your husband?"
"Not the British Exchequer."
"So shortsighted." He seemed pleased.
"Then what brought you back to Warsaw at
this time?"
"Why, Herr Gauleiter, I believe you're
interrogating me!"
"Not at all." He smiled a tiny-toothed
smile. "Why did you go back to Warsaw?" he
said again.
So much for the Scarlett O'Hara defense, she
decided. "I had to collect our household
goods."
He looked at her with frank disbelief.
"And how was Count Lubienski?"
It was a natural question, but it alarmed her.
Perhaps Ochs planned to use her against Lubienski
in some way. "That's all over."
"Was it difficult to say good-bye?"
"I think you misunderstand our relationship," she
said warily. "Count Lubienski compromised me.
He pledged his love and then manipulated me
into spying on the British embassy.
Lubienski's a cad. As far as I'm concerned,
Poland should be wiped off the face of the earth!"
"My F@uhrer's exact sentiments,
Elizabeth." He took a sip of wine. "And
will Britain try to stand in the way?"
"Does your F@uhrer care?"
"He believes that the German Reich and the
British Empire have a common interest in
eradicating the threat of Russian
bolshevism."
"So you expect Chamberlain to continue
to cooperate?"
"We hope he will be persuaded by our strength."
They toasted. Elizabeth had a hard time
swallowing.
"So tell me, Mrs. Pack"--he patted
his lips with his napkin--"if you feel that way about
Count Lubienski, why did you spend every night with
him while you were in Warsaw?"
She had made a mistake. Lying was playing
his game. "You seem very well informed."
"We have our sources."
Elizabeth felt sick with fear. If he
knew about the bombe, why didn't he simply
arrest her? Seize her baggage? Search
everything? But no, that was not the way of the intelligence
officer. They never proceeded in a straight line.
They hated direct questions and answers, preferring
instead to tease out the truth, winkle out morsels of
fact. They placed far more faith in information
contained in a contradiction than in a
frank answer. It was ego: Intelligence
officers assumed their quarry were skilled at
lying, but never clever enough to tell the truth.
Elizabeth was looking down at her plate.
She had eaten little. Ochs's milk-blue eyes
had noticed.
"Perhaps you will find dessert more to your liking," he
said.
As her pancakes with chocolate sauce
arrived, Gauleiter Ochs changed direction
again. He became friendly and confidential. He
leaned across the table, and put his hand on hers.
"The Reich is extremely grateful for what
you did in Prague."
"Herr Henlein was pleased?" Elizabeth had
been afraid to raise the subject.
"V. Everything worked out beautifully.
Czechoslovakia is ours."
"Herr Henlein," she said sweetly, "is a
pig."
"He has had only kind things to say about you."
Ochs drew back.
"I had to tell him Colonel Kruzel was
my boyfriend to keep him from attacking me!"
Ochs laughed, his eyes coming alive for the first
time. He took her hand again. "Yes, he asked
me about that. I assured him that the Gestapo had a
relationship with you and that it would continue."
She tried not to register her shock. "In what
way?"
"Wherever your husband is assigned next"--he
squeezed her hand--"I am sure you could
provide invaluable services to the Reich. And
we, of course, could solve any financial
worries you may have."
Elizabeth forced herself to blush. This wasn't
about the bombe! The bastard was trying to recruit
her!
"We're going to Chile," Elizabeth
demurred.
"There are many Germans there. Hitler has
great plans for South America. And in time, you can
encourage your husband to ask for an assignment
to Washington ...."
"Herr Gauleiter, I'm trying to leave all
that behind." Elizabeth was surprised at her own
sincerity. "I just want to be a wife and mother
again."
"Frau Pack." Ochs allowed himself a
mocking smile, "Isn't it a little
late for Kinder, K@uche, und
Kirche?"
My God, did he know that she was barren? She
wanted to stick her fork in his throat.
"But these are mere details. We have all
night to discuss this matter." His voice purred like
a cat with its paw on a butterfly. "Join me
for brandy in the club car." It was an order. "I
have arranged some entertainment from the renowned Sacha
Guitry."

A place of honor had been reserved for them.
The furniture in the wood-paneled club car was
rearranged so that all of the leather sofas faced
forward toward a small area with a single stool lit
by a spotlight. As they sat down, Sacha
Guitry stepped forward. Playwright, actor,
and a famous boulevardier, he was tall and thin
with a hawklike face and penetrating black
eyes. He began by reading a series of sketches
from Le Soir d'Austerlitz, the locale
for Napoleon's crushing victory over Hitler's Austrians.
The irony was not lost on Ochs. "The French
have such artistic talent," he said irritably,
"but no sense of propriety. Germany will know how
to bring such talent to heel."
As the reading proceeded, Guitry seemed
to direct his performance directly at
Elizabeth. But she could barely sit still, let
alone focus on him. Even if Ochs knew
nothing about the bombe, her situation remained
extremely precarious. She kept imagining more
and more passengers using the shower room, and one of
them, out of an excess of Germanic technical
curiosity, opening the water closet and finding the
trunk. At any moment, she expected one of
Ochs's aides to appear and whisper in his ear. The
gauleiter's faint eyebrows would rise sharply,
and he would stand up, Luger in hand, to announce that
she was under arrest. Her brandy was disappearing fast.
If everyone respected the EINTRITT
VERBOTEN sign, she still was not safe.
German efficiency made it certain that when the
train stopped in Frankfurt, someone would come
to fix the toilet. She had to do something before then.
Could she simply throw it off the train? Menzies
and his team would soon arrive in Warsaw and get
everything they wanted from the Poles. Or, would they?
She'd had no confirmation from Broadway
that the meeting would take place. And previous
ones had been a bust. For all she knew, she and
her trunk were it. A bombe in hand ...
Elizabeth cursed her stubborn pride in not
turning over the bombe to the British embassy
in Warsaw.
The audience was laughing and clapping. "Thank
you, ladies and gentlemen," he said as the
applause died down. "In particular, I
want to thank Herr Ochs for the invitation to appear
before you tonight." His stress on the word "invitation"
made clear that it had been a command performance. He
bowed and stepped away from the light.
"Do join us, Mr. Guitry," Ochs
insisted.
The Frenchman glanced over at the men and women
in his entourage who waited at another
banquette.
"For only a moment, if you don't mind,"
Guitry replied and sat down. "It has been
a difficult and long day."
"You were wonderful," Elizabeth said.
"Having you right in front of me was an
inspiration, mademoiselle." His eyes twinkled
with interest.
"Do you often perform in Germany?" Ochs cut off
any reply.
"In the past. This time, I was merely helping
a friend, an impresario, for the benefit of his
family."
"He passed away?" asked Elizabeth.
"He was arrested. He is a Jew."
"I'm sure it was for his own safety," Ochs
said blandly.
"If you will forgive me." Sacha Guitry
rose. "Mademoiselle, when you are in Paris"
--he handed her a card--"I hope that you will give
me the pleasure of being inspired by you once again."
Ochs was left with an annoyed smirk on his
face. The club car was beginning to thin out.
"I'm exhausted," Elizabeth said. She
didn't want any more third degree, and she
needed time to think. "Thank you for your
hospitality, but I really must retire."
"I'll accompany you."
Just what she feared. Mercifully, he had
to walk behind her through the train corridors, which
kept conversation to a minimum. On the way to her
compartment, they passed the shower room. The door
remained closed and the sign in place.
Next, came a suite of rooms occupied
by Sacha Guitry and his entourage. Their doors
stood open. Inside, a party was already under way.
They were drinking and laughing and singing while someone
played a concertina. Guitry waved. Ochs
frowned.
When they reached her compartment, Ochs offered
Elizabeth a cigarette. She declined.
"You must take my proposal seriously."
He stepped forward. "You would be an invaluable
asset to the Reich."
"I'll think about it, of course."
"I hope so." His voice took on an edge
of menace. "Scotland Yard or your Mr. J.
Edgar Hoover might not understand your collaboration
with us in Czechoslovakia. What would happen
to your husband's career? What would happen to you?"
Elizabeth made herself look suitably
intimidated. "And if I agree to your
proposal?"
"We would want you to delay your departure from
Germany for a few days to receive proper orientation."
He took hold of her arms. "You have until tomorrow
morning when we reach the French border to give me
your answer. In the meantime ..." He lunged
forward to kiss her.
She turned her head. Would wonders never
cease? On top of everything, the fearsome Gestapo
gauleiter wanted into her pants! That, at least,
put her on more familiar ground. Elizabeth
placed her hand on his chest to keep him at bay.
"My dear Manfred," she said invitingly,
"I would love to get to know you better ..."
His eyes shone with anticipation.
"... but I'm having my period."
And before he could think to shut his mouth, she had
disappeared inside her room.

