Autumn Leaves
"The falling leaves drift by the window,
The autumn leaves of red and gold.
I see your lips, the summer kisses,
The sunburned hands I used to hold.
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song.
But I miss you most of all, my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall."
English lyric: Johnny Mercer French lyric: Jacques Prevert Music: Joseph Kosma
London, England: November 1956
Miriam Broadbent Hogan writhed and moaned in her sleep. In a sharp turn, she unconsciously kicked her husband, jarring him awake. Robert rolled over and glared at her until he realized that something was wrong. Miri was the soundest and neatest of sleepers; she had disturbed him very little in the course of almost twelve years. He was normally the restless one, and on more than one occasion, he'd woken to find himself on the floor—thanks to a well-placed foot in the small of his back. But right now, Miri sounded as she had hours before she'd delivered Patrick, and labor was not a possibility. Sitting up, Hogan turned on the bedside lamp; the light revealed a dead-white face bathed in perspiration. Her dark eyes fluttered open, revealing the experience of excruciating pain.
Soothingly, calmly, he remarked, "I'm calling Dick Reynolds." He reached for the phone. He dialed from memory. "Hello? Margaret? This is Robert Hogan. Is Dick available?" He waited impatiently as Miri ducked under his left arm to rest her head on his shoulder. Looking down on her mostly white hair, he asked, "Where does it hurt?"
"Everywhere, Robin, but mostly my abdomen," she whimpered.
He was about to hang up and take Miri to Casualty, but Reynolds came on the line. "So what's the trouble, Rob?"
"It's Miriam, Dick. Terrible abdominal pain." He put a hand to her forehead. "I can't tell if she's got a fever or not, but she is perspiring profusely."
There was a moment or two of silence before a disheartened voice responded. "Well, take her to Bart's and I'll meet you there in 20 minutes." He added, "And I've nae idea what's wrong. I won't know until I examine her. So get a move on." Click.
Hours went by slowly, and the waiting was driving Hogan crazy. Truly frightened, he paced in the small waiting area. 5 steps forward, 5 steps back. Clearly, something very serious had seized Miri, but beyond that he had no idea. In restrained panic, he hadn't bothered to do more than throw on his dressing gown over his pyjamas and step into his slippers before wrapping Miri in a blanket and whisking her away to Bart's. He knew Dick would send Margaret over to look after Patrick. The cabbie hadn't batted an eyelash, not that Hogan would have noticed or cared. 5 steps forward, 5 steps back. He was wearing a groove into the floor when Reynolds finally appeared.
"Well?" The fear made him sound belligerent.
Reynolds looked haggard, and his broad Scots accent flared. "From all tha test results, there are nae many possibilities left, and none are good. My own guess—and tha's what it is, lad—is poison."
"Poison?" Hogan's voice was thin.
"Aye, and I've nae idea about even type o' poison, so I am blind to an antidote." He took Hogan aside, into an out-of-the-way alcove. He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. "I've been on to our mutual friends at Intelligence to see what ideas they've got, but I am nae hopeful."
From somewhere, Hogan pulled the resources to ask calmly, too calmly in fact, "Dick, tell me the truth. Is she going to die?"
Reynolds, a tall, reddish-blond, but balding Scot, looked down at his shoes before returning his gaze to Hogan's face. "I won't lie to ye, Rob. I'd get tha priest now. I think he'll be of more value to Miriam and ye than I."
Hogan wrapped his right arm across his chest while pinching the bridge of his nose with his left hand. He swallowed hard. "Okay, Dick. I get the message." His hand dropped to his side. "Can I see her?"
"Certainly." He started to lead Hogan towards Miri's room, but stopped Sister Williams, a plump, older woman, to demand a Catholic priest be sent for.
When Hogan entered the room and looked at his wife, he felt the floor fall away from him. She had never looked tinier or frailer. In seeming slow-motion, he made the long journey to her bedside. He took her hand his, caressing it with loving intensity.
Miri's dimming eyes sought his face. As a wave of pain overwhelmed her, she clutched his hand for support, bruising him. Reynolds grabbed a chair and pushed Hogan into it. The agony subsided—for the moment—and Miri spoke softly, "Robin…"
"Shush. Save your strength."
"Robin, my love, there's no time. I know I'm dying." Another wave of pain forced her to bite her lip. When she could manage, Miri reached to her throat and removed the small, gold crucifix, held it out to him. "Give it to Patrick. Tell him that I love him." Another spasm rocked her tiny frame.
The cross fell unbidden into Hogan's hand.
When she quieted again, he reached for her hand, but she stretched out to his face, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. "I hate to leave you, Robin."
