How I Became a Spy Read online

  Also by Deborah Hopkinson

  The Great Trouble:

  A Mystery of London, the Blue Death, and a Boy Called Eel

  A Bandit’s Tale:

  The Muddled Misadventures of a Pickpocket

  Into the Firestorm:

  A Novel of San Francisco, 1906

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Deborah Hopkinson

  Cover photos: skyline copyright © 2019 by Getty Images; boy copyright © 2019 by Trevillion Images; other images used under license from Shutterstock.com

  Map copyright © 2019 by Robert Lazzaretti

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! rhcbooks.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780399557064 (trade) — ISBN 9780399557071 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9780399557088

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  For Elisa, Barry, and especially for Katie, who loves the real Rue, Beatrix, and Brooklyn (Hero) just like we do

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Deborah Hopkinson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: The Mysterious American Girl

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part Two: The Game Is Afoot

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Three: Violette

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Part Four: The Truth

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  Answers to Cipher Messages

  Source Notes

  Author’s Note

  Author Questions & Answers

  Roster of Terms, Events & Historical Figures

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1944, DUSK

  LONDON

  I wasn’t thinking about becoming a spy that night. I was just trying to be brave, do a good job, and stay out of trouble. It wasn’t going well.

  “Hold on, LR!” I pumped hard. The air-raid warning sirens hit a high, eerie crescendo, then dipped low, sending shivers down my spine. The sound made Little Roo crazy, like a giant wolf was daring her to join the pack. She threw her small black muzzle to the flare-spattered sky and howled along, her long spaniel ears flapping like flags.

  My heart pounded. And it wasn’t just from riding fast. Tonight was a test. I wanted to prove they hadn’t made a mistake in taking me on. I wanted to do something right for once. But I wasn’t following the rules for being an air-raid messenger. And (though I didn’t know it yet) I definitely wasn’t following the rules for being a spy.

  Now, of course, I’m an expert.

  Rule number one: Always try to blend in.

  When the sirens had started up, I couldn’t find my steel civil defense helmet with the M for Messenger emblazoned on the front. So I’d grabbed an old tin pan and jammed it on my flyaway red hair.

  Rule number two: Don’t carry any conspicuous items.

  My bicycle basket should’ve contained my torch (what Americans call a flashlight). I’d run out without that too. Instead, it held Little Roo, otherwise known as LR. Conspicuous? She was the cutest dog in London.

  Rule number three: Be alert at all times.

  And maybe if I’d been paying more attention that night, I wouldn’t have run into the mysterious American girl.

  Then again, if that hadn’t happened, I might never have become a spy.

  The Mysterious American Girl

  The agent, unlike the soldier, who has many friends, is surrounded by enemies, seen and unseen.

  —Special Operations Executive (SOE) Manual: How to Be an Agent in Occupied Europe

  CHAPTER ONE

  You see, but you do not observe.

  —Sherlock Holmes, in “A Scandal in Bohemia”

  I kept my head down as I went around the curve, hoping the pan wouldn’t fly off my head. With my right hand, I steadied my quivering spaniel and tried to keep her from toppling out of the basket. Still, even one-handed, I swear I would’ve made the turn with no problem.

  Except. Except the girl was standing in the middle of Maddox Street. I shouted, “Hey, watch out!”

  Too late. I had to let go of Little Roo. I grabbed both handlebars and pulled hard to the left. I wasn’t quick enough. My right pedal struck the girl’s shin; we all went down. I banged my left knee. The pan clattered away and LR tumbled out of the basket. She bounced up and began barking and twirling in circles like a crazy windup toy. Overhead, bombers roared. From the ground, ack-ack guns shot defensive fire into the sky. I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my knee.

  “Are you all right?” I yelled over the din.

  The girl didn’t answer at first. I reached out a hand to help her up. She pushed it away. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “Me? You were standing in the street! You’re lucky I wasn’t a bus: You would’ve been crushed flat.”

  Then I stopped. Pointless. It was pointless to argue. I could tell from her accent that the girl was an American. The city was crawling with them. Soldiers in uniform, journalists, navy and army officers sporting stripes and medals, young women in crisp American Red Cross uniforms. Everyone had come to prepare for the invasion of France. It was the only way the Allies could defeat Hit
ler and end the war.

