Chapter Fifteen

The next afternoon, Henrik Martens made his way to Boodle’s, a prestigious private gentlemen’s club, located at 28 St. James’s Street. When he arrived, he was shown directly to a smoking room. The walls were covered with gold-framed oil paintings of men on horseback surrounded by hunting dogs.

Bishop was waiting for him at a table in a dimly lit corner, glass of amber liquid in hand. “Sit down,” he instructed. The small room was acrid with the odor of stale cigar smoke.

Martens obeyed, noting a silver-haired waiter leaving. Bishop called, “Close the doors!” which the man did. They now had the room to themselves.

“If you’re going to have any power as ‘Controlling Officer of Deception,’ you’ll need to know a bit more than what’s in the files,” Bishop told Martens. “The important things aren’t necessarily written down. I know you have experience in the field with SOE’s Norway Section, but there are any number of overarching intelligence plans in the works, and SOE’s in the dark.”

“Sir?”

“What a tangled web we weave…” Bishop’s eyes went to a wall of leather-bound books, titles tooled in gold: The Greek Tragedy by Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles; The Art of War by Sun Tzu; Carl von Clausewitz’s On War. “Want a drink? You might need one by the time I’m done.”

“Perhaps I should, then.” Martens rose and made his way to the bar cart, pouring himself two fingers of scotch.

“Because the Allied landings will take place in France,” Bishop was saying, “British intelligence operating there will be called upon to perpetuate the greatest lie ever told—the false location of the Allied invasion. We’re outmanned and outarmed. Deception is our only chance for survival.”

Martens took the seat opposite Bishop. “I was brought up with the adage that gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail.”

“I was afraid of that.” Bishop lit a Player’s cigarette. “The gentleman’s way of waging war died with mustard gas and trenches,” he said with a certain waspish glee, “and now the British secret service is the best there is. We’re ruthless, vicious, and cruel—and believe that the ends always justify the means. If you’re going to work with us, Colonel, you’re going to have to toughen up.” Bishop exhaled smoke, the blue tentacles weaving around his head.

“You’re educating me,” Martens observed, setting down his drink and reaching for a cigarette.

“Why, yes.” Bishop pushed the silver case across the table to him. “If we’re going to work together, you need to be brought up to speed.”

Martens plucked a Player’s; Bishop lit it for him. “I specialize in what we call ‘misleading deception’—creating an attractive possibility for the enemy that’s dead wrong. I’m like a novelist—in that I create a setting, a cast of characters, and plausible details, all of which tell the same story.”

“Story?”

“I’m talking about what we’re calling ‘Operation Fortitude.’ It’s still in the planning stages and we’re still waiting on those damn sand samples. But once we get the official go-ahead that Normandy is the invasion site, my job—and yours—will be convincing the enemy that it will take place anywhere but there. Everything must point to an attack on Pas de Calais. If we can convince Hitler to believe the lies of Fortitude, on the day of the invasion the German Army will be massed in Pas de Calais—leaving the beaches of Normandy relatively free.” He tapped his ash into a bronze tray with an embossed dragon.

“Even with the Yanks and the Canadians,” Martens mused as he exhaled smoke, “we’ll only have thirty divisions. If we’re preparing to invade Normandy, how can we possibly convince the Germans of a Pas de Calais attack? We simply don’t have enough men.”

“A web of lies,” Bishop responded. “A story, if you will. For a setting, we’ll use the Thames Estuary and East Anglia, Dover, and Ramsgate. That’s the logical place to build up our army of ghosts.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Think! What would we have to do in real life if we were planning to invade Pas de Calais? Remember that old children’s saying: ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey’?”

“Amass troops in East Anglia?”

Bishop looked like a headmaster let down by a star pupil. “Wrong! First, we’d need to widen the roads before bringing in men and tanks. And so that’s what we’re actually doing, of course. At night, using the cover of darkness. But the regular German aerial reconnaissance that flies over our fair island nation will soon note changes in the roads. They’ll take the information back to Hitler. He’ll know exactly what it portends.”

“But then what? We don’t actually have any men—or tanks—to spare.”

“Ah—” Bishop tapped ash into a cut-glass tray. “This is where the dark magic comes in. We don’t need real tanks, we just need something to look like tanks for the Luftwaffe’s Leicas taking photographs at twenty thousand feet. Have you ever seen the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? In New York City?”