He caught her fingers, and holding them between his hands, he kissed them. Silent tears ran down his face, and he murmured, "I love you, breila," giving her his only word of Welsh. She smiled faintly before losing consciousness. The fingers in his hands went slack.
London England: December 1944
Having gotten Miri's address from Group Captain James Roberts—at the cost of some too pointed ribbing about his reasons—Colonel Robert E. Hogan, USA, discovered trying to find her flat off Gordon Square in Bloomsbury to be more than a little difficult. And naturally, when he did find the Georgian building, her flat proved to be on the fourth floor. His legs burned by the time he knocked on the door. Adjusting the borrowed, slightly too large, tweed jacket for the umpteenth time, Hogan waited impatiently. No response. After a few moments, he rapped again. The door opened to reveal a tired woman, stocking-footed and half out of uniform, with her fine, black hair slipping out its chignon. She held a double whiskey soda in hand.
It took Miri a few seconds to recognize him. "So who's trying to make you into the English squire?"
"Robbie," he snorted. This was not the way he'd planned to start this evening. "May I come in or do I get to stand here and be giggled at all night?"
"Feeling faintly ridiculous, Robin?" she asked, smirking as he entered.
"Very funny, Miri. While I'm on leave, I'm staying with Group Captain James Roberts and his wife. Being the good British officer he is, Robbie insisted that I go out…."
"…in mufti, of course." She tittered.
Hogan rolled his eyes, vowing silently to get Robbie for this. Tweed jacket and tan Shetland wool cardigan indeed! "This is as much mufti as I care to muster." The cardigan bunched under the jacket, making him feel rumpled and uncomfortable. In irritation, he whisked off the offending article and threw it over a chair.
"All you need is the matching tweed driving cap."
"It didn't fit."
Miri sat down on the sofa, chortling helplessly. He reached down, taking the whiskey glass from her before the contents spilled on the Persian rug and setting it down on the cluttered end table. The entire modest flat seemed cluttered with porcelain bric-a-brac, books, samplers, old photographs, and even a couple of landscape paintings. The furniture ran to the velvet Victorian. For a second, Hogan wondered where Holmes and Watson were. He shook his head to dispel the image.
Miri's giggle fit ended, and she said, "I'm so sorry, Robin. That's no way to greet you." She came to him, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. He bent down to meet her, and they kissed fiercely. After a few moments, she asked tenderly, "Better?"
In answer, he picked her up, sat down on the red velvet sofa and eased her into his lap, her shoulders resting in the crook of his right arm. His left curled around her knees. "Well, my darling girl, I am a free man now. We closed up Stalag 13."
"When did you get back to civilization?"
"About a week ago."
She smacked his chest lightly. "And you didn't let me know? Beast."
"We were in the hospital and not allowed communication with the outside world until we'd been debriefed. I came to see you at first opportunity—though getting here wasn't easy." He smiled lovingly at her, hoping she'd be distracted enough not to ask about the hospital.
Miri sat up, concern written all over her own exhausted features. "My God, Robin! Are you all right?"
He put two fingers to her lips. She leaned back against his arm, but her lustrous dark eyes demanded a full accounting. "I'm not wounded, sweetheart. Mostly we needed to recover from our trip across the Channel. Not to mention the fact, the hospital is an excellent place to hold people incommunicado."
"You made a Channel crossing this time of year?" She closed her eyes and shuddered.
"Yeah. In a 30-foot fishing boat. The sea was rough; the wind howled, driving huge waves over the deck. I thought we were going to sink on several occasions We were all wet and hypothermic by the time we reached England." He shivered in remembrance. "I swear to God I'm never getting on another boat again."
"The Channel is never a sweet body of water, Robin, particularly this time of year." She laid her hand over his, pressing gently. "What's wrong, my Robin?"
He was silent a moment before answering her. "It's Carter. He got washed overboard by a wave. He'd have drown for sure if it hadn't been for Newkirk." In his mind, Hogan replayed the Englishman's jumping into the churning sea with rope and life preserver. "We got them both out of the sea as fast as possible, but Carter was unconscious—from impact or swallowing water, I still don't know."
"What's the prognosis?" she asked softly.
"Up for grabs." Seeing Carter's unconscious body just lying there in that stark hospital bed had unnerved Hogan. It had been the stillness of the chemist: Carter had never sat or slept without moving in the entire time Hogan had known the man. When he'd last seen the enlisted man, he'd seemed a corpse. "He hasn't regained consciousness, hasn't made much progress towards recovery." Hogan's voice never modulated.
"I'll have Fr. Flanagan say Mass for him. And I'll certainly remember him in my prayers and light a candle for him." She squeezed his hand again.