She leaned against the inside of her door and
tried to calm her nerves. Incredibly, she herself
had now become a major threat to the security of
Broadway's code-breaking effort. She had
to handle Ochs's proposition carefully, whether
she said yes or no. Otherwise, she could wind
up under severe questioning and might reveal enough
to compromise all that the Poles and British had
achieved against the Enigma. Elizabeth saw no
alternative; she had to find a way to get both
herself and the bombe out of Germany on that train.


Chapter 33

Nord Express--July 22, 1939
It was two o'clock in the morning before Elizabeth
reemerged and tiptoed quietly toward the shower
compartment. The doors to Sacha Guitry's suite
were now closed, but she could still hear music and
voices. The rest of the compartments were dark and
silent. Elizabeth had stayed in her cocktail
dress, reasoning that if questioned, she could claim that
she had been at Guitry's party.
Entering the shower room, she found that the
VERBOTEN sign remained fixed on the door
to the water closet. Inside, to her relief, the
trunk continued to squat crazily on the
toilet. Struggling, she managed to deposit it
on the floor with a heavy thud. Breathing hard, she
waited to see if the noise brought any reaction.
There was none.
Carefully, she opened the door to the
corridor. No one was in sight. Pulling on
one of the leather handles she began to haul the trunk
toward the front of the train, hoping that the dragging
noise would be muffled by the sound of the train.
She passed by her compartment. It was not a safe
place to hide anything. When she had closed her
door in Ochs's face, she half expected
to find her compartment in a shambles. But
superficially, nothing seemed to have been touched.
On close inspection, however, she could see that
everything had received a thorough going-over. Each
object in the room had been disturbed just enough to let
her know that she had been systematically searched.
Her toothbrush, she noticed, had been moved
to the opposite side of the sink. She refused
to think of what would have happened had she not stashed the
trunk in the shower room.
Stopping to rest as she neared the front of her
car, Elizabeth saw that a light burned in the
porter's compartment. Peeking through the window in his
door, Elizabeth could see him methodically
going over his receipts on an adding machine.
She crouched down and began to inch the trunk along
under the window. Suddenly, there was a screeching as it
scraped against the wall. The adding machine stopped.
Elizabeth held her breath. What would she say
if he came out and found her on her hands and
knees? What was she doing with her trunk at this
end of the car? At this hour of the night? Dressed in
her cocktail outfit? After what
seemed like enough time for the train to cross half of
Saxony, the adding machine started up again.
Slowly and carefully, Elizabeth slid the
trunk past the porter's compartment to the door to the
landing between the cars. She pushed it open.
The sound of the rushing train filled the
corridor. As she stepped through and pulled on the
trunk, it caught on the threshold. She
yanked. It wouldn't come loose. The train
traversed a bridge, the hollow clatter booming
through the car. She could see the shadow of the porter in
the corridor. He was standing up. Desperately,
she twisted and pulled at the trunk. He was
moving.
With all her strength, she pushed and lifted and
jerked the trunk free. The door slammed, and
she fell back onto the swaying platform. In the
passing lights, she could make out the face of the
porter pressed against the window, peering into the dark
with a perplexed look on his face.
She rolled to one side, tucking herself into a
shadow, hoping he could not see the trunk, praying
he wouldn't open the door. They entered a tunnel
and everything went black. When she could see again, his
face was gone from the window.
Picking herself up, Elizabeth discovered that she
was shaking. You've no time for this, she said
silently, and proceeded to wrestle the trunk over
the sliding steel plates that coupled the cars. But
before hauling the trunk into the next coach, she
decided to go ahead to check. Thankfully, everyone
seemed asleep. That enabled her to stand up as she
dragged the trunk down the corridor. When she
reached the next porter's office, she was
relieved to find that it was closed and dark.
Her destination lay just ahead. She had decided
that the only place to put the trunk was where it
belonged--in the luggage compartment at the front of the
train. Once she had gotten it inside, she again
stopped to catch her breath. Despite the window in
the door, it was too dark to see. She had to risk
turning on the lights. It took her several
minutes to find the switch, and even longer for her
eyes to adjust and to locate her household
effects. She found them hidden behind the trunks,
equipment, props, and scenery of Sacha
Guitry's show.
As Elizabeth tried to maneuver her trunk
into an inconspicuous place, she had the sudden
sensation of the train rapidly slowing. Then
she heard the brakes start to squeal. Concerned,
she ran to the door and looked out. The train had
entered a marshaling yard and was quickly coming to a halt.
She checked her watch; had they reached
Frankfurt already? To get a better look, she
stepped out onto the platform between the cars. Ahead,
in a pool of light, she saw a contingent of
soldiers. The moment the train stopped, they
fanned out and began climbing on board.
Panicked, Elizabeth retreated into the
baggage car. She snapped out the light and then
groped her way toward the trunk. Struggling
to push it against the other baggage, she saw
flashlight beams waving outside the window. They
were coming her way! Taking an extra minute for one
last effort to conceal the trunk, Elizabeth then
dashed to the other end of the car and out onto the landing just
as the soldiers threw open the door.
The next coach was the mail car. Inside she
could see German postal workers busily sorting
mail into pigeonholes. That was no place
to hide. The light came on in the baggage car.
Standing back in the shadow, Elizabeth anxiously
watched as the soldiers worked their way through the
luggage. Every few feet, they would stop while one
of them examined a baggage tag and the other made a
note on a clipboard. To her dismay, they
seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time
inspecting the documents on her household
effects.
Finally, they moved on, but that only brought them
closer to her. Would they stay in the baggage
compartment, or continue into the mail car? She could not
chance being discovered. Elizabeth desperately
tried to think of an alternative, but there wasn't
any. The train was stopped. She would have to get off
and hope to find an unguarded landing farther back
where she could again climb aboard.
Her leap to the ground in high heels sent her
tumbling. She got up and brushed herself off.
Holding up the hem of her dress, she began
to make her way back toward her coach, staying
close to the side of the train. But something seemed
strange, wrong. At first, she thought that her fall
had made her confused. She hurried faster and
faster but appeared to make no progress. Good
God, she realized, the train was moving! Backing
