Prologue

Only a single small sparrow, hiding in the high branches of the green chestnut trees, dared to pierce the Avenue Foch’s eerie silence with her chirps and trills.

Even though it was afternoon, there was no traffic on Baron Haussmann’s grand Neoclassical thoroughfare, which linked the Arc de Triomphe to the Bois de Boulogne. The vélo-taxis avoided the wide street itself, while pedestrians and bicyclists bypassed its contre-allée—the inner road separated from the boulevard by a ribbon of lawn.

There were few cars in Paris, and even the large black Citroëns and Mercedes favored by the Gestapo seemed to glide silently, as if they, too, were unwilling to disrupt the quiet. Without traffic, the air on Avenue Foch was unexpectedly sweet and fresh.

The cream-colored limestone façades, with their wrought iron balconies, tall windows, and mansard roofs, were considered the height of Parisian elegance. But a more ominous factor lurked behind Haussmann’s design: some of the architect’s critics opined that the real purpose of his grand boulevards was to make it easier for the military and police to suppress armed uprisings. And so the elegant and distinctive city plan had made it simpler for the Nazis to invade Paris during the Battle of France in June 1940.

On the section of Avenue Foch closer to Porte Dauphine stood several anonymous buildings that gave the street its chilling reputation. Number 84 housed the Paris headquarters of France’s section IV Counterespionage division of the Sicherheitsdienst, the German security service that interrogated arrested foreign agents. The Gestapo leaders had chosen Avenue Foch deliberately for their headquarters: it was named after the French general Marshal Foch, to whom the Germans had surrendered in November 1918.

The Sicherheitsdienst’s chief, Obersturmbannführer Wolfgang von Waltz, lifted his head as he heard the low growl of a car pierce the silence of the street. He looked up from the papers on his massive walnut desk and out the window to see a gleaming Benz pull to the curb. Two Gestapo officers in plain clothes emerged with a young brunette in handcuffs.

Von Waltz was in his early forties. He was of medium height, handsome, and immaculately groomed, with golden-blond hair and silvery sideburns, his midsection slimmed by an elastic waist cincher. Only one eye slightly larger than the other kept him from looking like the Nordic gods of the Nazis’ propaganda posters.

Despite his high SS rank, he wore a double-breasted, gray-striped suit, Lanvin silk tie and pocket square, and handmade alligator shoes. He wore civilian clothes on purpose, to win over incoming prisoners. He left the actual torture, if necessary, to the SS henchmen in the elegant building’s damp and chilly basement.

He stood, taking one last satisfied glance over his large office. It had high ceilings with elaborate meringue crown moldings and a glittering cage chandelier, light sparkling through its heavy spear crystals, grand enough to impress any prisoner. His eyes slid across the reproduction of Nicolas Poussin’s Rape of the Sabine Women that hung on one wall, while on the other, over the marble fireplace, hung the gold-framed official portrait of Adolf Hitler. On the mantel stood an antique clock topped by a Jean Gille porcelain figure of a woman in repose—The Sleeping Beauty—one slipper teetering on a graceful foot.

But the centerpiece of the room was a plantation table topped with an enormous domed Victorian cage containing an African gray parrot—a gift from von Waltz’s superior officer, Joachim von Ribbentrop, Nazi Germany’s Foreign Minister, whose photograph was displayed in a silver frame on the desk. And even though von Waltz loathed the bird, he couldn’t wring its neck as he might have liked. Ribbentrop had bought it at the Paris bird market, amused that a bird from Africa’s Ivory Coast, with feathers scalloped like silver chain mail and long tail in Nazi red and black, could be taught to say “Heil Hitler!” on command.

The bird, whom von Waltz had named Ludwig, had intelligent orange eyes and a few bald patches from nervous overgrooming. Ludwig’s ornate cage was lined with newspaper, which von Waltz’s secretary had to change regularly. She also fed the bird his special diet of seeds, greens, chicken bones, and snails. “Bonjour! Guten Tag! Grüß Gott!” the parrot sang out, shifting his weight from one taloned foot to the other. “Heil Hitler!”

“Shut up,” von Waltz snapped.

Ludwig replied, as Ribbentrop had taught him: “Schupf di du Schneebrunzer!”—Get out of the way, you snowpisser.