"Thank you." Hogan looked intently at Miri. "That boat ride was the most terrifying experience of my life. I thought for sure I was a goner, and in combination with Carter's experience, I realized there are certain things I want out of life. I'm not going to wait till after the war." Pulling her closer to him, he tenderly stroked her cheek, and asked her, very softly, "Will you marry me?"
Miri was silent as she lay in his arms. Of all the rotten timing, she thought in vexation. First, my past springs evilly back to life, and now, my future crosses paths with the present. Oh, Dewi Sant. After what seemed ages to them both, she spoke—slowly and with feeling. "I want you to believe me when I say this—I am very much in love with you and nothing would make me happier than to marry you…."
"But," he interjected ominously.
She took a deep breath before answering, and her vision blurred with barely repressed tears. "You need to know the truth about my marriage. I'm reliving the past because of the present—my latest appalling mission." She stopped and then the British stiff upper lip quite literally broke as her lower lip trembled and tears spilled down her cheeks.
Hogan gently brushed hair out of her face. "If it's too painful, Miri…."
"I must," her tremulous voice cut him off. "I married Sir Thomas Broadbent in July 1932. I was just shy of 19, and he was 27. He was a fine catch, and I was so in love, so excited at being a wife. It was all an act on his part. Married for my money and as a cover for his affairs--both male and female--he buried me in Shropshire most of the time, trotting me out only when he needed to. I eventually learned to fill my empty hours—why do you think I know the things I do?" She didn't want or expect an answer. "When he did come down to the country or had me with him in town, he insisted on his marital rights. After a point, he stopped even that. It became clear that I couldn't give him an heir. After his bastard was born, I couldn't take it anymore, and I left him. That was 1938. I joined the army the next year, right before the war broke out--though you could see it coming if you had eyes to see--and it was the Battle of Britain that saw the end of Tom. The best day's work the Germans ever did."
Anger, fear, and rejection collided in Miri, caused her to start sobbing. Hogan held her tightly, pushed her face into his woolly chest. "Miri, Miri," he repeated, stroking her silky hair, pulling the pins out of the chignon. In the emotional furor, it had mostly come apart. The weeping subsided, and he turned her face up to his. "I am not Tom Broadbent, and I won't do to you what he did. I love you too much for that."
"I do know that, Robin, and I trust you like no other, but…," she stopped, braced herself. "I suppose it's human nature to want what you can't have, but my Robin, marry me, and you will be childless. I cannot give you children." The anguish, the sense of failure resonated painfully in her ears.
"Miriam, don't cry about it. Given what you've just told me, I'm not sure about that." He plunged onward. "If we have children, great. If we don't, that's fine, too. You, Miriam Siwân," he butchered the pronunciation, causing her to wince, "Broadbent, are my sole concern. It's you I want. If we decide we can't live without kids, then we'll adopt. God knows there're enough war orphans to go around. And it's not as if the family name depends on me; I've already got 10 nieces and nephews."
"You make it sound so simple, Robin."
"That's because it is, Miri." He pulled out his handkerchief and dried her eyes. "Now, tell me you'll marry me." His words were mock-stern.
"The story's not done yet." She took the plain linen square from him and blew her nose before she gracelessly left his secure embrace. She walked over to the window and pulled back the velvet drapes to look out on Bloomsbury. "I'm doing the same thing I did when I was in the Gestapo—counter-intelligence. Only this time, it's my own I'm after. And this case…." She turned back to look at Hogan, "Don't I sound like Inspector Lestrade?" She sniffed again. "And this case involves Sir Hamish MacPherson, a Scottish manufacturer and former Tory MP. I met him through Tom, and while I disagreed with him about politics, Hamish knew about my marital problems. He helped me to leave Tom in '38. Hamish is a friend; pardon me, was a friend, and now, that he's turned traitor, I must needs be the one to run him to ground."
She faced the night again, adding in a small voice of remembered affection, "He used to call me Tinkerbell."
Coming up behind her, Hogan encircled her waist and laid his cheek against the side of her head, but said nothing.
She spoke again, with increasing dispassion. The professional spy tried to replace the betrayed wife and friend. "Hamish was a real appeaser. He saw and still sees the Communists as the real threat to Europe and the world, and to eradicate that threat, Hamish has been actively negotiating with certain Nazi elements to overthrow the current British government in order to achieve a separate peace with Germany. The goal was peace in the west and war in the east—with Allied support."
Hogan raised his head and whistled.
"It's so stupidly over the top you'd think you were in the last war. And in essence, Hamish has behaved exactly if this were the Great War." She paused, allowing the unflappable intelligence officer to take over. "We've got the evidence, right down to the last details. We've located everybody; we're just waiting to nab them all in one spot. Hamish must be 'round the twist because they are all going to be at his London home for his annual Christmas party. I've even got my invitation."