up! Backing away from her! She began to run, but
it moved even faster. The baggage car went
sliding by. Then the mail car. Then the
engine.
To avoid the headlight, Elizabeth ducked
behind an empty switching station. Helplessly, she
watched as her train retreated farther and farther
into the night and fog. A string of freight cars
rolled in front of her, blocking her view.
When they had passed, her train had vanished.
Wildly, she looked around. In every direction
she found a sea of crisscrossing rails that
stretched away until they disappeared in the misty
blackness. Here and there, floodlights created
small islands of illumination where boxcars and
locomotives moved slowly through the ground fog,
groaning and creaking and wheezing like unwell
monsters. Every few minutes, their agonies would be
halted by a shattering collision, as the cars coupled
in some nightmare mating dance.
Fighting hysteria, Elizabeth began to run,
tripping and falling, in the direction that she had
last seen the Nord Express. She tore
her stockings and snapped the heel off her right
shoe. She thought she saw her train stopped in the
distance, but as she stumbled toward it, a long
freight materialized out of the night to her left,
cutting her off. Frantic, she could do nothing but
wait as it leisurely rolled by. When the last
car moved past, she anxiously leaped across the
track only to find another engine bearing down on
her from the other direction.
Her broken shoe stuck between the ties. She
fell. Transfixed by the locomotive fifteen
feet away, everything seemed to go into slow motion.
Like a hideous dream, her legs wouldn't move.
She could not get up. Her mind faltered. She
saw herself trapped in the German communications
van as the Baltic Zephyour smashed into it. Then
her hands found the rail. It stung with the vibration
of the oncoming train. She pulled, pulled with all
her might.
The locomotive was upon her. She rolled off
the track as it lumbered past, a sharp pain
piercing her ankle. She looked down at her
foot. It was still there! It had been a glancing
blow. And she was alive!
Staggering upright, she looked around. Not far
away, a passenger train moved gracefully
across the yard. In agony, she limped toward it.
As she got nearer, she could make out the words lettered
on the side of several cars, WAGON-LIT.
Salvation! It was the Nord
Express! Then for a moment she hesitated.
What if it wasn't? But she had no money, no
papers. If she were caught in a railroad yard
at night she could be shot as a spy. Better
to take her chances with the train.
She had to run hard to intercept it. As she
drew even with the moving coaches, Elizabeth
leaped for the handrail next to the door. She
missed. The damn train was accelerating again! She
jumped a second time and caught it, swinging her
feet up to the steps which were tucked under the door.
Hanging away from the train, she tried to open the
door to the landing, but the handle would not give. The
train was traveling faster and faster. A signal
pole brushed by close enough to snatch at her hair.
Ahead, she could see that she would soon overtake
a parked freight. She would never fit between the two
trains.
With all her remaining strength, Elizabeth
pulled on the handle, but still the door would not open.
Now the train was moving too fast to jump.
Desperate, she released her grip on the
handrail, and put her entire weight on the door
handle. It cracked open. But then slowly and
inexorably, the door swung wider and wider--with
Elizabeth clinging to the outside.
Dangling out over the side of the train like a
sack of mail, she was hurtling toward the stopped
freight. No matter how she jerked and wriggled,
she could not get the door to swing back. Extending
her left leg she managed to reach around and hook
the toe of her shoe under the handrail. Slowly, she
managed to pull the door closer and closer to the
train until at last she was able to get her right
foot onto the bottom step. Then she was stuck.
The other train was no more than fifty feet
away. In terror, she let go of the door and
grabbed for the handrail, twisting around just as the door
hit the back of the parked train. With a crash, the
door slammed shut, knocking her into the car and
across the landing.
Stunned and dazed, Elizabeth tried to stand but
fell against the bulkhead. She heard shouts and the
clatter of boots and realized that soldiers were
coming. On her hands and knees, she crawled to the
door of the next car and pulled herself up. Through the
window she could see no one. Pushing the door
open, she staggered into the car. Finally, she was in
luck; it was her coach. But as Elizabeth
turned into the corridor, her luck ran
out. At the far end, soldiers knocked at a
compartment, demanding to be let in. They were searching the
train.
She was trapped. The soldiers were closing in
on her. How could she explain one shoe gone, the
other broken, her stockings torn and her dress
ripped and soiled, a bleeding ankle and skinned
hands and knees. It was too late to duck into the
shower room, and they would surely check it
anyway. Elizabeth felt exhausted. She
wanted to give up.
The soldiers ahead of her stepped into the
compartment. She had a chance to make a dash for her
room. But before she got halfway to her door,
one of them backed out into the corridor again. She
would be caught! The next compartment was Sacha
Guitry's. She turned the knob, and the door
opened. Before the soldier could turn around, she
slipped inside.
"Qui est l@a?" He put on the reading
light, then he smiled. "It's late, but you can still
join our little party." He was nestling in bed with two
women.
Elizabeth could hear the Nazis knocking on
another compartment nearby. "I haven't been able
to sleep, thinking of you," Elizabeth whispered.
In the half dark she quickly shed her tattered
clothes.
"Come here," one of the women said, holding up the
sheet. In the corridor, the German soldiers
cursed and shouted like angry geese. As Guitry
put out the light, Elizabeth sought sanctuary in
the labyrinth of their bodies.
Skin moved against skin. Hands and lips
explored her most secret places. She felt
spent, helpless, without a will of her own. Entwined
in the undulating mass, Elizabeth could not tell
who was who, and she didn't care.
A sharp bang on the door and they all
stopped. It flew open, and two soldiers stood
outlined in the low light of the corridor. One of
them was an officer. He spoke.
"Achtung! Who is in here?" It was
Ochs's voice.
Sacha Guitry again put on the light. The
gauleiter failed to conceal his shock.
"Frau Pack! We thought something had happened
to you!"
"You can see that I'm quite safe."
Ochs's expression wavered between envy
and disgust. Clicking his heels, he bowed. "Be
advised, Monsieur Guitry, decadent
sexual acts receive stiff punishment in the new
Germany!" The other two girls began to giggle.
"As for you, Mrs. Pack, I shall see you in the
morning." He stepped back and slammed the
door.
Guitry put his hand on Elizabeth's
cheek. "I believe you have made our
Eisenbahnf@uhrer jealous." One of the other
girls began stroking her shoulders.
"Pity," was all Elizabeth could find to say,
andwitha sigh, she fell asleep in the security and
comfort of their flesh.