Von Waltz ignored the bird. He lifted the black Bakelite telephone receiver with one manicured hand and dialed his secretary with the other. “Fräulein Schmidt,” he crooned, “our ‘guest’ has arrived from the Rouen office. Please serve us coffee and perhaps a few pastries? Yes, perfect.”

Outside von Waltz’s office, Hertha Schmidt rose from her desk and did as she was told. Coffee—real coffee, not the ersatz stuff made from chicory or roasted acorns—was as precious as gold or diamonds in occupied Paris. A broad-shouldered, thick-waisted German blonde in her twenties, Hertha relished the many luxuries, such as coffee and chocolates, that working for the SS in Paris afforded her. “Terroristen,” she muttered, measuring out the fragrant ground beans. “Englische Terroristen.” It was bad enough to care for the horrible bird; treating prisoners of war to coffee and pastries was too much.

As von Waltz heard the heavy iron gate clang shut, he closed the file in front of him, then opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a pocket mirror to check his teeth and straighten his tie.

“You’re stupid,” intoned Ludwig from his swing. “When you drink schnapps, you can’t smoke—otherwise you’ll explode.”

Von Waltz went to the cage and pulled a heavy velvet cover over it, silencing the bird. He heard footsteps on the staircase, then a rap at his door. He smiled, eyes glinting. “Come in!” he called in lilting, Austrian-inflected French.

The two SS officers who opened the door looked grotesquely large, towering over their captive—a petite young woman, trembling violently.

Von Waltz clicked his heels, then bowed. “Please sit down, mademoiselle,” he invited, indicating a fragile gilt chair. “Would you like a drink? Coffee is on the way, but I can get you something stronger if you’d like. You look as if you could use it.”

“Take those off,” he ordered the two officers in German, indicating the heavy cuffs shackling the woman’s delicate wrists. Once they did as they were told, he dismissed them.

“That’s better now, isn’t it?” Von Waltz took the seat across from the woman instead of returning to his desk chair. She knew her face was swollen beyond recognition, eyes slits in the battered flesh. Her hair was matted and dirty, the bruises on her neck purple, and she reeked of sweat and urine. She moved gingerly to test the use of her hands.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I see you’ve shown the poor judgment to resist in Rouen. I do trust you will do better here. Ah, coffee!” he cried as Fräulein Schmidt entered bearing a silver tray with a silver sugar bowl, creamer, and plate piled high with pastries. “I do love the ones with the hazelnut crème filling,” he confided as the secretary set the tray down. “Of course, German pastry is the best, but there is something special about Parisian pastry that makes it a very close second.”

“Would you like me to pour, sir?” asked Fräulein Schmidt.

“I’m sure we can manage,” he said, with a wink to the prisoner. As he reached for the coffeepot, he watched her take in his office. There were red Nazi flags on both sides of the hearth. On a rosewood table, a marble chessboard was set up with a game in progress.

“Would you prefer I call you by your code name?” he asked as he poured the fragrant coffee with graceful movements. “Or”—he said, abruptly changing from French to clipped English—“by your real name, Erica Calvert? And do you take sugar or cream? Or both?”

Erica shook her head; von Waltz dropped two sugar cubes and a generous pour of cream into a cup for himself. “Well then, I shall call you Mademoiselle Calvert.” He blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “You are Erica Grace Calvert, one of Winston Churchill’s secret army of undercover agents, known as the SOE or Special Operations Executive, recruited to ‘set Europe ablaze.’ ”

Erica avoided his direct gaze.

“You were captured in Rouen and held for questioning.”

The agent remained silent.

“And you’re so tiny!” he exclaimed, studying her as he set his cup and saucer down. “I had no idea when I read your file that you’d be such a petite thing—and so young, as well.” From his jacket pocket, he took out a silver case. “Cigarette?”

Erica made a sound halfway between a snort and a mew.

“My colleagues, unfortunately, were not able to obtain any satisfactory answers from you. And so you have been sent to Paris, to me.” He left the case open, placing it on the table between them. “I will ask the questions now, and, as you can see, we can make this a civilized exchange. It is up to you, of course. What were you doing in Rouen, Mademoiselle Calvert?”

