Free The Spy by Marc Eden

to eat. Sinclair, glad to be free of the Dorothy Cafe, thoroughly enjoyed the courses, especially one that arrived at their table on a pewter platter, smoking and garlanded with sprigs. Bear meat—what else?—as must have been obvious to any hungry person. Valerie felt a reverence, for it seemed fitting—here on this eve of Achnacarry, as it were—to commemorate this primitive place with practically raw meat of its ancestors. Hamilton, respecting her strange grace but finally clearing his throat, started dishing it up. Sinclair licked her lips. Dabbing daintily with her napkin, she could see the furry monster in the flames, its great fanged jaws roaring at the moon.
    â€œLike the veal, do you?”
    Valerie nodded, she jabbed with her fork.
    Hamilton ordered after-dinner drinks. Burning logs casting shadows on their faces, the men talked. Sinclair wasn’t sure what was in the glass, but she slugged it down. Maybe it was malt. After two, she felt replete. Pierre, she learned, had fought at Dunkirk; both officers had seen battle together. Was that why Hamilton had selected him?
    Valerie stared into the fire, warming her hands.
    The fireplace made her sleepy; the car made her cold. Even in June, evenings were chilly in the Highlands. It was after dark when their car passed the depot. Seven miles on, de Beck pulled into Achnacarry Barracks. A black smudge covered the heavens and the lights were yellow, the way they are in camps. A soldier was waiting at the desk. The Commander hurried them through Reception. Once cleared, he turned to the Frenchman: “Breakfast is at 600 hours. Good night, Pierre. You know your billet.”
    With the Frenchman gone, Hamilton escorted the girl to her quarters. At the door, he told her: “Your training starts in the morning. Remember, your time here is not to be wasted.” Having delivered her, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the hallway.
    â€œGood night, sir.”
    Sinclair entered the room and kicked off her shoes. She threw the switch and dropped her skirt. Off with her blouse, her panties and bra. Flapping out her blanket, she looked out the window. There was a clothesline. Men’s underwear hung down into the humid night.
    Stiff as iron.
    It is something she hears: the snap of a lock, a loudspeaker... a language. It is something she listens to: drifting through the dark, welling up from the subterranean fountain of military life—the secret and violent hush of morning. Alerted by the yapping of the camp dogs, sopranos in pitch blackness, footsteps move along the corridor:
    The Spy arrives before dawn.
    Click !
    Ryan and the limousine hidden in thick woods beyond the security fence, her camera jammed! Unphotographed, the man without a face evaporated from her consciousness as explosive knocks on her door pulled her out of vanished dreams:
    Into the hot, rising sun.
    It was 530 hours.
    She took a fast shower which helped her wake up, got dressed, and reported for breakfast. She was wearing a man’s naval battle dress, which Hamilton had arranged. It was the smallest size the Commander had been able to find, and it had been waiting for her in her room.
    The Commander was also waiting.
    Pierre joined them. What a break for me, he thought. Throwing the girl a warm smile, he made sure that she got it. A Swordsman, he liked them young.
    Breakfast was a fast affair. As they came out of the mess hall, they passed two American Rangers leaning up against a wall. “What’n the hell?” She was the first female ever. “We got kids now?” and he turned and spat tobacco juice onto the grass.
    They reported to the firing range.
    â€œValerie,” said Hamilton, “this is Sergeant Llewellyn, a crack shot and a good Welshman! He will teach you how to handle a pistol, and how to kill a German at twenty yards. Actually, you will not be taking guns with you.” He pulled her aside. “As a French student you see, you would not