Chapter 34

The Franco-German Frontier--July
21, 1939
With the dawn, her fear had come back like morning
sickness. Elizabeth awakened with the realization that
she had done the one thing she shouldn't: make Ochs
into an adversary.
She slipped out of Sacha Guitry's bed and
returned to her room, her mind in turmoil over
how to respond to his proposition. Her instincts
told her to refuse. After all, what could he do
to her? She was a diplomat traveling under
diplomatic immunity. He had no grounds
to detain her.
However, as the train slowed approaching the
German border, her resolve began to waiver,
for when she opened her door to go to the W.c., an
SS storm trooper with a submachine gun
blocked her way.
"You are confined to your compartment under the orders of
Gauleiter Ochs," he informed her. Her
anxious protests were met with armed indifference.
Humiliated, she had to use the sink in her room
to relieve herself.
As soon as the Nord Express came to a
halt on the German side of the frontier,
another platoon of SS guards boarded and
began forcing dozens of passengers from the train,
making them line up in front of the dingy railway
station. From her window, Elizabeth watched with
growing apprehension as one by one, the passengers were
brought before Ochs. He sat in the middle of the
platform behind a large makeshift table like a
judge at a kangaroo court. After a
brief exchange, he would nod his head one way
or the other and they would either be allowed to reboard the
train or be marched off to several waiting trucks.
Many of the passengers would hand Ochs bundles of
cash, often whole briefcases full. Soon,
the banknotes piling up on the table spilled
onto the platform. Women, in desperation, would
reach beneath their dresses to draw out strands of pearls
or diamond necklaces from their underwear.
Sometimes the bribery worked; sometimes it did not.
Occasionally, Ochs would indicate that only one or
two members of a family could reboard the train.
Through their anguished gestures, Elizabeth could
see parents and children, husbands and wives, beg one
another to leave them behind. If they failed
to decide before the gauleiter got bored, he would
order them all hauled off to the trucks.
Elizabeth felt angry and ashamed: angry
that she could do nothing to help them; ashamed that she had
a diplomatic passport that would protect her.
A heavy banging on the door announced that it was
her turn to confront the gauleiter.
"Your travel documents." Elizabeth handed
over her diplomatic passport to the storm
trooper who had been guarding her door. "You must
disembark."
As she stepped down to the platform, the SS
guard gave Elizabeth a shove in the direction
of Ochs's table with the butt of his gun.
The Gestapo gauleiter sat there studying her
passport, making notes. "What is your
answer?" He did not look up.
Behind him, the SS were unloading the baggage
car, dumping the possessions of the people in the trucks
onto the platform. Farther on, just past the
locomotive, a concrete bunker and a fence topped with rolls of barbed wire
defined the French border. Beyond that, barely a hundred
yards down the tracks, she could see the town of
Mars-la-Tour shining in the morning sun. A
tricolor flag flapped briskly against a bright
blue sky. She could imagine the smell of
caf`e au lait and croissants. France was so
close she ached.
"I hope you didn't put on this display for
my benefit." She didn't care how much of a
beast he was; if she was going to negotiate,
Elizabeth was going to start tough. She only
hoped the quiver in her voice wouldn't give her
away.
"I want your answer now," he demanded.
She would have loved to spit on him, but her mouth
was too dry. Then the shouting and swearing of the SS
guards drew her attention back to the baggage
car. Suddenly, she recognized some of the trunks
and crates. They belonged to her! The storm
troopers were removing her household effects from
the train!
"If I refuse?" Elizabeth was almost
talking to herself.
"I'll have to keep you here for questioning." Ochs
raised his head and looked at her. His watery
blue eyes were blank.
"And if I agree, you said you'll keep me
here for training and indoctrination?"
"One is better than the other."
"I'll know the difference?" She struggled to be
flippant but sounded fatalistic.
"You can ride with me"--he pointed to an open
Mercedes-Benz touring car--"or with them."
Elizabeth glanced at the trucks. Her
bravado collapsed. Why not join the others?
Her position was as hopeless. As one of the trucks
pulled away with its doomed cargo, a Daimler
had driven up, and a sweating red-faced man in a
black suit and homburg had gotten out. He was
hurrying toward them. Exactly what I need,
Elizabeth thought bitterly, Gestapo
reinforcements.
"So your offer is a ruse," she said, angry
and dispirited. "You're going to keep me here no
matter what."
"Only for a little while." He surprised her
by smiling magnanimously. "We don't want
to create undue suspicion. You can cable your
husband and say you're briefly delayed. I'm
sure he's used to that."
Could she believe him, or was this more of the
technique he'd used on the other passengers;
intimidation, terror, and just a ray of hope
to keep everyone docile? Did she have any
choice but to capitulate? "What do you really
want from me?"
"It is as I have proposed. But first you must
establish your bona fides."
"And how do I do that?" The man with the homburg
had gathered up an entourage of SS and was fast
approaching.
"By telling us everything you know about Poland." He
paused. "And of course everything about
British activities as well."
By the time they were through with her, Elizabeth knew,
she would have told them everything about everything. The
sooner she was dead the better.
"I say, who's in charge here?" interrupted the
man from the Daimler. He was English!
Shocked, Gauleiter Ochs clicked his
heels.
"Well, what's going on?" the Englishman
demanded officiously. He was built like a
fireplug and looked about as bright. "Who are those
people?" He pointed to the trucks.
"Jews and Communists, and none of your
affair," Ochs snapped. He had recovered his
composure. "Who are you, and what is your
business?"
"I'm the British consular agent in Metz.
I've got instructions to locate a Mrs.
Arthur Pack. She's supposed to be on this
train."
"I'm Mrs. Pack!" Elizabeth shouted.
Ochs looked like the consul had just snatched away his
autographed copy of Mein Kampf. Bless
Broadway for being on its toes for once!
"Can I see your passport?" the consul
asked.
"He has it." She pointed to Ochs.
"This woman has no passport," Ochs
declared. "That is why she must remain here."
"But you took my passport!" Elizabeth
cried.
"Why would I do that?"
How could she explain? The consular agent
looked stumped. A conductor called the
all-aboard.
"I am a British diplomat's wife,"
she insisted anxiously. "I'm traveling on a
diplomatic passport with a valid transit
visa. No matter what trick they're pulling,
I've diplomatic immunity, and I demand
to be allowed to go to France!"
"But you've no proof of who you are," Ochs
pointed out.
The consul, who appeared irritated at having
to be up and working so early in the morning, seemed
ready to go along with him. "I must say, madam,
you don't sound British."
"I'm not! I'm American! But I can
explain ...."
The consul looked at the gauleiter,
who shook his head. The train conductor shouted out
a second all-aboard.
"Christ, this is absurd!" Elizabeth fought
not to sound hysterical. "I've got other
identification, photographs, in my baggage."
She gestured toward her household effects, which
were now piled up by the side of the track. Then she
realized that the SS had begun to pry open her
crates and trunks.
"Stop them!" she demanded.
"We must examine everything carefully," Ochs
insisted.
"You've no right ..."
"He does, actually," said the consul
unhelpfully. "Personal things aren't under
diplomatic seal, you should know that." He looked
at her with growing suspicion.
"This is a hostile act against His Majesty's
diplomatic service! I demand you stop the
train and put my things back on board!"
"Let's not get carried away, madam." The
consul frowned. "We've problems like this every day.
Remember, we're guests in this country."
"I'm sure we could work everything out," Ochs
added soothingly. "You could be on the next train."
He smiled. "Otherwise, I can't tell you how
long it will take to go through your baggage."
The conductor called the last all-aboard.
Panic broke loose in her again. Control
yourself, she ordered. Something was wrong with this
picture. What was it her father used to say about the
Germans? They're either at your feet or at your
throat. Why was Ochs trying to persuade her?
How far was he authorized to go?
The locomotive let out its shrill cry.
Elizabeth looked at her baggage; she had
to choose. She looked at Ochs; she had
to gamble.
"Keep my luggage." She smiled icily
at him. "I hope you enjoy wearing my
dresses." Turning her back, she headed for the
train.
"Stop!" Ochs commanded. He had taken out his
Luger.
She whirled on him. "What are you going to do,
Gauleiter, shoot me? Kidnap me? What
about the consul here? He'll have to report
to London. Or are you going to shoot him too?"
The Englishman began stuttering, "No, no
...."
"Will murdering two British diplomats"--
she stared Ochs in the face--"help the F@uhrer
keep Britain out of your war on Poland?"
Ochs's eyes were blinking furiously.
Elizabeth again turned away from him and began
to walk purposefully toward the train. At any
moment, she expected to feel a nine-millimeter
slug smash into her spine.
"You'll regret this!" he shouted after her. "I
promise you!"
Elizabeth jumped on board just as the train
began easing away from the platform. From her compartment
window, she watched her household effects being
plundered by the SS. All she had left were the
clothes in her closet, but she was grateful beyond
words for that. She took out her raincoat and then
tore away the lining. Her most precious
possession was there. She pressed her old
American passport in the name of Amy Thorpe
to her breast as the Nord Express carried her
away to safety.



