The Spy by Marc Eden Page A

her. “You have a French Christian name which fits in perfectly with what I have in mind. Your cover, you see. When the time comes, we will assign you an appropriate French surname to go with it.” He looked at his watch. “So then, shall we call you ‘Valerie’?”
    â€œPlease do,” she said.
    â€œIt is now 1450 hours and you are relieved of all duty. I want you to go to your parents’ home in Newton Swyre. Naturally, you will want to spend this last evening with your son, and the other members of your family.”
    â€œYes, sir. I’ll just stop by my flat, sir, to pack up my things.”
    â€œIt’s already been done.”
    â€œDone, sir?”
    â€œDone.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The navy owned it, she supposed they could take it. Well, she still had a few of her old outfits at home. Several business suits, from the Royal. Her red dancing dress, packed away by her mum. Clothes that her father had given her, things that her mother had saved. The blue robe...
    â€œNow then,” said Hamilton, “about your parents—”
    Valerie heard him, she was thinking of mothballs. Smelled like old admirals, they did!
    â€œYour parents , Sinclair.”
    â€œYes, sir!”
    â€œYou will tell them that you are being sent to Southampton for further training on your present job. As for Lieutenant Carrington, we’ll take care of that on this end. Any personal items in your desk?” She opened the drawers, and looked. There were just a few, she put them in her purse. She found room for her husband’s photo; she would give it to her son. Hamilton watched her, but kept his thoughts in check. “Can you get a bus or train to your home?” he asked, as an afterthought.
    â€œOh, yes. There is usually one on the hour.” She finished with her purse and looked up. She felt strangely drawn to this man, as though to a mystery. Still, they were as unlike as chalk and cheese.
    â€œYou think you can handle it then, do you?” He was locking the desk. “You’ll be wanting to catch the early train to Scotland. That’s tomorrow.”
    â€œI’ll be on it, sir.” She bent down to adjust her stocking. A run was starting. It had caught in her shoe.
    â€œHmmm. By the way, be sure that you wear your uniform, but bring some civilian clothes with you.” Was this bloody woman listening ? She was still bending over. “I say!” Hamilton stooped, so as to get her eye. “After tonight, Valerie Sinclair, as we have known her, will have disappeared into the history books.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWell?”
    She straightened up. “Right, sir,” she said a little breathlessly. Damn! There went her last pair of stockings! “I’ll be going now, and catch the bus.”
    Hamilton glanced at her legs.
    â€œJolly good. Well then, good-bye, Valerie. I’d say you’ve made the right decision. I shall be waiting for you in Edinburgh. Leave your keys with the guard.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He turned on his heel and strode rapidly out of the office. She could hear his footsteps disappearing down the stairs. “Thank you, sir.” She looked up. A photographic proof had just appeared; hanging out to dry. She had not meant to take it. Still wet, it was the darkroom print of a full Commander, Royal Navy. Jabbing with his pointer, neatly framed, he was issuing instructions....
    She was to go home, and tell lies.
    * * *
    â€œUp easy, girl!”
    Valerie smiled at the bus driver. She wondered if he was single. The door whanged shut and they were off. A cataract of clouds covered the sun, leaving its recipients suffering from the humidity that had fallen over the countryside where citizens, dabbing at foreheads with handkerchiefs, moved like slugs. Cars and jitneys bounced over threatened terrain, traveling across England the way pain travels along a nerve. Being British, the passengers sat apart.