dropped—we’re all rooting for you.”
“Thank you,” Maggie whispered back as they reached Noreen’s office. They both sat down on a worn sofa.
“Now, your cover story is the most important part of the operation,” Noreen told her, picking up a folder from the low table and handing it to Maggie. “Here you are. Your name is Margareta Hoffman. You were born on the second of June, 1916, in Frankfurt, to a German businessman and his wife. You were educated in Switzerland, which will explain any inconsistencies with your accent or verbiage. You met Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome, where you were hired as his typist.”
For the next two hours, Maggie read and memorized the file, including names and addresses of contacts in Berlin, and Noreen quizzed her on it, even adding in trick questions, such as “Who does your hair?” “What’s your doctor’s name and address?” and “How do you do laundry?”
Then Maggie wrote letters to her family and friends, telling them that, once again, she would be away on official business, and would contact them when she returned. To Aunt Edith, in Wellesley, Massachusetts. To her father, Edmund Hope, at Bletchley Park. To Sarah, on tour, care of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet. To the newly wed Nigel and Charlotte Ludlow. David and Hugh knew, more or less, what she was doing, but she wrote to them anyway.
In case she didn’t come back. She’d already made out her will, leaving her most precious possession, her slide rule, to David.
Afterward, Maggie was quizzed by another agent named Kim Philby, a dashing young Cambridge graduate, who was wearing a gray pin-striped suit with a deep red tie and red double-point pocket square. He was tough but thorough, and when she’d finished with him, she felt more secure with her cover. “Remember,” Philby admonished, “you are now Margareta Hoffman. Let your life here melt away. The more comfortable you are in Margareta’s skin, the safer you’ll be.”
Maggie nodded. She wasn’t at all against the idea of leaving Maggie Hope in England. Maggie had problems—a bluestockingaunt who’d lied about her father’s death while raising her, a father who’d kept his existence a secret until she uncovered it, and a mother who—well, Maggie was still wrestling with the ugly truth of that. John, the man whom she’d loved and turned away, was dead. And Hugh was … confusing. Margareta was free from all that.
Noreen swept back in. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.
Maggie raised one eyebrow but complied.
Noreen peered inside. “Well, I can see you’ve had good American dentistry, but on the Continent, fillings are gold, not silver. We’ll need to switch them out. I’ll make you an appointment for our dentist.”
“You’re going to change my
fillings
?”
Noreen nodded, walking to the telephone. “You only have two, so it shouldn’t be that bad.”
“We leave nothing to chance,” Philby added.
Just after noon, her fillings replaced with gold by an SOE dentist, Maggie returned to the office. Her teeth hurt. But the pain took her mind off her nerves.
In Noreen’s office, there were clothes on hangers on a hook behind the closed wooden door. “Go ahead, put them on,” Noreen told her. “They’re quite nice, actually.”
Maggie locked the door, then stripped down to nothing and first put on the underthings. At one time, she would have asked Noreen to leave, but her time at paramilitary camps had done away with modesty. The lingerie was German-made and quite luxurious, compared to what she usually wore. Next came a Jaeger suit and blouse, broken-in Rieker shoes with the soles rubbed in German soil, and an elegant leather handbag.
“Quite cosmopolitan,” Maggie commented.
“Forget bombs—letting that gorgeous bag go may quite literally kill me,” Noreen said.
“I promise to bring it back, safe and sound.”
“Inside, you’ll find a wallet with some Reichmarks, face powder, keys to your flat, Goethe’s
Faust
, and
“Thank you,” Maggie whispered back as they reached Noreen’s office. They both sat down on a worn sofa.
“Now, your cover story is the most important part of the operation,” Noreen told her, picking up a folder from the low table and handing it to Maggie. “Here you are. Your name is Margareta Hoffman. You were born on the second of June, 1916, in Frankfurt, to a German businessman and his wife. You were educated in Switzerland, which will explain any inconsistencies with your accent or verbiage. You met Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome, where you were hired as his typist.”
For the next two hours, Maggie read and memorized the file, including names and addresses of contacts in Berlin, and Noreen quizzed her on it, even adding in trick questions, such as “Who does your hair?” “What’s your doctor’s name and address?” and “How do you do laundry?”
Then Maggie wrote letters to her family and friends, telling them that, once again, she would be away on official business, and would contact them when she returned. To Aunt Edith, in Wellesley, Massachusetts. To her father, Edmund Hope, at Bletchley Park. To Sarah, on tour, care of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet. To the newly wed Nigel and Charlotte Ludlow. David and Hugh knew, more or less, what she was doing, but she wrote to them anyway.
In case she didn’t come back. She’d already made out her will, leaving her most precious possession, her slide rule, to David.
Afterward, Maggie was quizzed by another agent named Kim Philby, a dashing young Cambridge graduate, who was wearing a gray pin-striped suit with a deep red tie and red double-point pocket square. He was tough but thorough, and when she’d finished with him, she felt more secure with her cover. “Remember,” Philby admonished, “you are now Margareta Hoffman. Let your life here melt away. The more comfortable you are in Margareta’s skin, the safer you’ll be.”
Maggie nodded. She wasn’t at all against the idea of leaving Maggie Hope in England. Maggie had problems—a bluestockingaunt who’d lied about her father’s death while raising her, a father who’d kept his existence a secret until she uncovered it, and a mother who—well, Maggie was still wrestling with the ugly truth of that. John, the man whom she’d loved and turned away, was dead. And Hugh was … confusing. Margareta was free from all that.
Noreen swept back in. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.
Maggie raised one eyebrow but complied.
Noreen peered inside. “Well, I can see you’ve had good American dentistry, but on the Continent, fillings are gold, not silver. We’ll need to switch them out. I’ll make you an appointment for our dentist.”
“You’re going to change my
fillings
?”
Noreen nodded, walking to the telephone. “You only have two, so it shouldn’t be that bad.”
“We leave nothing to chance,” Philby added.
Just after noon, her fillings replaced with gold by an SOE dentist, Maggie returned to the office. Her teeth hurt. But the pain took her mind off her nerves.
In Noreen’s office, there were clothes on hangers on a hook behind the closed wooden door. “Go ahead, put them on,” Noreen told her. “They’re quite nice, actually.”
Maggie locked the door, then stripped down to nothing and first put on the underthings. At one time, she would have asked Noreen to leave, but her time at paramilitary camps had done away with modesty. The lingerie was German-made and quite luxurious, compared to what she usually wore. Next came a Jaeger suit and blouse, broken-in Rieker shoes with the soles rubbed in German soil, and an elegant leather handbag.
“Quite cosmopolitan,” Maggie commented.
“Forget bombs—letting that gorgeous bag go may quite literally kill me,” Noreen said.
“I promise to bring it back, safe and sound.”
“Inside, you’ll find a wallet with some Reichmarks, face powder, keys to your flat, Goethe’s
Faust
, and
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