Free The Spy by Marc Eden Page B

pulled a leg muscle, shortened a tendon...you know. This special unit has to be A-one physically. I’d received training in police science before the war, so I ended up in Naval Intelligence.”
    â€œI’m glad you pulled that leg muscle.”
    â€œSome things are meant to be,” the Commander said, and he rousted Sergeant Llewellyn from his cigarette with a snap of the fingers.
    Gunnery instruction went better. They gave her some salve for her hands and a pot of cold water to cool them. In late afternoon, the guns were put aside for a simulation on how to cut throats.
    â€œWhat a ghastly business,” the girl remarked.
    â€œBusiness is business, my dear. But we’ve run our course for the moment, have we, Llewellyn? Good! Almost time for supper. Ah, here comes Pierre!”
    The Frenchman, who had been running refresher courses elsewhere and who had been chatting with the Sergeant, now approached them. “How are you feeling?” he said to the girl.
    â€œAching all over,” Hamilton replied, “but she’s not going to admit it. Both of you meet me in the dining room at 1900 hours.” Valerie nodded. She had moved to one side, and was limbering up.
    Out of her earshot the Frenchman confided: “Sergeant Llewellyn has just been telling me what an excellent pupil she’s been.”
    Hamilton lit a cigarette.
    â€œYou know, Commander, when you first told me that a girl would be with me on this mission, I had my doubts. I thought another man might have been better.”
    â€œThey don’t come any better,” snapped Hamilton. “She’s fluent in French, and has a lot of heart.”
    â€œI’ll say, said Pierre, eyes glued to her bosom. Valerie caught his look and turned to the Commander.
    â€œFeeling better? Good! Now we must give you time for a soak in the bath.”
    What bath?
    Sinclair relaxed in the shower, wondering what to wear at supper. She’d packed the red dancing dress, along with a pale blue suit, and had planned to wear the dress. She had also brought her turquoise Egyptian gown. It reminded her of Cleopatra. Well, she would leave it in the valise. The blue suit, too. She stared down, dismayed at what was in front of her: big boobs were such a bother! She had finished her shower and was just drying off when there came a knock at the door.
    â€œYes? Who is it?” she shouted through the steam.
    â€œThe orderly, Lieutenant. I have your uniform.”
    â€œMy uniform? Oh, yes. Would you put it on the cot, please?”
    She heard him do it, the door closing behind him.
    Dropping the towel she rushed naked into the room, her eyes fastening on the two wavy gold rings, the precise cut of the cloth, the skirt, the eight gold buttons on the coat. With a squeal of delight, she tried on the hat, her fingers running over the embroidered laurel leaves.
    Screw the dress!
    She got into the uniform quickly, hoping it would fit. It did, perfectly. She stood in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, and blushing, staring at the woman she had dreamt herself to be:
    An Officer, and a Lady.
    She sat down, dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex, and applied her makeup. Brushing her hair, she suddenly stopped. She leaned closer to the glass. For a long moment, Lieutenant Valerie Sinclair studied the sombre image in the mirror. Then, ever so slowly, she grinned....
    â€œSmashing!” she said.
    David Hamilton was waiting for her at the entrance to the dining room. “None the worse for wear, I see. And your new uniform, hmmm?” He stood back and admired it.
    â€œYes, sir. That hot shower did the trick,” she acknowledged, “and thank you for the—”
    Hamilton nodded.
    â€œâ€”uniform.” Her hands hurt like hell.
    De Beck joined them in the dining room, complimenting Valerie on her appearance, as well as on her commission. Privately, he wished the Commander was miles away. It had been a long time since