Station Wicher, Pyry Forest, Poland--
July 25, 1939
Dilly Knox, Commander Denniston, and
Colonel Menzies (presenting himself as
Professor Sandwich from Oxford) sat on one
side of the table along with Captain Gustave
Bertrand, chief of French radio intelligence,
and two of his staff. The Polish team facing them
was led by Colonel Stephan Mayer, chief of
intelligence, the Polish General Staff, and
consisted of Colonel Gwido Langer, head of the
Cipher Bureau; Major Maksymilian
Ciezki, chief of BS-4, the German
section; and Antoni Palluth, chief engineer of
AVA. They were gathered in the same blank
underground conference room where Elizabeth had
confronted the Polish general staff only a
week earlier. This was a technical-level meeting; Beck, Lubienski, and more
senior Polish officials were not present.
"We arrange everything like so." The cherubic
Ciezki was lining up a stack of enormous
sheets of paper, twenty-six of them to accord with the
number of letters in the alphabet. Each sheet was
marked with squares, fifty-one on a side. Some
of the squares were perforated. "When the hole
goes all the way through the stack, we have found one
letter of the key. We call the holes
"females,"" he added with a blush. "It is a
pun in Polish on "same places," not a
biological reference."
"Very creative," Dilly Knox allowed. For
two days, the British had been listening to the
Poles describe how they had cracked the
Enigma: how they had deduced the wiring of the
rotors, the reflector board, the ring settings,
the keyboard, using extremely sophisticated
mathematics, group theory, and permutation
analysis. They displayed their tools--the
perforated sheets and "grills"; a device
called a "clock" that determined the order of the
rotors; and a cyclometer, which eliminated the
complexity of the reflecting board. But the Poles
said nothing about the bombe, and while the rest was
technically interesting, without the bombe the
British were essentially bored to tears.
"The climax of all of these efforts,"
Colonel Mayer began to sum up, "was
to produce an Enigma of our own." From a
cabinet behind him, he took out a machine and put it on the table.
"My God!" Knox exclaimed. "We must
tell London immediately!" He was laying it on
thick. "Get our mechanics and electrical people
over here right away to examine it!"
The Poles beamed with pride.
Menzies nudged Denniston. "Tell
Dilly not to overdo it," he whispered.
"Sending experts won't be necessary," Colonel
Mayer was saying. "As a token of good faith, I have one for each delegation."
Major Ciezki lifted two more Enigma machines onto the table.
"Isn't that marvelous!" Dilly gushed.
"You're too kind," Denniston added.
"How shall we ever get it back to London?"
Dilly wondered.
"I volunteer the French diplomatic
pouch," Captain Bertrand spoke up. "It would
be an honor."
"But we must emphasize," Colonel
Langer continued, "that breaking the Enigma is not a
single event. It is a duel, with the Germans
constantly making changes. In a real sense, we
must break the Enigma anew each day, finding the
keys, decrypting the messages. That is why
collaboration is so essential. We
look forward to working with you."
As the meeting broke up so that the British could
catch their flight, Antoni Palluth
approached Colonel Langer.
"I don't understand," he said. "Why do we not
give them a bombe?"
"The first rule of intelligence cooperation,"
Langer explained, "is always to hold something
back."

Prae Wood, St. Albans--August
16, 1939
The steel door clanged shut behind her.
Elizabeth lay down on the cot, exhausted but
unable to sleep. Her basement room had no
window, so she had no sense of day or night. This
part of the Prae Wood mansion had been off
limits when she was there before studying tradecraft.
Now she knew why. It was a detention area for
agents under suspicion of having been "turned."
Elizabeth had managed to get back
to London on July 23, in time to brief
Menzies and the others on what had happened to her
and the bombe before they flew to Warsaw for their
meeting with the Poles. Everything seemed fine. She
was given a room at a modest hotel on
Birdcage Walk not far from Broadway and a
small office at SIS headquarters to write
a report. When the team returned from Warsaw
she was told she was meeting them at Prae
Wood. But when she arrived at the mansion, she was
greeted by a far different team. It was from
counterintelligence. She had been under interrogation
ever since.
Her principal inquisitor was a large,
barrel-chested, bald man in his mid-forties who
looked like he should shave three times a day.
Elizabeth tried to estimate whether it was
morning, noon, or night by the length of stubble on
his face. She never learned his name or that of the
others who questioned her. They called her Cynthia.
No physical force was used. They didn't have
to. After her initial outrage, she had settled
into a state of perpetual panic. It was clear
she would never leave the basement of Prae Wood
until she said what they wanted to hear.
As the hours, days, and weeks passed,
Elizabeth had been required to go over every moment
of her time in Spain and Poland. They went into her
childhood. They wanted the names of every
foreign diplomat who ever had come to dinner at her
home in Washington, D.c., and she had
to remember every classmate when she had gone
to school in Switzerland. Finally, after what had
seemed like a month, the chief interrogator had just
revealed what they wanted her to admit.
She was seated across from him in the same bare
white room where all the questioning took place. The
table between them was bolted to the floor. So was her
chair.
"The plans that Lubienski supposedly stole
from AVA," he began, "who altered them? You?
Lubienski? The Poles? Your German
control?"
"Nobody," she said wearily. "The camera was
broken ...."
"And the Enigma machine you allegedly stole from
the Germans, it was already obsolete. What made
you think that we wouldn't figure that out?"
"I warned Broadway about the changes!" she
suddenly yelled at him.
"And this so-called bombe," he continued
calmly, "who besides yourself has ever seen it?"
"Our man in Berlin!"
"He saw a green metal trunk. Nothing
more."
"Ask Denniston, Menzies, Knox! The
Poles must have told them something about it!"
"Not a word. Why do you think you're here?"
"So you think that I conspired with the Nazis and
Count Lubienski to give you fake plans, a
bum Enigma machine and made up the story about the
bombe?" She couldn't believe it!
He looked at her evenly. "Would you like
to make a confession?"
Elizabeth let out a scream. It was a
scream of frustration, terror, and hopelessness. And
it didn't stop until they dragged her back
to her cell and slammed the door.

Now, she was sitting on her cot, her legs
drawn up, her arms around her knees. She
realized that this had been Dilly Knox's theory
all along--a vast and subtle deception
orchestrated by the Gestapo to keep his code
breakers one step behind, off balance, wasting their time
trying to solve malevolent riddles secretly
created by the Germans.
If only she had gotten the bombe! She
thought that she had outwitted the Gestapo.
When she was in the baggage car of the Nord
Express, she had taken one of the tags off
Sacha Guitry's equipment and put it on the
trunk containing the bombe. But when she arrived in
Paris, the attendant at the baggage room said
it was not with his luggage. For a hundred francs, the
attendant also explained that a portion of Sacha
Guitry's baggage was destined for his new show in
London and had gone directly to a closed
customs shed in Le Havre, where it would await
onward shipment. Before being locked up at Prae
Wood, Elizabeth had written to Guitry
saying that one of her trunks might have been mixed
up with his luggage. Elizabeth had also urged her
inquisitors to have Bertrand check with French
customs. She had heard nothing back from anyone.
Maybe, thought Elizabeth in despair, the
Gestapo had discovered the bombe on the train
after all.
A discreet knock rattled her steel door.
She was startled. They had never bothered to knock
before. The door opened. It was Captain Lance in
a tuxedo. He had a silvery formal dress in
one hand and a pair of high-heeled shoes in the
other.

"All that Guitry's letter to you said," Captain
Lance explained as the car worked through London
traffic snarled by a downpour, "was that his boat
train would arrive at Victoria Station at
eight-ten this evening, and that he looked forward
to seeing you." There was a clear note of concern in his
voice. "You'd better hope he's got the
bombe with him."
"Otherwise?" Elizabeth asked.
"Otherwise, it'll only be a question of whether
you've been a witting, or unwitting,
accomplice to the Gestapo."
"You don't believe that! You can't!"
"Elizabeth, understand. Because of you, I'm under a
cloud too!"
She felt utterly confused. "I can't understand
why Bertrand couldn't find out from French customs
whether the bombe was with Guitry's things in Le
Havre."
"We didn't ask him."
"What? For God's sake, why not?"
The car had arrived at Victoria Station. It
drew up next to a pair of Bentleys at the
curb.
"I'm joining Knox and Denniston in the
second car. You're to get in the front seat of the
first. Menzies is in the back with Stephenson.
Ask them."

