Publisher Description

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER - For fans of Jacqueline Winspear, Laurie R. King, and Anne Perry, whip-smart heroine Maggie Hope returns to embark on a clandestine mission behind enemy lines where no one can be trusted, and even the smallest indiscretion can be deadly. World War II has finally come home to Britain, but it takes more than nightly air raids to rattle intrepid spy and expert code breaker Maggie Hope. After serving as a secret agent to protect Princess Elizabeth at Windsor Castle, Maggie is now an elite member of the Special Operations Executive--a black ops organization designed to aid the British effort abroad--and her first assignment sends her straight into Nazi-controlled Berlin, the very heart of the German war machine. Relying on her quick wit and keen instincts, Maggie infiltrates the highest level of Berlin society, gathering information to pass on to London headquarters. But the secrets she unveils will expose a darker, more dangerous side of the war--and of her own past.

"You'll be [Maggie Hope's] loyal subject, ready to follow her wherever she goes."--O: The Oprah Magazine

Author Biography

Susan Elia MacNeal has worked in book and magazine publishing for over a decade. She lives with her family in Brooklyn, New York.

Review

"You'll be [Maggie Hope's] loyal subject, ready to follow her wherever she goes."--O: The Oprah Magazine

Praise for the Maggie Hope Mysteries "With false starts, double agents, and red herrings . . . MacNeal provides a vivid view of life both above and below stairs at Windsor Castle."--Publishers Weekly, on Princess Elizabeth's Spy

"A captivating, post-feminist picture of England during its finest hour."--The Denver Post, on Mr. Churchill's Secretary

Prizes

Short-listed for Thriller Awards (Paperback Original) 2014

Review Quote

"You'll be [Maggie Hope's] loyal subject, ready to follow her wherever she goes."-- O: The Oprah Magazine Praise for the Maggie Hope Mysteries "With false starts, double agents, and red herrings . . . MacNeal provides a vivid view of life both above and below stairs at Windsor Castle."-- Publishers Weekly, on Princess Elizabeth's Spy "A captivating, post-feminist picture of England during its finest hour."-- The Denver Post, on Mr. Churchill's Secretary