Hogan's ears pricked up. "Do you think this could be trap, Miri?"
She slid past him and headed straight for her drinks cabinet where she poured herself another whiskey. "Care for a drink, Robin?"
"No, thanks. You haven't answered my question."
"Which one?"
"Knock off the evasive maneuvers, will you?"
Miri ignored him as she sprayed soda into her whiskey. "I do think Hamish has something planned for me. What he doesn't know is his little party is going to be gatecrashed by one of General Franco's agents. I haven't figured out this little complication myself yet." She returned to the sofa, sat down, leaned against the curved back. "I have a feeling there are going to be surprises all around, particularly for Hamish who is going to find his entire house surrounded and infiltrated by police and Security Service." She took a deep swallow. "And if all else fails—and I pray it won't come to this—I have orders to kill him." Pausing slightly, she added caustically, "And that's all, folks."
He sat down beside her. With fingers steepled before his lips, he mumbled, "I don't know what to say, Miri."
She didn't say anything; she reached out and took his hand in hers. They sat in silence for several minutes. Giving his hand a squeeze, Miri broke the stillness. "As to your other question, my Robin, yes, I will marry you—if you still want me."
He pulled her towards him. She came with alacrity, and they kissed, their lips parting hungrily. He drew back slightly and fished through his pockets a moment before coming up with the ring. It was a 1/2 carat, square cut ruby in yellow gold. He slipped it on her left hand, American-style. She admired it quickly before turning back to its giver. "Are you sure about this, Robin?"
He answered firmly, "Yes, Miri, I am very sure." He kissed her again.
Cradling her lightly, he lay back and stretched out the length of the sofa. Miri made herself more comfortable by casting her legs across his knees. Warm and safe, she fought to stay awake. Gentle, even breathing indicated that her fiancé had lost that battle. Nimbly, Miri got up and retrieved a pillow for his head and a heavy quilt. Repositioning herself, she drew the coverlet over both of them. She drifted off to sleep as his chest rose and fell beneath her cheek.
Despite the fact he'd woken up at 7am, Hogan still felt muzzy when he arrived at the hospital at 10am to check up on Carter. He and his men had worked out an unofficial, unspoken visiting schedule, but it didn't seem to be doing much good. As he pulled a chair up to Carter's bedside, Hogan wondered if part of Carter's problem weren't the same, sudden release from the daily pressure they'd all been under for two and half years. The decompression certainly was having a physical effect on him: sleeping in a real bed (or sofa) with pillows and down duvet wasn't a problem. Getting out of bed was. He smiled to himself, recalling this morning's unwillingness to rise and shine. Muttering something about waking the dead, Miri had had to almost physically shove him onto the floor. And of course, Robbie'd been teasing him, calling him Sleeping Beauty. Did that make Miri Princess Charming?
Movement in the bed caught his eye, and Hogan sobered immediately, even as hope surged forward. Please, Carter, wake up. Let me know you're going to be all right. The stirring beneath the sheets ceased, and the colonel's heart sank. Settling back in the chair, he brought out the book he'd been reading, The Count of Monte Cristo. It kept him awake, even as it gave Carter the sound of his voice. Who knew? Maybe the intricate plot would perk the sergeant up. "Okay, Andrew, where did I leave off?"
He'd gotten about three pages further into the story when Dr. Dick Reynolds showed up on the ward. Hogan wasn't too sure about the crotchety Scot, but the man seemed competent enough. Reynolds started to examine Carter, and Hogan said, "I don't know if this means anything, but Carter stirred a bit a few minutes ago."
Reynolds turned pale blue eyes on the American officer. "Good. He may be tryin' to reach consciousness." There was just a touch of broad Scots accent this morning. "And how are ye this mornin', Colonel Hogan?"
"Just a bit tired."
"Ye look somemat done in. Yer not taxin' yerself too much, are ye?"
There was an unspoken threat behind the question. Hogan got the message: rest or you'll be back in here pronto.
"Thanks, Doc," he remarked acidly.
"Ach, ye doan like subtle warnings. Then let me make it plain: yer on medical leave, colonel, because ye and yer men need the rest. Ye've gone all out for the duration, and while ye've done splendidly, it took a tremendous toll on ye mentally and physically. I've checked up on ye: ye push yerself too hard, tryin' to bounce back on no more than 4 hours sleep a night. Well, that wears a body out. Are ye daft, mon? Right now, ye need to BE Sleeping Beauty. Let yer mind and body recover from the strain ye've placed on them."