  I knew as well as anyone that we needed the Americans, but there was a part of me that resented these strangers. They hadn’t been here during the worst of it. Three years ago, the Blitz had gone on and on. We’d lived through all-night bombing raids, incendiary bombs designed to burn London to the ground, rubble and destruction on street after street. A lot of kids had been sent to the countryside. My older brother, Will, and I had begged to stay.

  The Americans hadn’t lived through that. Compared to us Londoners, they seemed to burst with hope and energy. Maybe they just ate better. They had money to eat in restaurants, where (so we heard) you could still get “real” food. They hadn’t spent years waiting in long queues, ration cards in hand, to buy food that didn’t taste much like food.

  Latecomers. Too late to change what had happened to us.

  Dad, as always, looked on the bright side. “We can’t achieve victory without them, Bertie,” he explained. “Britain needs American troops and trucks and tanks. We need them all. Be polite when you encounter anyone from the United States.”

  And so I tried again. “Sorry I knocked you down, miss. I’m a civil defense volunteer. It’s my job to tell you to get to the shelter immediately. It’s just up the street.”

  The girl snorted as she stood. She brushed off her coat. “You don’t look very official. You look like a kid. And was that a tin pan on your head?”

  I felt my face burn. “I’m thirteen. It’s just…this is the first time I’ve been on duty during a raid and I couldn’t find—”

  That was as far as I got. All at once, the night splintered apart. Whoomph. Bam!

  “Get down!” I hollered. I had just enough time to grab LR and throw myself to the pavement. I curled over her warm, furry body and whispered, “It’ll be all right, girl.”

  We were lucky. I felt the ground shake, but the bomb had hit nearby, most likely a block or two away. I glanced up to check on the stranger. What is she even doing out alone at dusk? I wondered. Most people headed inside on a late winter afternoon, especially now that the German bombing raids had begun again.

  “Please, miss…it’s not safe to be out.”

  The girl shot to her feet. “I’ve got to go.”

  And then she was gone, flying off down the street, her dark blue coat flapping against her thin legs. Good, I thought. Maybe the noise has scared her. Maybe she’ll follow directions and get to safety.

  “Go past the big church on your left,” I bellowed. “You’ll see the sign for the shelter to your right.” I couldn’t be entirely sure, but it looked as if she’d darted right past it. I shrugged. Well, she wasn’t my problem. Time to get to the command post.

  LR wriggled out of my arms and started sniffing around. I went searching for the tin pan to stick back on my head. Next thing I knew, LR was at my feet, tail spinning like a propeller. Woof! Out came a muffled bark. Her little jaws were clamped onto something. “What have you got, LR? Drop it!”

  I was about to reach for the object when the sound of footsteps startled me. I turned to see an older couple passing by, heading in the same direction as the girl. “Let’s go, dear,” the man called to the woman. “Almost there.”

  “I’m a civil defense volunteer,” I hollered. “Take shelter now!”

  “Thanks, lad, but we’re almost home,” the man said, reaching out to grab his wife’s hand. “We’ve got a Morrison shelter under our kitchen table. We’ll be safe.”

  A hatless young man with short dark hair came bounding right behind them. I tried my warning again. “Get to the shelter!”

  He shot me a frown. I had a quick impression of an angular face and intense, blazing eyes. He looked preoccupied, as if he had something else on his mind besides ack-ack guns. And then, like the other three, he hurried off down Maddox Street.

  “I give up! No one pays me any attention,” I complained to LR, who was still wagging and waiting for me to claim what she’d discovered. I picked up a battered red notebook, small enough to fit in my trouser pocket. I slipped it in without thinking much about it, then reached out for LR.

  “Now we really have to go. Back in the basket!” The wardens would be disappointed in me. Disappointing people was all I seemed to be able to do.

  But LR wasn’t listening either. Nose to the ground, she raced past me, going back the way we’d come. She wasn’t going home, was she? “Oh, come on, LR! Get back here,” I snapped. “You’re going to make me lose my messenger job.”

