“Step forward to that mark,” he said, pointing to a white line on the floor, and loaded the cylinder.
She did, and he gave her the pistol. It was heavy in her hand.
“You will never point a weapon at anyone, or put your finger on the trigger, unless you intend to kill what or who you’re aiming at,” Billy said and gestured to a paper target, a silhouette of a Wehrmacht soldier. “You are thirty feet away from that German, who is intent on killing you. In the heat of battle, when your life could end in an instant, there is no time to be a thinker. You shoot to kill. First shot in the heart, the next in the head, and you keep shooting until the enemy is no longer a threat. And then you shoot him one last time to make sure. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat: shot in the heart, next in the head.”
“Shot in the heart, next in the head.”
“Good. Off you go, lass. When ready, there’s your enemy; kill him before he kills you.” Billy stood to one side.
Caitrin brought up the revolver, sighted, and fired until the gun was empty. The target was hidden in smoke, her hand tingled from the recoil, and her ears rang from the shots.
Billy stared at her for what seemed like an eternity and did not move or speak. Finally, he said, “You have never fired a gun before?”
“Just the shotgun.”
Billy went to the target, unclipped it, and gave it to her. Seven of the eight shots, all grouped, were shared between the head and heart of the target. The eighth was just below the heart. “You’re quite sure you have never fired a gun before?”
“Sure.”
“Are you trying to fool me?”
“No, not at all, but I really didn’t want that nasty German with the big ears and whatnot to get me.”
“Big ears and whatnot?”
The women chuckled, and Billy, being the only man in a crowd of women, knew well enough not to embarrass himself by asking further questions. He gestured to the revolver in her hand. “That is now your weapon. Take good care of it, and it will look after you.”
Three of the women failed weapons training; one of them pulled a revolver trigger, winced at the recoil, put it down, and left without saying a word. Two more dropped out when, as part of their endurance testing, they were left alone at night in the woods and scared each other silly. Only two survived the full course. One was the sharp-eyed woman with the mint breath and black coat, who then mysteriously vanished one night, taking with her the priory office petty cash. The other one was Caitrin Colline.
3
A year later, Winston Churchill had been the British prime minister for only a few troubled months when he wedged himself behind a small desk and set to work. He wore a sky-blue velvet siren suit, modeled on a workingman’s one-piece boiler suit, although with a long zip instead of buttons. Turnbull & Asser, who supplied his bespoke shirts, had made several such suits for him, including one in gray pinstripe for more formal occasions.
Churchill was not an early riser, preferring to begin work at midday, and then while in bed or from one of his twice daily baths. But this was not a usual day, and this was not his usual office. He was hidden away in a junior secretary’s room upstairs at the end of a long corridor in 10 Downing Street. It had no window and little furniture, apart from the tiny desk, a few chairs, and a painting of ducks in flight at dawn with a tear in the corner. This obscure place had been chosen to give him some anonymity for the task in hand.
One of the chairs was pushed into a corner and sitting in it was Walter Thompson, Churchill’s bodyguard, a man with a splendid nose, assessing eyes, and, although tall, the uncanny ability to be inconspicuous. Thompson had placed the chair so he would be hidden from view behind the office door when anyone entered.
A hard rap on the door was answered by a response from Churchill. The door swung open. A young woman appeared and said, in a strong, clear voice, “I was supposed to say I am Number Nine, but I do actually have a name.”
The previous eight women had been much of a muchness, polite and somewhat overawed at his presence, but this one, Number Nine, was different. She stood confidently erect and wore well-tailored slacks, a white shirt, and a short tweed jacket. Number Nine was her own unexpected presence.
Flustered, Churchill flicked open a file and ran a finger down a list. “Number Nine. You are—”
“I am Caitrin Colline.”
“Sit down, please, Miss Colline,” Churchill said, a little more in command. He leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a cigar. He did not approve of women wearing trousers. “You, young lady, in that trousers getup, look rather like a keen cavalry subaltern.”
“And you, Sir, with that blue velvet romper suit, look rather like Winnie the Pooh.”
“I am Winnie the PM,” Churchill answered, startled by her bold reply.
“Yes, Sir, that you most surely are.” Caitrin sat upright, her back not touching the chair. She met his gaze, and he saw no insolence or bravado in her expression, only confidence. This young woman had a simple grace. She made no unnecessary movements, did not fidget or make nervous gestures of habit. Also, she seemed not at all awed by his presence, and apparently was not much impressed by him either.
“Halifax called me that once. Do you know why you are here?”
“No.”
“You volunteered.”
“I was encouraged.”
“Very well. A gentleman should never ask a young lady this—”
“I am twenty-six.”
“Unmarried?”
“Oh goodness, yes.”
Churchill focused his attention on the file. “Policewoman. You’re not in uniform.”
“It being such a mysterious meeting, I thought it better to come in mufti.”
Churchill smiled to himself. She was toying with him and enjoying it. So was he. “Your accent. Welsh?”