"If there is a bombe," Menzies sniffed,
"we're certainly not about to let the French get it
first. We did, for security, arrange for
Bertrand to accompany Guitry on the boat
train. Neither of them are aware of this of course."
"Then why is Bertrand coming?" Elizabeth
asked.
"He's delivering the Enigma machine the
Poles gave us. That's why we're all in these
monkey suits." Like Captain Lance,
Menzies and Stephenson also wore tuxedos.
Menzies fingered the red carnation in his lapel.
"Bertrand wants to celebrate afterward at the
Savoy."
"What I can't understand," Stephenson said,
"is why Beck would give a bombe
to Elizabeth, but the Polish intelligence people would
say nothing about it to you."
"Quite," Menzies growled. It was clearly a
sore subject.
"Politics," Elizabeth insisted.
"Rivalries. The left hand wants
to solidify the alliance with Britain, the right
wants to protect its "privates.""
"Of course we don't really know that
Elizabeth got a bombe, do we?" Menzies
smiled at her menacingly. "How are they treating
you at Prae Wood, by the way?"
"Just great," she replied.
They all fell silent. The tension in the car
grew thicker. The rain had stopped. Elizabeth
rolled down her window. The station clock struck
eight.
Menzies and Elizabeth got out and waited in
the damp summer twilight. After several more
minutes, people and carts piled with luggage began
pouring out of the old brick train station. Through the
crowd, a stout balding man with another red carnation
in his lapel emerged carrying a suitcase.
Menzies greeted him warmly.
"Monsieur Bertrand, it is an honor
to welcome you to London."
"Ah, Monsieur Mengeez,"--he
pronounced his name with a Gallic hiss--"I have the
honor to present to you our first victory
over the Germans!" He handed over the Enigma
machine.
While this ceremony was taking place,
Elizabeth, had her eyes trained on the
entrance. Stephenson, Knox, Captain Lance,
and Denniston also got out of the cars. The wave of
passengers from the 8:10 began to subside.
Elizabeth and Stephenson glanced at one
another anxiously. Denniston lit his pipe, and
Dilly put on a grim smile. Suddenly,
flashing lights lit up the inside of the station. A
knot of photographers appeared. It had to be
Sacha Guitry.
Elizabeth pushed into the throng. Through the popping
flashbulbs, Guitry saw her. Diving past the
reporters and photographers, he reached out. But
before he could get to her, another young woman threw
herself at him, clinging to his neck. More
flashbulbs exploded.
"Welcome to London, lovie!" She gave
him a kiss, then raised her skirt to show her
legs for the photographers. The reporters
yelled questions at them. Looking harried but amused,
Guitry called out to Elizabeth as she was being
elbowed aside by the press.
"I've missed you! Come along with me!"
"Can't! I'm here with friends!" she shouted back.
She saw him being swept away. "Wait! The
trunk!"
"I thought you came to see me!"
"Don't joke!"
He merely waved his hand as the mass around him
moved off toward a fleet of waiting
Rolls-Royces. "Stop!" she begged.
"Please!" Her cry was lost in the din. She was
helpless to halt the tide of his departure.
"'Scuse me, mum." The cockney whine
came from behind her. "I was asked to fetch this for
yer."
She whirled around. A porter stood there with a
cart. On it was strapped her green metal
trunk.
"Oh, God! Please, take it to my car,"
she said excitedly, pointing at the second
Bentley. She stumbled after him, her legs
wobbly with relief.
As soon as the trunk was loaded into the back
of the car, Knox was eagerly opening the lid. He
gazed at the bombe in wonder. A few feet
away, Menzies continued to distract
Bertrand with flattery. Stephenson cracked a
magnum of Pol Roger and the chauffeur handed around
the glasses. Reluctantly, andwitha beatific
smile on his face, Knox closed the trunk.
He and the other men joined Bertrand and Menzies.
Standing in the street, they raised their glasses in
a toast to Bertrand and sang, "For he's a
jolly good fellow!"
And as they did so, Stephenson stepped aside
and whispered to Elizabeth, "Good work, girl."

Aboard British European Airways
Flight 302--September 1, 1939
From her seat on the left side of the
airplane, Elizabeth could see the Pyrenees
rising above the clouds. In a few minutes she
would be landing in Biarritz. She hoped Arthur would
meet her. There was so much to tell him.
The previous two weeks had been completely
schizophrenic. Despite her ordeal at
Prae Wood and paucity of subsequent
praise, Elizabeth felt exhilarated at her
success. She also had the pleasure of being able
to shop for a new household, courtesy of the
British Exchequer. In contrast, everyone else
felt deepening gloom over the growing certainty of
war. It all seemed unreal until the day she was
passing through Piccadilly Circus and saw that they
had carted off the statue of Diana for
safekeeping.
She also got an allowance for a new wardrobe.
Standing in front of the mirror at Harrod's one
afternoon, Elizabeth took a good look at herself.
Physically, her body remained young and
attractive. Only she knew that inside, she
was no longer complete. It had been a long time
since she had thought about that. As an intelligence
agent, she felt proud and fulfilled. And yet
she could not help wondering where her life was leading
her. The "boys of Broadway," as she liked
to call them, hinted that they wanted her to stay and work
there. Menzies had actually apologized, and
whatever resentment she may have sensed before had
evaporated. Dilly Knox even drove her out
to Bletchley Park to see the monstrosity of a
grand Victorian manor house where the
Government Code and Cipher School planned
to relocate in time of war. Over a pub lunch,
he gave her a baton of rolled-up paper
covered with numbers and letters with which he had
tried unsuccessfully to crack the Enigma.
"I surrender my sword to the victor," he
said gallantly.
She also had a chance to see her son. There was
no question that her visits were causing a strain with the
Porters. Tony was now old enough to be intensely
curious about Elizabeth. The whole arrangement
was becoming unfair to everyone.
The steward moved through the aircraft cabin
announcing that they were about to land. Descending through the
clouds proved frightening, but the landing was smooth. The
shock came when she entered the little bathhouse-style
building that served as the terminal, and saw the
black headlines at the newsstand. Hitler had
invaded Poland. Her heart went out to Lubienski
and all the proud Poles she had come to call
friends. Sometimes they were their own worst enemy, but they
didn't deserve this.
As she half expected, Arthur had sent their
old driver to pick her up. Elizabeth buried
her disappointment and gave him a kiss on the
cheek as he loaded her bags into the car.
"The captain's much better," he said. The
son of a Basque pirate, he had a way of
giving Arthur's army rank a nautical air.
"Sound as a gold doubloon, but tires
easily," he explained as they made their way
down the coast road toward St.-Jean-de-Luz.
"I think he wanted to save himself to be with you this
evening."
Elizabeth looked forward to seeing him. She
had called several times over the last few
weeks, but usually talked with Barbara
Brasswell. She was still loyally nursing him
back to health. Elizabeth had bought her a
cashmere sweater set to show her gratitude. She
felt guilty that she hadn't a gift for
Barbara's husband. Though he had, in effect,
gotten a promotion out of it, Tom still had been a
saint to let his wife devote so much time
to Arthur's rehabilitation.
As the sea came into view, Elizabeth's
thoughts turned to Lubienski. She hoped that he
would be safe. Arrangements had been made for him
to evacuate with his family through Romania, then
Yugoslavia and Italy, and ultimately
into France. But while she prayed for him, she had
to put aside the hope of seeing him again. It was
time to pick up the threads of her life and try
to make something of them. She had already fought
her war. Now, she had her own
responsibilities to fulfill.
Arthur expected her to go with him to Chile, and
after long and painful thought she had concluded that she
would. But only on one condition. She wanted her
son to join them. It was the only way she would ever
have a family. Elizabeth knew it would be
difficult for Arthur to accept, but it was high time
that he broke out of his Victorian
straitjacket. The world was changing. Hell, she
said to herself, the world was at war!
The Villa Ttirritta seemed exactly the
same. The chauffeur unpacked her bags as she
climbed the steps to the foyer. As ever, the view
across the living room and the terrace, to the sunlit
sea and the hills of Spain, made her pause.
Arthur sat alone in his wicker lounge chair
listening to the radio. He looked up.
"Heard the news?" he asked her.
"Yes, we're at war."
"Nazis beating the Poles to a pulp. I
always said they were all flash and no fight."
"Arthur, do you think you could say hello?" She
bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
He twisted around uncomfortably.
"There's something important we need to talk
about," he announced. She heard a strain in his
voice.
"I've something important to discuss with you
too." Elizabeth drew up another chair and
sat down. "But I thought it might wait until
dinner."
"I want to talk now," Arthur insisted.
"All right. Go ahead."
"Elizabeth"--he took a breath--"I've
had an affair."
"I know, Arthur, you told me." Since the
stroke he sometimes forgot. He also could become
inexplicably emotional.
"That's why I went to Poland."
"So you said." She nodded patiently.
"To get over her. But I couldn't ...."
"Arthur, I know I've not been much of a
wife. I've been unfaithful and I've
abandoned you. Frankly, you haven't been much of a
husband either. But I thought we could put all that behind
us ...."
"I'm afraid not."
She looked at him. He seemed in full
command of his faculties. Elizabeth
felt a growing sadness. "Do you hate me so
much?"
"You needn't flatter yourself," he said
angrily. His face was so red, she feared he
might have another stroke. "I want a
divorce!"
This was too much. Why was he being so disagreeable
when she had just arrived home? "Don't be
ridiculous," she said curtly. "It's against your
religion, not to mention your career."
"We've never stopped loving each other!" he
raved. "We want to be married!"
"Love? Married? We? Arthur, who on
earth are you talking about?"
Arthur looked over her shoulder. Elizabeth
heard footsteps behind her. She turned to find her
good friend Barbara Brasswell coming across the
terrace toward them.