  I lunged. I missed. And LR kept going. She had a determined trot. And she was stubborn. If she wanted to listen, she listened. And if she didn’t…

  About all I could do was chase after her short, stubby tail with its curlicue waving at the tip. It soon became clear she wasn’t heading home. She disappeared around the curve and into a small side street on the right.

  LR was trained to find people in the rubble. This street hadn’t been hit, though. The blast I’d just felt had been farther away. So what was she doing? I stopped short at the entrance to the narrow alleyway. “Little Roo!”

  She’d vanished into the gloom. The sky had grown darker and the night quieter. The sirens had stopped for now; the bombers had moved on, at least from this part of the city.

  I’d forgotten gloves and my hands were cold. But as I stood alone in that eerie place, my palms started to feel clammy. There was an odd prickling at the base of my neck, almost as if someone was watching me. I peered over my shoulder and squinted. I couldn’t see anyone. I tried to keep breathing. In, out. In, out. It helped me stay calm. Sometimes.

  If only I had my torch. Mum used to remind me about things like that. But that was before.

  And then I made myself do it. I took a step into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details.

  —Sherlock Holmes, in “A Case of Identity”

  “LR?” I whispered, shuffling ahead a few paces. Silence. On either side, old brick buildings hemmed me in.

  I noticed some “Food Waste for Pigs” bins on my left. Was LR just nosing around for crumbs? I called again. “Little Roo?”

  At last I heard a faint answering whine. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I spotted her. She was nosing a bulky, dark shape, past the food waste bins, on the left side of the street. It wasn’t an unexploded bomb, an overturned bin, or a heap of clothes.

  It was a person.

  I took a shaky breath and inched forward. As I drew closer, I realized it was a young woman, lying on her side, eyes closed. Her head rested on one arm, almost as if she was asleep. Could she be asleep? One part of my brain knew that didn’t make sense. No one falls asleep on the side of the street during an air raid.

  She’d been wearing a hat, but it had fallen off. A few strands of wavy dark hair spilled across her cheek. She was young and pretty. But most of all, she was still. Very still.

  I couldn’t see much without my torch. It was impossible to tell if she had cuts or bruises. I didn’t spot any blood. And she wasn’t buried under smoldering rubble like a bomb victim. So what was she doing here? What had happened to her?

  “Miss?” I managed to croak. “Miss, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

  Was she dead? I’d have to touch her to be sure. I reached out my hand, then drew it back. I made myself try again, laying the back of my hand on her forehead for just a second. I breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t feel cold. Not at all. She was alive.

  Now what? I had no first-aid equipment—nothing. I tried to remember my training. I was supposed to keep victims warm. I was supposed to sound reassuring so people wouldn’t panic. Most of all, I was supposed to get assistance immediately.

  I took off my jacket and draped it over her chest and shoulders. “I’m going for help now, miss,” I whispered.

  Oh, come on
, Bertie, I told myself. I cleared my throat. This time I tried to sound confident, as if I knew what I was doing. “Miss, my name is Bertie Bradshaw. I’m a civil defense volunteer,” I said in a firm, loud voice. I placed my hand on her arm in a way that I hoped was reassuring, how I imagined Warden Ita might do it. “I’ll return as soon as I can. Please remain calm.”

  It sounded ridiculous even to my own ears. I got to my feet, swept up LR in my arms, and ran. I felt guilty leaving her there.

  Yet, even at that moment, I had a strange feeling. Even then, I felt a prickling in my mind. I had missed something—some tiny, significant detail.

  I rushed back to my bicycle, plunked LR in the basket, and pedaled hard. I hadn’t gone far when the all clear sounded with its steady, high note. A short raid! Good. Especially since I’d forgotten to stick the pan back on my head.

  * * *

  —

  A few minutes later, I stumbled through the doorway of the civil defense command post, LR bouncing along at my heels. Like the public shelter nearby, it was a reinforced building. It had been built after the Blitz.

  As far as the civil defense was concerned, when a bomb struck, that was an “incident.” I thought it was a funny word to have chosen. It felt dry and cold. It didn’t capture what really happened: People died; families lost their homes or their shops. London was full of the remnants of past incidents. You could still see piles of rubble, like great, gaping scars. You couldn’t always see the scars on people.