Wonderful, Hogan thought, even as he squirmed uncomfortably under the doctor's gaze. In an attempt to divert the doctor, he asked, "Could this be what's affecting Carter?"
"I've thought o' that and made allowance for it, too." Reynolds was not to be distracted. "Now, did ye understand me?"
Anything to get the man off his back. The colonel meekly surrendered. "Yes, sir. I promise to rest." He gave the medical officer his most winning smile. "But you will have to cut me some slack, Doc. I got engaged last night."
"Congratulations. And who's the lucky lady?"
"I doubt you'll know her, but her name's Miriam Broadbent."
Reynolds jerked his head heavenwards. "Bloody hell! That daft woman! She's no fit example for ye! She'd work herself into the grave if I let her."
Hogan groaned at the doctor's outburst. Lucky me! Does the whole British army know Miri or is Reynolds privileged? the colonel sourly asked himself.
Before he could respond, Carter started moaning. Both officers sprang forward. "Andrew, can you hear me?" inquired his CO urgently. The enlisted man's head lolled a on the pillow. Finally, the blue-green eyes fluttered open and struggled to focus on his CO's face. "Andrew," Hogan repeated.
"That you, Colonel?" The voice was very weak.
"Yeah, Andrew, it's me." He had the chemist's hand gripped tightly in his own.
"Where am I?"
"Yer in hospital, lad. I'm yer doctor." Carter's eyes swung over to the Scot.
"What happened?" The voice had grown stronger, but was still reedy.
"Ye took a swim in Channel, lad, which, as yer doctor, I'd've advised against."
The enlisted man turned back to his CO, and murmured, attempting to deadpan, "Now, he tells me, Colonel."
Hogan sat down with both relief and laughter. "We needed to get out of Stalag 13. You've been hanging around Newkirk too long." He felt rewarded by Carter's half-smile.
"All right, now, Colonel, I'd be obliged if ye'd leave me to examine the lad." Hogan started to go, but Reynolds added, "And give my regards to yer fiancée."
Carter stared at his CO. "You getting married, Colonel? Major Broadbent?"
Hogan turned around. "Yes, Andrew. On Christmas Eve, and I'll be personally insulted if you're not there. But," he pointed his finger at the bomb expert, "I don't want any exploding candles on the cake."
"Yes, sir." Carter grinned.
"Go on now, Colonel, get a cuppa. I'll let ye know what my prognosis is later on." The medical officer spoke over his shoulder, and Hogan recognized a dismissal when he heard it. He also realized what a canny Scot Reynolds was. His respect for the physician had increased greatly.
By the time Reynolds came down an hour later, the rest of his men had joined Hogan in the hospital canteen. The message was short and sweet: Carter would recover with apparently no lasting effects. That lifted a mountain of anxiety from their shoulders. Much to Reynolds' shock, they practically did a victory dance in their exuberant relief—much hugging and backslapping. In fact, in his enthusiasm, Kinchloe slapped Hogan so hard on the back that the colonel thought his teeth were going to come out. But he didn't mind. He felt exactly the same way. The doctor left, shaking his head.
Hogan motioned them to quieten down. They looked at him expectantly, and suddenly Hogan found this announcement harder than any he'd ever made before. He wasn't sure why. "Gentlemen, what are you doing on Christmas Eve?" Murmurs of half-formed plans, mostly involving church, reached his ears. "Well, keep the evening open for a wedding. Mine. I wish very much for you all to be there."
"Gor'blimey! Colonel, that's wonderful! You and the missus finally goin' to make it official, are ye?"
"Miriam is not my wife yet, Newkirk."
"There, Colonel, you're wrong." Hogan looked askance at Kinchloe. "Sir, real marriages are made in the heart, and the minister is just there to publicly recognize that and make it legal. It's pretty obvious that you and the major have been married in your hearts since July."
Hogan felt his cheeks flame. Before he could respond, LeBeau cut in. "C'est vrai, mon colonel. As private an individual as you are—and we respect that," the others nodded vigorously, "both you and Madame could not help showing your emotions."
The colonel harrumphed. "Sorry to be so transparent."
"Don't be embarrassed, Colonel. It was really nice to watch." Kinchloe smiled broadly. "It was one more victory, but over the war itself."
"That brings me to a favor I need to ask of you all." Hogan was grateful for the diversion that Kinch had provided him.
"Anything, guv'nor."
"Lafayette, we are here."
The colonel was all business. "Major Broadbent is engaged in a cleanup operation here in England; she has it all under control, except for the unexpected arrival of a Spanish agent. Our mission, should you choose to accept it, is to keep this agent under wraps and out of the major's hair. I don't think he's here for fun and games." Hogan had a really bad feeling about the Spaniard, and Miri's uncertainty only added to his discomfort.