“I can’t say,” she managed through swollen lips.

“Oh, come now. Sabotage?” von Waltz suggested.

Erica shook her head.

“To whom were you reporting?”

“I can’t say.”

“With whom were you working?”

“I can’t say.”

There was a silence. “Where are the secret stashes of arms and explosives you and your colleagues are bringing over here?”

“I—”

“—can’t say, yes.” Von Waltz smiled as he leaned back in his chair and crossed one slim leg over the other. “And how did you enjoy your stay at Arisaig House? I hear the west coast of Scotland is quite beautiful, especially in autumn.”

Erica’s breathing stilled. There was no way he could know that location—the location of SOE’s paramilitary preparation—or that she had trained there in September and October.

“You did quite well with your parachute school at Ringway. And how did you enjoy your time at Beaulieu?” The Obersturmbannführer pronounced it in the English way, bew-lee. Beaulieu was the SOE’s so-called finishing school, where chosen agents were sent for their final round of training. “I hear even in winter, the weather in the south of England is surprisingly mild.”

“How—how—” Erica stammered.

“We know a lot about you, my darling girl. For instance, how you’ve been leaving off your security checks from prison in Rouen, hoping your London office will notice and realize you’ve been captured.” He smiled. “Meanwhile, the Baker Street agents have noted your lack of security checks—and sent messages back scolding you that in the future you must be more careful with your coding.”

Erica hesitated for a moment. Then, “I don’t believe you.”

Von Waltz rose. He crossed to his desk, flipping through pages of her file, choosing one. Walking back, he handed it to her. “ ‘Your 5735 security check acknowledged,’ ” he recited from memory, taking his seat. “ ‘You forgot your double security check. Next time be more careful.’ ”

He studied her face, relishing the expression of abject shock on her bruised countenance. “Yes, we have a mole in SOE.”

She flinched. But who was the mole? And where? In France? Or in England?

Von Waltz continued, his voice still gentle. “We know how frightened you are, Mademoiselle Calvert. You’ve been confessing your fears in your letters home to your father.”

“There’s no way you can know that!”

Von Waltz ignored her outburst. “Fear in wartime, mademoiselle—well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But I must speak frankly. Your superior, Colonel Harold Gaskell, has sent you—a woman—here, in direct violation of the Geneva Convention, as well as all the rules of gentlemanly warfare.”

Despite her shock and fear, Erica let out a snort at the Nazi’s hypocrisy.

“You have been sent here against all the rules of war,” the Obersturmbannführer persisted. “A woman. In civilian clothes. As a secret agent. To commit acts of terrorism against us. You know what the penalty for that is, yes?”

Erica didn’t reply. Of course she knew. Execution. By firing squad or noose.

“But I am a civilized man. I don’t want you, a woman—a lady—to be sacrificed for the stupidity and rash decisions of your superiors. Your Colonel Gaskell dropped you into a trap—and then quite stupidly failed to recognize his organization’s own security checks, put into place to keep his spies safe, were being left off deliberately to signal you’d been captured.”

He stood again, then crossed the plush Persian carpet. “They think on Baker Street that we’re bungling, ham-handed fools.” At his desk, he picked up another file and pulled out another piece of paper. It was a chart of the SOE hierarchy in London, every name correct. When he walked over and handed it to Erica and she realized what it was and how much sensitive information it contained, she felt tears sting her eyes.

“I know you told your little cover story ad nauseam to the SS officers in Rouen, but let’s dispense with it here, shall we, mademoiselle?” Von Waltz resumed his seat next to her. “I can’t promise you everything, but I can tell you I can save your life. Instead of being executed, you’ll stay here. You’ll share all the information you know, then you will work with us. And when the war is over, you will find out who betrayed you—and get your revenge.”

There was an ugly silence as the British spy struggled to process everything von Waltz was telling her. She’d been captured in Rouen, yes, but the Nazis still didn’t know she’d come ashore on the west coast of France. They didn’t know she’d studied geology and that she’d been sent to the beaches of Normandy to obtain sand and soil samples and to determine beach gradients.