Excerpt from Book

Chapter One Maggie Hope was feeling her way through thick darkness. She was panting after shimmying up a rickety drainpipe, knocking out a screen in an upper-story window, avoiding several trip wires, and then sliding silently onto the floor of a dark hallway. She took a deep breath and rose to her feet, every nerve alert. Beneath her foot, a parquet floorboard creaked. Oh, come now, she thought. She waited for a moment, slowing her breathing, feeling her heart thunder in her chest. All around her was impenetrable black. The only sounds were the creaks of an ancient manor house. Nothing. All clear. Maggie could feel dampness under her arms and hot drops of sweat trickling down the small of her back. Aware of each and every sound, she continued down the hall until she reached the home''s library. The door was locked. Well, of course it is, Maggie thought. She picked the lock in seconds with one of her hairpins. Once she''d ascertained no one was there, she turned on her tiny flashlight and made her way to the desk. The safe was supposed to be under it. And it was, just as her handler had described. Good, she thought, sitting down on the carpet next to it. All right, let''s talk. That was how she pictured safecracking: a nice little chat with the safe. It was how the Glaswegian safecracker Johnny Ramensky--released from prison to do his part for the war effort--had taught her. She spun the dial and listened. When she could hear the tumblers dropping into place--not hear, but feel the vibrations with her fingertips--she knew she had the first number correct. Now, for the second. Biting her lower lip in concentration, immersed in safecracking, Maggie didn''t hear the room''s closet door open. Out from the shadows emerged a man. He was tall and lean, and wearing an SS uniform. "You''re never going to get away with this, you know," he lisped, like Paul Lukas in Confessions of a Nazi Spy. Maggie didn''t bother to answer, saving her energy for the last twist of the dial, the safe''s thick metal door clicking open. In a single move, she gathered the files from the safe under her arm and sprang to her feet. She turned the flashlight on the intruder. He squinted at the light in his eyes. Maggie ran at him, kneeing him in the groin, hard. While he was doubled over, she elbowed him in the back of the head. Satisfied he was unconscious, she ran to the door, folders still in hand. Except that he wasn''t unconscious. An arm shot out and a hand grabbed Maggie''s ankle. She fell, files sliding across the floor. She kicked his hand off and scrambled for the door. He struggled to his feet and ran after her, catching and holding her easily with his left arm while he wrapped his right hand around her throat. She gasped for breath, trying to throw him off, but she couldn''t get the proper leverage. He threw her up against the wall, pinning her-- "Stop! Stop!" Then, again--the voice amplified by a megaphone, louder this time: "OH, FOR HEAVEN''S SAKE, STOP!" The man''s arms around Maggie relaxed and released her. "What on earth . . . ?" she muttered in exasperation. The hall''s lights blinked on, bare bulbs in elaborate molded ceilings. It wasn''t actually the home of a high-ranking Nazi in Berlin but the Beaulieu Estate in Hampshire, England. Beaulieu was considered the "finishing school" of SOE--Special Operations Executive--Winston Churchill''s black ops division. Some of the recruits joked that SOE didn''t stand for Special Operations Executive as much as "Stately ''omes of England," where all the training seemed to take place. "What now?" Maggie grumbled and started to pace the hallway. A severe-looking man in his late forties with a full head of gray hair walked out into the hall with a clipboard. "All right, Miss Hope--would you like to tell us what you did wrong?" Maggie stopped, hands on hips. "Lieutenant Colonel Ronald Thornley." Maggie had to remember not to call him Thorny, which was his unfortunate nickname among the trainees. "I picked the lock, cracked the safe, took the folders, disarmed the enemy--" "Disarmed. Didn''t kill." Maggie stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "I was just about to do the honors, sir." "You were about to be killed yourself, young lady," Thornley barked. The tall man in the SS uniform walked up behind Maggie, rubbing the back of his head. "Not bad technique there, Maggie. But they told me that if you only knocked me out and didn''t fake-kill me I''d have to come after you again." She gave him her most winning smile. "Sorry about the knee, Phil." "Not at all." Thornley was not amused. "Not killing the enemy is the worst mistake because . . ." Maggie and Phil looked at each other. From behind Thornley came a loud, high-pitched nasal voice: "Because the only safe enemy is a dead enemy." "Oh, Colonel Gubbins--we didn''t know you were there," Thornley said, as Gubbins stepped out of the shadows. "There is nothing more deadly than an angry Nazi--remember that--you''re not killing a person, you''re killing a Nazi. A Kraut. A Jerry." Colonel Colin McVean Gubbins was Head of Training and Operations at Beaulieu--a haunted-looking man with dark, recessed eyes, thick eyebrows, and wispy mustache. "Only sixty percent of agents dropped behind enemy lines survive, Miss Hope. You''re the first woman to be dropped into Germany--the first woman to be dropped behind enemy lines in this war, period. Lord only knows what your odds are. We''re taking an ungodly risk. And we want you to be prepared." Maggie''s frustration cooled. This wasn''t about her--it was about the mission succeeding. "Yes, sir." "You''re going in to deliver a radio part to a resistance group in Berlin, and also to plant a bug at a high-ranking Abwehr officer''s home. For whatever reason, the Prime Minister has asked for you for this mission specifically. And if you take out a Nazi or two in the process, so be it. This is no time to be squeamish or sentimental. Do you understand?" The P.M. asked for me specifically for this mission! Maggie glowed with pride but tried to damp it down so Gubbins wouldn''t notice. "I do, sir." "With your fluency in German, and the skills you''ve been working on, you just might pull it off," he said. "But it''s dangerous work and that''s why you can leave nothing--and no one--to chance." "Yes, sir." Maggie had dreamed about becoming a spy sent on a foreign mission. She''d dreamed of it working as a typist to Prime Minister Winston Churchill and she dreamed about it while she was acting as a maths tutor to the Princess Elizabeth. Now, finally, was her chance. "Let''s try it again," Gubbins said. "And this time, Miss Hope, I want you to finish the Nazi off. Kill the damned Kraut." It was ungodly hot and humid, even though it was still early morning. The skies were dark and swollen with bloated clouds. Above the buildings soared the baroque verdigris roof of the Berliner Dom, its golden cross pointing heavenward like an accusing finger. Elise Hess navigated the narrow cobblestone side streets of Berlin-Mitte in order to avoid the parade on Unter den Linden, fast approaching the Brandenburg Gate. The Nazis had reason to celebrate. Not only had they already seized Holland, Belgium, and France, but now German troops had invaded Russia, destroying Russia''s 16th and 20th Armies in the "Smolensk pocket" and triumphing at Roslavl, near Smolensk. The German military seemed invincible. Despite the Atlantic Charter with the United States, Britain''s defeat was clearly only a matter of time. Elise could hear the steady beating drums of the Hitler Youth and the coarse clamor of the crowd in the distance, singing the Horst Wessel Song. She could see the scarlet banners with their white circles and black hakenkreuz--broken crosses--which the Volk had hung from their windows. Papering the limestone walls were tattered posters of Adolf Hitler in medieval armor, on horseback like a Teutonic knight, captioned Dem Fuhrer die Treue: Be True to the Fuhrer. Trash, cigarette butts, and broken glass from the rally the night before lined the gutters, and the air stank of stale beer and urine. The ground was marked with chalk squares for the children''s hopping game Heaven and Hell. Boys and girls were playing, throwing a small stone, then hopping on the chalked squares, trying to make it from one end to the other and back again. The boys were well scrubbed, the girls had intricate braids. All had round, rosy cheeks. As one, they spied a small boy with a clubfoot, walking with a crutch, twisted ankle dragging behind him. He hobbled as close to the wall as he could, trying not to be noticed. But like a pack, the group set on him, herding him away from the wall. They formed a circle around him, holding hands, as the boy''s eyes darted, trying to find a way to escape. One of the older boys started singing a familiar nursery rhyme: Fox, you''ve stolen the goose Give it back! Give it back! Or the hunter will get you With his gun, Or the hunter will get you With his gun. The other children joined in: His big, long gun, Takes a little shot at you, Takes a little shot at you, So, you''re tinged with red And then you''re dead. So, you''re ting

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