"No sweat, colonel," remarked Kinchloe.
He gave his men a warning look. "Let's not get cocky, here. There is something very rotten in the kingdom of Great Britain." As they sobered, Hogan preceded to lay out his plan in detail.
Standing in the Edwardian foyer of MacPherson's house, Hogan tried to massage some space between his neck and the butterfly collar of his formal evening attire. Miri swatted him with a gloved hand. "Leave off. You look fine," she scolded as they waited to be announced. His glare softened as he took in the sight of her, clothed in burgundy velvet and silk chiffon, pearls at ears and throat and in her hair. She was bewitching.
"Miriam, Lady Broadbent," boomed a baritone voice, "and Colonel Robert Hogan."
As he followed her up the sweeping, curved staircase—he had to be careful not to step on her trailing velvet overskirt–Hogan scanned the throng of people above. He spotted Newkirk and LeBeau among the waiters. A quick moving, wiry man of medium height darted into the colonel's field of vision; this person, in formal Scottish attire, including kilt and feathered sporran, grabbed Miri's hands, pulling her toward him. He kissed her cheek, gushing, "Hullo, Tinkerbell."
"Haggis," Miri responded less effusively.
Hogan closed his eyes in disbelief. There was no accounting for the British and their bizarre nicknames for each other. At least, Robin was passable, not that he'd tolerate it from anybody but Miri. As he accidentally brushed against her, he murmured, "My apologies, Miriam." He sounded like a friend and fellow officer, but nothing more. No need to make MacPherson suspect any closer alliance.
Miri responded likewise. "Not at all, Robert. May I present you to our host? Haggis, Colonel Robert Hogan, United States Army Air Corps. Robert, Sir Hamish MacPherson, an old and dear friend." Mutual nods of acknowledgment and muttered sirs.
"If you'll excuse me, Miriam, Sir Hamish?"
With visible relief, the Scot replied, "Certainly, Colonel. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." MacPherson turned back to Miri almost too rapidly for politeness.
Hogan sailed into the sea of people and was almost immediately accosted by Peter Newkirk, who whispered urgently, "The Spaniard you warned us about is 'ere, skulkin' about. Louis's got 'im under 'is eye. But, colonel…."
The warning note in Newkirk's voice made the colonel heighten his state of alert. "Yes?"
"Kinch wants ye to know that 'e's bugged the bleedin' traitor's study, but said that it looked as if it'd been wiped clean before 'and. 'E's goin' to record ever'thin' that goes on in there." He paused as two guests came up for champagne. "Colonel, I 'eard two blokes from Security Service talkin'. They'd found one o' their own in bushes. Shot dead. Blimey, this 'ere's dicier than I thought it'd be."
Hogan put a hand on Newkirk's arm to calm the nervousness. It worked. "So Kinch's has got it all under control?" The Cockney nodded. "Good." The colonel gave a barely audible sigh. God knew he hated stand up and smile affairs, but working one was even worse than just being there. "Time for me to go mingle. Let me know when MacPherson heads for his study."
"Righto, guv'nor." Newkirk disappeared into the crowd, but not before Hogan helped himself to a glass of champagne.
Before he'd taken more than two sips, he eyed Brigadier General Aloysius Barton over the rim. Controlling his rising dread—of all the people to be at this bash!—he greeted the general cordially. "General Barton, how nice to see you. What brings you to this august gathering?" The colonel thought his face was going to freeze in its forced, pleasant smile. At least, the shorter man looked worse in his dress blues than Hogan felt in white tie and tails.
The grey-haired general responded grumpily, "I'm not precisely sure, Colonel." He launched abruptly into other matters. "I owe you a tremendous apology, Hogan. I called you a traitor and a disgrace to the uniform. Both comments were way out of line." Hogan could barely believe his ears: real brass was hardly in the habit of saying sorry. The general continued. "I do hope you will forgive me."
Even though Barton's comments at Stalag 13 had stung even after the acknowledging salute, there was nothing to be gained by being ungracious. "Certainly, sir. It was after all a secret operation."
"Yes, one I made it my business to find out about after I returned to England. You're a remarkable officer and man, Hogan. I'm glad you made your own safe escape."
"Thank you, sir, but I have an excellent crew. And we didn't have much choice about getting out. Casa Klink changed management, and not for the better."
"You realize that you can expect promotion for your efforts?" Hogan's blank face spurred Barton to an explanation. "Colonel, you put in 2 1/2 years of dangerous, behind the lines work, with not a loss in your own personnel and a success rate over and above anybody's expectation. Your star is virtually guaranteed."