If von Waltz learned the truth, the Nazis would realize that while Pas de Calais was the obvious choice for the inevitable invasion, Normandy was also being seriously considered. Sand samples, which would help the engineers know what sort of equipment and tanks to send when the Allies invaded, would serve as a red flag to the possibility of using Normandy. The enemy didn’t know and they couldn’t know—not because of her. The bag, with her notes and specimens, was with a fellow agent at a safe house in Paris. As long as I can keep that from him…

Von Waltz regarded her smugly. “A terrorist, sent against the Geneva Convention, out of uniform, behind enemy lines, seeking to sow seeds of fear and unrest.” He shook his head. “A female terrorist at that. How badly things must be going in England for them to send their little girls! Sweet little doves, all of you. They should not have made you come.”

“I wanted to come.” She straightened. “I volunteered. It was my choice.”

His voice was suddenly steel. “They should not have allowed you.” Then, in softer tones, “You know there is nothing you won’t tell me when we’re through, mademoiselle. Save me time—and your pretty face—and tell us everything now.”

Erica stared at him in despair, then slumped over in submission. Like all other SOE agents, she’d been issued a cyanide capsule, in case of situations such as this. But hers was concealed in a fountain pen in her handbag, which had been confiscated.

“Yes, we know everything, Mademoiselle Calvert.” Von Waltz moved to the edge of his seat. “Look—give us the names and locations of the remainder of the English spies, tell us where they’re storing their arms and explosives, and we’ll forget the rest. Those arrested as a result will be interned until the end of the war—they won’t be killed. You won’t have betrayed them.” He smiled, revealing even white teeth. “This is an agreement we will make—you and I.”

Erica sat with her head down, mute, seemingly broken.

“If this does not happen, the villages around where we believe the depots are will be burned. And all of the inhabitants, including your fellow agents, will be killed.”

“No…”

“We are all afraid in this war, mademoiselle. But now you can free yourself from fears. There’s nothing dishonorable in it. Help us!” He leaned forward and grasped her hands, holding them gently in his.

Erica shuddered at the physical contact.

“Give us the location of your agents, weapons, explosives, safe houses. And no one will be hurt. I give you my word, as an officer of the Third Reich.”

Erica peered up at him. “I think I’ll have that drink now.”

He dropped her hands and clapped his together with delight. “Good, good!” he exclaimed, rising and going to the bar cart. He splashed two fingers of scotch into a glass, then passed her the heavy tumbler.

She downed it in two gulps. “I will talk to you,” she promised him. “I’ll tell you everything I know. But I’m exhausted. I need to wash. Change my clothes. Eat.”

Von Waltz’s eyes lit up. “Of course, my dear.”

“And I’d like my handbag—I have a compact in there. And some lipstick.”

“I’m afraid that’s not permitted until we’ve gone through everything. But we can show you to a place where you can freshen up. And I will have a hot meal prepared for you, for when you’re ready, and some good French wine. And after that, we’ll chat.”

“Yes,” she said, struggling to her feet.

“You’ve made the right decision.” He opened the double doors, gesturing to the guards outside. “Please take Mademoiselle Calvert to the lavatory on the fifth floor and allow her to freshen up. When she is finished, bring her back to me. And be certain to treat her as the esteemed guest she’s proving herself to be.”

The fifth-floor servants’ quarters had a shared bath. The guards admitted her, then stationed themselves outside the closed door. Erica looked around. There was a dirty tub and a ragged towel on a hook. Over the chipped enamel sink was a mirrored medicine chest. She looked inside—nothing but rust on the shelves.

Grimly, she studied her reflection in the tarnished mirror. Her battered face stared back. She could break the glass and try to slit her carotid artery, but the guards would hear the crash, and they would surely stop her before she could achieve her goal. She’d already been through days of torture and deprivation. She couldn’t take much more. Resolutely, she went to the window, opened the curtains, and looked out. From the fifth floor, it was a long drop to the pavement below. No one could survive such a fall.

While her courage from the scotch still held, she opened the window and crawled out, finding footing on a rain gutter. If she killed herself, the secret of the Normandy sands and soil would die with her. The planned invasion would have a chance. She had confronted death back in Rouen and made her peace with it. She knew what she had to do. Only one thing still tormented her: who was the mole in SOE? Who had betrayed her?

She stepped out into the air, hovering for a moment, like a bird, before she fell.