The Tiger Claw by Shauna Singh Baldwin Page A

markers.
    She was introduced: ever-affable Colonel Buckmaster, head of the SOE ’s French Section, who always asked if she was quite sure her French was still fluent, and her case officer, Major Nicholas Boddington, code named “N.”
    Major Boddington, a flat-faced man with spectacles, had introduced her to the workings of the SOE seven long months ago in a little flat off Baker Street. After her interview he became for a time no more than an address to where she sent expense receipts for reimbursement. But over the last three weeks he’d “just popped in” five times. Twice she’d noticed him watching her at target practice, once Miss Atkins mentioned his requesting Noor’s latest progress report, and a few days ago he had joined Yolande and her in the dining room for tea and inquired courteously about Mother and Kabir. He contrived to mention attending Oxford, said he’dbeen a journalist before the war. He could be charming but seemed a little preoccupied today.
    A little red flag began to flutter in Noor’s stomach. Was this the “sorting out” of which agents were warned? Was there something in that all-important English concept, her “background,” that had been found unsuitable? It could be political; agitations for Indian independence hadn’t abated. Perhaps the Brits had decided to reassign her—just before she set off to Manchester for her final week of parachute training.
    Miss Atkins opened a file marked
Top Secret and Nora Baker
. Yolande thought Miss Atkins was about thirty-five, but the corners of her almost lipless mouth pulled downwards when she was tired, giving her an older look. Today she looked no more or less serious than usual. Still …
    “Ah, Miss Baker. Do sit down.”
    Noor perched at the edge of a folding chair. When Colonel Buckmaster disappeared into an armchair with lace antimacassars, she could see Glory Hill framed in the window behind him better than she could discern any expression on his face. The Major leaned against the desk, polishing his glasses.
    Miss Atkins gave the file to Colonel Buckmaster and said something inaudible.
    “Up to twenty-four words a minute?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Noor.
    “Excellent. In English, naturally.”
    “Yes, sir.” Noor stared straight ahead past his shoulder.
    “French accents would be difficult in Morse, I’m sure—a waste of time transmitting those silent verb endings.”
    Some answer was expected. “Yes, sir,” Noor replied.
    “Little trouble with a bobby, lately?” said Major Boddington.
    A bobby in Bristol, where Noor was participating in a mock undercover exercise. How had the Major learned of the incident? Better not ask: such questions wouldn’t be welcomed by a senior officer of the SOE .
    Reassure him
.
    “Not exactly, sir. I rode my bicycle through a red light and he stopped me. I told him I wouldn’t have if I’d known he was there—”
    “You received a ticket for impertinence,” Major Boddington interrupted.
    “Yes, sir. Ten shillings.”
    “My word,” said Colonel Buckmaster.
    My word, indeed. Ten shillings was a sizable slice of £350 per annum, one she could ill afford.
    “Well, you seem to have learned your lesson.” Major Boddington seemed mollified by the punitive figure.
    “Born in Moscow?” The Colonel was reading from her file.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Not Bolshevik, are you?”
    “No, sir—we left after I was born. Before the Great War.”
    Noor didn’t remember Moscow at all. Abbajaan was on tour, playing the veena and giving discourses on Sufism in Moscow, when she entered the world, and she was still a baby when the family returned to England.
    “Wise move, wise move. Your father is—pardon me, was—a professor. Unpronounceable name.”
    The name Inayat Khan didn’t seem especially difficult.
    “Yes, sir.”
    Abbajaan—his constant absence was a different kind of sorrow.
    “Of music and the philosophy of … Sufism?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Mmm.”
    The Colonel didn’t seem sure what