Hogan felt as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him, though in his mind, he knew the general was right. Not that he wanted to be a general. More painfully, Barton's words brought home to him that this command was over, something else he didn't really want to acknowledge.
"There are commands, Hogan, that you will never forget because they're truly special. Treasure those memories. They make up for all the rotten commands one gets." Hogan caught LeBeau gesticulating wildly to him. He rolled his eyes. Barton didn't miss a thing. "You're working this party, aren't you, colonel?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're supposed to be on medical leave."
Hogan grimaced. "Whatever you do, sir, don't tell Dr. Reynolds, or I'll find myself in the bed next to Sgt. Carter. And I can't afford that right now." To Barton's vaguely affirmative growl, he added, "I can't exactly get married if I'm in the hospital, now can I, sir?" As soon as he said it, he wondered why. What did Barton care?
The general gave a genuine smile. It changed his whole face, making him seem much less stern, much more human. "Congratulations, colonel. Now let me give you one piece of advice before you dash off. Take it from an old married man: the two key words to a successful marriage are 'yes, dear'."
Just make that 'yes, sir,' and you had sound advice for a successful military career. "Thank you, general, and good-night." Hogan pushed his way through the crowd to LeBeau who quickly pointed out that both MacPherson and the Spaniard had disappeared from view. Hogan told LeBeau to keep watching the party with Newkirk and to let him know if anything else popped up. He disappeared out a side door, racing for Kinch's hideout in the servants' quarters.
The radioman looked up as his CO bounded in. "Colonel, the Spaniard just entered MacPherson's study." He turned up the gain so Hogan, who leaned over his shoulder, could catch what was going on.
"Buenos noches, Don Enrique. You've come to finalize the deal?"
"Sí, señor."
"General Franco will get Gibraltar in return for immediate recognition of the new British government. And then we shall have the pleasure of finally defeating those Communist dogs."
There was a lengthy pause. "What do you mean to do with that?" There was panic in the Scotsman's voice.
A new voice answered, "Really, Haggis. He means to shoot you. And quite frankly, you'd better hope he does. I've orders to arrest you and make sure you stand trial for treason. Would you prefer to die here or stand in the dock?"
"Dammit!" the colonel muttered under his breath. "Kinch, keep recording," he tossed over his shoulder as he bolted.
"Right, Colonel." The black sergeant was utterly confused. First, what was Major Broadbent doing in the study? And two, what was the colonel thinking? Voices in the study brought Kinch's attention back to the job at hand. And his blood ran cold.
"Buenos noches, Doña Maria." The low voice was silk. "Your arrival is most timely." A pause. "Señor, as you can no doubt tell by this lady's presence, your plan has been compromised. You are completely undone, and I am here to make sure there are no roads back to Madrid." The Castillian was courtly in his manner; deadly, in his intent.
"Don Enrique is very right about that. Even as we speak, Security Service—that is to say most of your staff this evening—is taking into custody your co-conspirators. I suggest you surrender yourself to me now, Haggis."
"Doña Maria, are you deaf?"
Miri's teeth grated. Trastamara was being an ass again. He knew damned well she hated being called Lady Mary, even if it were the literal translation of her name. She said sharply, "No, Don Enrique, I am not. You have 3 hours to remove yourself from the United Kingdom. If you are still within in the realm at the end of those 3 hours, you will be subject to arrest, interrogation, and deportation. All at the pleasure of His Majesty's Government. Do you understand?"
"It is you who do not understand. You are also my target for this evening."
Kinch seemed to stop breathing. He heard nothing for a moment, then two shots, one after the other. More silence and then he could hear the study door opening.
Hogan got to the study as two shots rang out. His heart seemed to stop for a moment before he pushed his way in. The Scot slumped over the desk, eyes still open, a look of surprise frozen on the face. The Castillian lay on the floor, head pointed toward the French doors, blood spreading across his starched shirt front. The Welsh spy propped herself against the desk, small calibre pistol in her right hand. Hogan called out to her, "Miri?"
A voice choked with emotion answered, "Yes, Robin?"
Kinch started breathing again. By this time, he'd been joined by Newkirk and LeBeau, who were redundant due to the efforts of the Security Service. They all listened uneasily.
The American came up behind the tiny woman, and reaching down, he took the gun from her hand. He had to pry it out of her fingers. After he put it in his tailcoat pocket, Hogan gently turned her around. Her face was chalky, and her eyes were overbright. "Are you all right?" he asked in concern, knew full well she was anything but.
She burst into tears, exclaimed as she buried her face in her hands, "I can't do this any more." He pulled her to him and stroked her bare back as she cried convulsively.