Part Very

The intelligence which has emanated from
[Bletchley Park] before and during this
campaign has been of priceless value to me
.... It has saved thousands of British and
American lives and, in no small way,
contributed to the speed with which the enemy was routed and
eventually forced to surrender.
I should be very grateful, therefore, if you would
express to each and every one of those engaged in this work
from me personally my heartfelt admiration and
sincere thanks for their very decisive contribution
to the Allied war effort.
--Letter from General Dwight D. Eisenhower
to General Stewart Menzies, July


I hope and believe I was a patriot.
--Elizabeth Pack


Chapter 35

Euston Station, London--September
11, 1940
"Leading Aircraft Woman 1069833,"
Elizabeth gave her rank and held out her hand
to William Stephenson. He stood at the
curb next to an olive-drab Rover with the
lights painted out.
"Well, to me you'll always be
"Cynthia."" He helped her into the backseat
of the car. "How was the trip from Bletchley?"
"I felt a little awkward in this fancy dress and everyone else in uniform."
She was wearing an ivory taffeta gown with a black velvet cape
around her shoulders. "But now I feel
underdressed. All my jewelry's in storage."
"You look just fine."
The car pulled into the street, then turned left
onto Tottenham Court Road heading toward
Covent Garden. In the gathering dusk, not a
light was visible in the city.
"I don't mind telling you I'm very nervous.
I've only been in London once since the
Blitz started." She could see the block wardens
patrolling to enforce the blackout. "After
Madrid, I found I couldn't bear loud
noises. In a bombing, I'm afraid I'll
lose complete control of myself."
"We'll be safe where we're going,"
Stephenson assured her.
"And where is that? I'm dying with curiosity."
"I'm maintaining top security, until the
last possible moment." Stephenson smiled.
"Well, I only hope they're not serving
fish and chips. It's the only thing not rationed, so
that's about all they serve at the Bletchley
canteen."
"How are things going there?"
"Good. Chaotic, but good. I'm helping
Denniston handle the administrative load.
We've thousands of people working there now. First, we
built huts all over the place, and now we're
putting up some more permanent buildings. We're
short of everything. Today, I traded several
truckloads of bricks for a carload of paper."
"And the Enigma?" he asked.
"Are you cleared?" she teased. "It's going like
gangbusters. Do you know Alan Turing? Well,
he's this whiz from Cambridge. He's built a
much improved bombe called Agnes and we're
getting ready to turn them out like sausages.
We're cracking the Luftwaffe Enigma on a
regular basis. There's going to be a big raid
on London tonight," she added anxiously.
He squeezed her hand. "You must be very proud
to know that all that's the result of your work in
Poland."
"Yes." A rueful look came over her
face. "But it's a little hard to sit and
listen to some of our senior "inmates" at BP
talk knowingly about how we got the Enigma from a
Polish mechanic working in a German factory.
It's really an absurd cover story when you think
about it. As for the bombe, people simply assume
Turing invented it."
Elizabeth looked out the window to try
to determine where they were going. They had passed
Leicester Square and now were headed toward
Trafalgar.
"But morale is good?"
She nodded. "Churchill came up to visit,
and I escorted him around. At lunchtime, we were
standing on the steps of the mansion with Denniston as
all these gawky mathematicians and consumptive
logicians were parading by, and Churchill said,
"When I ordered you to leave no stone unturned
to get the people you needed, I didn't expect you
to take me quite so literally"!"
Stephenson laughed. The car was approaching
Admiralty Arch. The gates were open, and the car
passed through it and onto the mall.
"I do hope you realize"--Stephenson
turned serious--"how vital your work has been.
The only thing stopping Hitler from invading
Britain is the Royal Air Force, and we're
hopelessly outnumbered by the Luftwaffe. It's the
Luftwaffe's Enigma messages revealing their
attack plans that give us a fighting chance."
"Can you tell me what you've been doing?"
Elizabeth appreciated the compliment, but it
made her uncomfortable. She found herself becoming more
like the English every day.
"At Winston's direction. I've been
organizing a backup SIS in America. If
the Germans overrun Britain, we'll carry
on the fight from there. I'm also working on bringing the
United States into the war. As Winston says,
drawing an ally into the field can be more vital
than a dozen victories."
Elizabeth looked pensive. "I never
imagined that the Germans would actually invade
England until a few days ago when the government
sounded the "Cromwell" alert. Within an hour
a score of yellow school buses showed up at
BP, ready to take us to Bristol for evacuation
to Canada." She shook her head.
"You're thinking about your son?" Stephenson
guessed.
"I'm not leaving him behind," she said
defiantly.
"How is he?"
"I see him every weekend." She brightened.
"He's growing like a weed. I've worked things out with
Mrs. Porter. She's Mama and I'm
Mummy."
"And Arthur?" He didn't know how to frame
the question.
"I'm giving him a divorce. He can charge
me with adultery. I don't care, and it'll do the
least damage to his career. My mother's furious.
She says it will ruin my reputation and my chance
to hook another man." Elizabeth shook her
head. "Actually, I'm quite off men altogether. When
Arthur first asked for a divorce, I was
surprised how lost I felt. But I've found
that I still have myself."
"Any word of Lubienski?"
"He was interned in Romania for the longest time,
then made his way to France. When France fell,
he was evacuated from, of all places,
St.-Jean-de-Luz. Now he's with some
supersecret unit here in England. His family
is here too. I've not seen him."
"Well, I'm sure that this evening, he would
want you to wear this." Reaching under the driver's
seat, Stephenson brought out a flat box covered
in velvet. When he lifted the lid, she could
see, even in the dark, that it was dazzling.
"A diamond tiara!"
"I'm sorry that I can't let you keep it,"
he apologized. "I wish I could."
"So do I!"
They both laughed. Where were they going, she
wondered. Elizabeth fastened the tiara on her
head with a few bobby pins. She could not imagine
how it looked with her military bob, and blackout
regulations prohibited turning on the interior
light. While she struggled to see her reflection
in the glass to the driver's compartment, she suddenly
realized that the car was hurtling toward a massive
iron gate.
At the last moment, the gate swung wide.
The car crossed a half acre of gravel,
passed through an archway in the facade of a
massive building, traversed a vast courtyard
and drew up in front of a two-story
colonnaded entrance. Liveried footmen with white
gloves opened the door. Elizabeth stepped out
and looked around. She had arrived at
Buckingham Palace.

