Page 34 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

C atherine emerged from Westminster station with the afternoon crowd, office workers returning from lunch breaks, civil servants hurrying back to their desks.

Despite the previous night’s bombing, the women around her had made an effort – bright lipstick, hair carefully pinned, smart coats brushed clean.

Even Mr Churchill had said women should look stylish in wartime, and London’s women were doing their bit for morale.

The wet air carried the scent of coal smoke and damp stone, thick with the residue of the raids.

She checked her watch as she crossed Great George Street.

Ten minutes early, which was exactly how Daniel preferred it.

As she turned onto Horse Guards Road, a familiar weight settled low in her chest as she passed the darkened windows of the ministries.

Looking both ways for traffic, she crossed quickly and slipped into St James’s Park, the quiet swallowing her whole.

She followed the curve of the gravel path until she saw him.

Daniel was waiting, seated on the bench just before the bridge, hat low, gloves on, posture unnervingly still.

He didn’t rise as she approached. She sat beside him, slowly.

‘I heard it was cancelled.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Woolwich was flattened in the night. Hit hard. No one saw it coming.’

Catherine stared at her hands. Churchill had survived. A part of her – a shameful, hidden part – felt warm relief flood her chest. She hadn’t realised how much she was hoping it would fail. Not until it had. ‘I thought…’ she began, then stopped.

‘You thought what?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

Daniel turned to look at her then, his eyes dark and cold. ‘You didn’t tell anyone about the visit, did you?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course not.’

‘Because if you did, Cat …’

She flinched. He rarely used her name sharply, usually with genuine affection, until now.

His voice softened again. ‘Failure disappoints me.’ He paused for a beat. ‘But we don’t stop, do we?’

Catherine swallowed hard. ‘No.’

‘I need you now more than ever,’ he said, reaching out to take her gloved hand. ‘You’re the only one who can get close. The only one they don’t notice. You’re invisible, Cat. But not to me.’

She stared down at their interlocked hands.

‘Never to me, and always remember that, my love.’ He pressed his lips into a smile.

‘We’ll have another chance,’ she said quietly.

Daniel looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And when it comes, I’ll ask more of you. Nothing dangerous, just symbolic.’

She forced a smile, but inside, her stomach twisted. ‘You make it sound poetic.’

‘Revolution often is,’ he said, standing. ‘Watch him. What he reads. Who visits. His movements. And listen carefully. We’ll try again, and this time we’ll be smarter.’

Catherine nodded, staring out at the water, murky and still.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he added, before turning and marching away.

She sat there a while longer. And for the first time, she wished she had a confidante.

Ten minutes later, she forced herself to leave. Today was one of the long shifts, staying on overnight, sleeping in the dormitory on the lower level. The thought of being trapped underground for the next twenty-four hours made her stomach clench.

***

By the time her shift began at three o’clock, Catherine’s nerves had settled into a kind of numbness.

The bunker beneath Whitehall was colder than usual, the smell of stale cigar smoke and typewriter ribbon hanging low in the corridors.

She clocked in. Smiled where she needed to.

Kept her head down. The afternoon and early evening passed in routine tasks.

After a brief rest on a narrow cot in the women’s dormitory, she was back at her desk by eleven p.m.

It was quieter now, fewer footsteps, fewer clipped commands. Just the endless turning of war all around. She was halfway through sorting a stack of intelligence summaries when the telephone rang on the corner desk.

A voice clipped and formal: ‘Miss Thompson. The Prime Minister would like a memo typed immediately. He’s dictating.’

Catherine froze.

‘He’s still awake?’

‘He is always awake.’

She stood slowly, brushing down her skirt, and followed the steward who arrived to escort her.

They wound through the low-lit corridors, past security, past private offices.

The Prime Minister’s quarters were tucked away behind reinforced doors and heavy curtains, the smell of whisky lingering before she even reached them.

The steward knocked once, then stepped aside.

‘Miss Thompson, sir.’

‘Ah,’ came the familiar gravelly voice. ‘Send her in.’

Catherine stepped inside. The room was smaller than she’d imagined, yet cosy and homely. Books stacked in every corner. A fire ticking low in the grate. The Prime Minister stood wrapped in a plum-coloured robe, cigar in hand, his leather monogrammed slippers planted firmly on the rug.

He turned as she entered, puffing once, and gave her a nod.

‘You’re the girl who did the Bennet report last week. Fine typing. Good spacing. I liked the clarity.’

She blinked. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Have a seat. Won’t take long.’

She slid into the chair by the small desk, heart knocking. She fed a sheet of official letterhead into the roller of the Remmington typewriter, adjusted the spacing to double, and waited.

Churchill moved slowly, but his mind was sharp.

As he dictated, he paced, words tumbling out in a rhythm that defied his bulk.

She typed swiftly, fingers flying over the keys in staccato bursts to match his delivery pattern, barely keeping up.

At one point, he paused to pour himself a whisky from a crystal decanter that sat beside a stack of cables marked MOST SECRET.

‘You know, Miss Thompson, they think I don’t notice the ones behind the paper. But I do.’

She stopped typing, hands hovering over the keys

‘Sir?’

‘You typists. Clerks. The invisible army.’ He gestured with his cigar towards the maps on the wall–convoy routes across the Atlantic, red pins marking U-boat attacks. ‘I see you. Every one of you. And I am grateful.’

She didn’t know what to say. Guilt stirred as Daniel’s words echoed in her mind. You’re invisible. Well, not to Mr Churchill she wasn’t. She would have to be extra careful from here on.

He studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly. ‘You look tired, my dear.’

‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Nonsense. The remedy …’ He paused dramatically. ‘An afternoon nap!’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You’re doing your part. All of you are. Never forget that.’

She nodded, throat tight.

When she finished, she pulled the page from the roller and handed it to him. Churchill read it quickly, his lips moving as he scanned each line. Satisfied, he looked up.

‘Klop,’ he said – his pet name for the hole punch – gesturing towards the desk. Catherine handed it to him, watching as he punched holes with gusto.

‘Blasted staples,’ he grumbled, threading a treasury tag through the holes. ‘Barbarous little contraptions. Carry on, Miss Thompson,’ he said, with another puff of smoke.

She stepped out into the corridor, hands trembling, the aroma of whisky and burning coals clinging to her skin. She had just been in the same room as the man she was meant to help destroy. A great man. A good man. And he had thanked her.