After a few moments, he asked softly, "What happened?"
Still crying, she replied, "Haggis jumped when Trastamara threatened me. It drew his attention, and he shot Haggis. I shot Trastamara almost simultaneously." She took a deep breath and brushed away tears with the back of a hand. After a quick look back at MacPherson, she said, unevenly, "He may have been a traitor, but he was once a friend. I grieve for that. And better this than the humiliation of the dock and the rope."
As far as Hogan was concerned, MacPherson wasn't worth her tears, but he kept that thought to himself. He put an arm around her shoulders and led her from the room. She leaned against him.
"'Ellfire," breathed Newkirk. "I wouldn't be the missus for all the tea in China." The others nodded as Kinch shut down.
As they walked back to the ballroom, Hogan said, to satisfy his own curiosity, "There are something things that don't quite fit here. I ran into General Barton earlier this evening. Hiis presence struck me as being odd. Also, I assume the Spanish were part of the original plot, but got cold feet."
She looked up at him. "There were several highly placed people present who were unconnected to this intrigue. They were all here for diversionary purposes. Hence Barton's presence. That's even why I was invited. Haggis never knew I work for Intelligence. Regarding Don Enrique, clearly our security was compromised, for the Spanish knew we knew." She shivered, and Hogan pulled her closer. "He was here to cover Spanish complicity; in that, he singularly failed."
Hogan looked down on her. She seemed very fragile. "Did you mean it? When you said you couldn't do this anymore?"
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…,'" intoned the vicar, John Hawthorne.
Standing before the altar, Hogan, in his Class As, caught sight of Robbie, also in uniform, shaking his head. He knew Robbie just could not believe they were getting married by special licence in the Church of England. Miri had, as she'd rather sheepishly explained at rehearsal, lost a bet with the Anglican vicar. She'd vowed in 1940 that she'd never marry again, and Hawthorne had bet she would. The wager was if he lost, she'd get £50. If she lost, he got to perform the ceremony by the rite of the C of E.
"…duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. First, It was ordained for the procreation of children….'"
Hogan caught the tiny expression of pain that crossed Miri's solemn face. It quickly passed as the vicar continued. "Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which estate these two persons present come now to be joined…..'"
Fortunately, nobody stood up to give just cause as to why they shouldn't be married, though there had been the threat. At the rehearsal the night before, Hogan's men had joked that they'd think of something. As an across-the-duck-pond marriage, Robbie had teased, it would have to at least go through the Foreign Office, possibly the PM. Newkirk had added, with all apparent seriousness, His Majesty's permission would be needed. Miri had given a look of irritation while Hogan had just laughed.
Hogan was brought back to reality as he calmly answered the vicar, "I will."
Hawthorne turned to Miriam, dressed in a simple Wedgwood blue wool gown—a choice that heightened the translucent quality of her skin and the lustre of her eyes in Hogan's estimation. The vicar asked solemnly, "Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him….'"
There was the sound of suppressed laughter in the background. They'd all choked with it at rehearsal, Newkirk having called out, "That's a right good one, vicar. Tryin' for the Palladium, are we?" Hogan smiled at the absurdity of it. There was no way Miri was going to obey him, not against her better judgment. And he wouldn't be fool enough to try and make her.
A bell-like voice rang from beneath an ecru lace mantilla. "I will."
After plighting their troth—the language of the church, thought Hogan in amusement, never changes, even if the centuries do—came the exchange of rings. Despite his protests that he never wore jewelry, Miri had insisted on a band for him. She said, as she placed the ring of Welsh gold on his left hand, "With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.'" And then she slipped, without missing a beat, right into Latin. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritu Sancti. Amen."
Hogan snickered, and Hawthorne turned apoplectic.
Solemnity was restored by their kneeling before the vicar who read several long prayers and blessings. Hogan was beginning to wonder if the registry office wouldn't have been faster and less onerous. Miri fidgeted slightly as Hawthorne droned through Psalm 67 and began a reading from St. Mark's Gospel "But from the beginning of Creation, God made them male and female./ For this cause a man shall leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife….'"
Carter, finally allowed out of the hospital, whispered to his buddies, but still, Hogan overheard, "Make that family and he means us."
Newkirk and Kinchloe remained silent, but LeBeau hissed, in a low, but penetrating voice, "Tais-tois, André. We don't want to be reminded of that."
Hogan shifted uncomfortably. It'd been a long time since he'd spent so much time on his knees.
"Almighty God, who at the beginning did create our first parents, Adam and Eve, and did sanctify and join them together in marriage; Pour upon you the riches of His grace, sanctify and bless you, that ye may please Him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives' end. Amen.'"