The grand staircase and corridors of the
palace were dimly lit as a gesture to save
electricity. This made it difficult to see the
paintings in the picture gallery for which
Buckingham Palace was renowned. Still,
Elizabeth saw that the king's residence was far more
modest than Versailles, Vienna's
Beauborg, or countless other royal palaces
she had visited on the Continent. The rooms were
on a scale befitting a global empire, yet
they were so beautifully proportioned that she did not
feel lost, even in the dark. The space, the
design, the details of moldings and decoration
inspired a sense of measure and balance rather than
excessive grandeur and pomposity. Perhaps,
Elizabeth concluded, that was why Buckingham
Palace still had a royal family to occupy it.
"What is this all about?" she whispered
to Stephenson.
"You'll find out," he said happily.
They were ushered into a brightly lit salon where the
floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with blackout
curtains. A dozen other guests were sipping
sherry. The only one she recognized was
Colonel Menzies. Elizabeth had not seen
him in almost a year. She congratulated him on
becoming C, chief of SIS, after Admiral
Sinclair's untimely death.
The other guests were a surprisingly varied
lot: a few Indians, a couple of
Levantines from Egypt and Mesopotamia,
several varieties of Central Europeans.
Elizabeth detected a Polish accent and something
else Slavic. She was introduced to two other
women, an Argentine and a Frenchwoman, both very
beautiful; the former dressed quite flashy, the latter
elegant but drab.
Sometimes they gave only their first names and often
only their last. "Christine," said the
Frenchwoman; "Singh," said one of the Indians.
"Li," declared a Chinese. Stephenson told
Elizabeth to use her code name: Cynthia.
A pair of double doors opened and a herald
appeared in eighteenth-century livery.
"The king!" he announced.
He emerged from the darkness of the hallway in a
military uniform and began greeting his guests.
He did not shake hands. The men bowed;
the women curtsied. Elizabeth said, "It's an
honor to meet you, Your Highness."
"The honor is mine," he replied.
When the introductions had been completed,
Colonel Menzies raised a toast. "To the
king."
George VI did not take a drink. Then
he took a glass of sherry and they all drank
"to the Commonwealth."

For dinner they moved into the state dining room.
Its crimson walls and carpet glowed
majestically in the candlelight. The grandeur of the
ornate ceiling threatened to dwarf the modest dinner
party. Elizabeth was amazed to find that her place
was to the right of the king. Stephenson was shown to one end
of the table next to Colonel Menzies.
Elizabeth could not decide if she were more excited
by sitting in the place of honor or by the
magnificent four-foot sturgeon that arrived as
the first course. She found herself diving into her food
like a trencherman.
"Forgive me for playing the starving Armenian,
Your Highness." She paused to apologize and
gulp down a mouthful of 1927 Pol Roger.
"But to me a treat is a Woolton pie." That
was a concoction of unrationed root vegetables named
after the minister of agriculture.
"How do-dire!" the king responded. He then
leaned over and whispered confidentially. "I
people-particularly wanted to meet our Cynthia.
This evening was do-designed mostly for you." He
smiled. "The others do-deserve recognition
too, but it started with you."
Elizabeth could only mumble, "Thank you."
As the table was cleared for the next course,
George VI rose to salute his guests. The
champagne in his raised glass glittered from the
light of the chandeliers. He spoke slowly, and with
evident pleasure.
"The people-purpose of this do-dinner is to express
the ap-ppreciation of a grateful nation,
commonwealth, and empire. We can't that-talk about
what you've do-done, with the exception of Bill
Stephenson who's go-getting us arms from
America."
They all burst into applause.
"But-But even then," the king continued, "we
can't that-talk about how he's doing it."
Elizabeth joined in the laughter.
Stephenson seemed to be blushing.
Just then, the air raid sirens began to wail.
Elizabeth could feel herself growing alarmed. A
palace guard appeared and led everyone down a
stone staircase to a comfortably appointed bomb
shelter with padded leather walls. They all
arranged themselves according to the protocol at the dining
table. A gramophone somewhere piped in martial
music to cover the noise of the antiaircraft
batteries. But it could not obliterate the sound of
thudding bombs.
Sitting next to the king, Elizabeth felt
safer but more anxious too. The bombs were landing
closer. What if she couldn't control herself?
What if she behaved like a fool? Like a coward in
front of the king?
She could feel the building shaking, her panic
rising. The blood, the blasted bodies of
Madrid came rushing back to her. She was going
to disgrace herself, but she couldn't stand it. She had
to get out of there! The explosions seemed almost on
top of them! She started to rise. The king reached out
and drew her down again.
"I know how you feel," he murmured.
At that moment they were stunned by a huge
detonation that tossed everyone onto the floor.
They waited for the final blast that would end it ill,
but it never came.

"Will-what a mess they made of our
child-child-child-chapel," the king stuttered as firemen and
palace guards ran madly in every direction.
When the all-clear had sounded, the king had led them
out of the bunker to inspect the damage to his palace. The chapel was not so
much a mess as that half of it was gone. In the moonlight,
Elizabeth could see that the altar still stood but that
much of the stone and plaster work had been shattered by the
blast. All the windows had vanished and she could
see past a missing wall right into the royal
gardens. Most of the floor was a massive hole
in the earth.
"Shouldn't you move to some place safe till the
Blitz is over?" Elizabeth asked the king.
"I'm simply not-not moving out," he
responded, "until the but-but-but-bombing stops.
Nor am I going to repair the child-church," he
said angrily. "I want the people-people to know
I'm sharing their hardship and do-danger."
The king insisted that they all return
to finish their dinner. He picked up his toast where
he left off.
"More-Most of you soldier on without
recognition. Only your go-grandchildren will know of your
exploits and more-maybe not even them. But-But you
know what you've do-done. I want you to know you also
have the thanks of a go-grateful sovereign."
When the king sat down, he shocked Elizabeth
by putting his hand on her arm for a second time that
evening.
"You've do-done so much for Britain,
Cynthia. You can't know the people-pressure we've
been under to sue for people-peace. The Enigma has
given us the courage to struggle on. We'd have had
no chance to survive this tempest without you."
Elizabeth floated through the rest of the evening.
The king went on to confide his frustration at not being
able to lead men into battle as some of his ancestors
had. As they continued to talk, her sense of being
appreciated made her feel that whatever ordeals
lay ahead, she was ready. She looked forward
to them. Elizabeth knew who she was, and she
knew what she was fighting for. The world might be
torn apart by primeval and uncontrollable
forces, but Elizabeth believed that, at last, she
had her destiny in her own hands.

At the end of the table, Stephenson and Menzies
were watching Elizabeth with the king.
"Your Cynthia has done us all proud."
Menzies said quietly. "I only hope this
business with Arthur Pack stays under control."
"I didn't know there was a problem,"
Stephenson said with a note of concern.
"As you know, we arranged for Barbara
Brasswell to accompany him to Chile. We
wanted her to keep things going through the divorce.
She wouldn't have to actually marry him, but we
wanted to be sure that Elizabeth would be
completely free of him. But now Tom
Brasswell's acting up. He wants a post
that's come open in Rio and the Foreign Office is
balking at holding it available for him until
Arthur Pack's divorce is final."
"If anyone deserves a decent posting after
what they've done," Stephenson declared, "it's the
Brasswells."
"I'm going to take it up with Halifax
personally," Menzies assured him.
"Good. Just so long as Elizabeth's free for further assignments. I'm going
to have a lot of work for her in America."
They both looked down the table. The king seemed
to be pouring out his heart to her. Stephenson
smiled. Menzies put their shared thought into words.
"She's really got the gift."

THE END