“Yes?” Martens was now thoroughly confused.

“The balloons! We’ve gone to B. F. Goodrich, who makes the balloons for the parade each year. We’ve commissioned balloon models of Sherman tanks, two-ton trucks, guns…They ship them over, and we inflate them with an air compressor. Every night, we’ll move them around—takes a few men for each—so that any Kraut flying over will be convinced he’s photographing maneuvers.”

Martens’s eyes widened. “But—but what about people? The soldiers? The officers? All the support staff? You’re talking about thousands of men!”

“Actors get drafted for war work, too,” Bishop replied with a grim smile. “We’re going to create a phantom army, voiced by radio actors. They’ll be a cast of characters—real men with real issues. Not just the war, but men who need haircuts and have cheating wives. Who use toilet paper and condoms.”

“That’s insane!”

“Not at all, dear boy. We know Hitler can pick up radio messages. So we’ll create fake wireless communications about fictional activity in real time.”

“And you believe Hitler will buy it?”

“That’s where counterespionage comes in. You’ve read up on the Twenty Committee?”

“Not yet,” Martens admitted.

“Well, you should. You’ll find out that all of the agents Germany sent to Britain as part of the so-called Fifth Column have been captured by MI-Five. They’re all radioing back to the Fatherland under our control. Through their transmissions, we will pass the most vital secrets about Fortitude and the buildup for the attack. We’ll have the turned spies send messages back about activity they’re supposedly seeing—tank maneuvers and so forth that will corroborate our story.”

“Then what?”

Bishop took a sip of his drink. “Then we pray Hitler swallows our lies.”

“If you’re building up a ghost army near East Anglia,” Martens said slowly, “you must realize that the civilians nearby are in danger of being bombed. The Luftwaffe could decide to attack the fake buildup and kill some very real Englishmen.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” He crushed out his cigarette. “People could die thanks to that scenario you’ve dreamed up.”

“Ends and means, old thing.”

“The British people will never stand for this!”

“The British people will never find out.”

“Do General Ismay and the P.M. know?”

“We have their blessing to do whatever we need to do to win.”

Martens shook his head. “Is there nothing you wouldn’t sacrifice?”

“For survival?” Bishop gave a bitter laugh. “No, I have no limits. None at all. Before I let those Huns win, I’ll sell my soul to the Devil himself.”

Maggie had spent the day at various fashion shows and then returned to the Ritz for afternoon tea. Now, dressed and coiffed, with her face concealed, Maggie made her way to the ballroom with the designer.

“Well, it’s not one of Elsie de Wolfe’s soirées, but I suppose it will do,” Chanel said as she swept through the doors of the Ritz’s grand salon. Maggie looked over the scene. There were actually three salons, all connected, and each had a soaring ceiling, glittering chandeliers, gold-painted moldings, and velvet draperies. All had been transformed: the floors had been polished to a sheen, great gilded brackets held dripping candelabras, and bouquets of red roses and orchids overflowed on the linen-swathed tables.

Maggie had to fight the urge to turn and run; Goering was rumored to be attending. But instead, she pressed her mask—a confection of semiprecious stones and dyed feathers—against her face for concealment and descended the steps. The other hand demurely lifted the skirt of her dress, the pale blue hidden by a black lace gown she had worn to the ballet.

In the main salon, there was no shortage of haute couture on display. The ladies wore gowns of shimmering silk, frothy lace, and floating tulle. Jewels sparkled on their throats and dangled from their ears, and long kid gloves covered their hands and arms. The men were elegantly clad in evening dress, their shirt studs and gold cuff links glinting in the candlelight.

As the orchestra played a lilting fox-trot, the candlelit room swirled with dancers. The ballroom was a feast for the senses: the dancers in gowns of scarlet, crimson, and ruby keeping time to the sweet music of the strings. The fragrance of the women’s perfumes and men’s hair tonic combined with the heady scent of the flowers. And drifting above it all was the rise and fall of flirtatious conversation, mostly in French, but occasionally in German.

Maggie felt dizzy, from both the heat of the candles and the warmth of the dancers as they spun and twirled. A waiter stepped up to her with a silver tray. “Champagne?”

Maggie accepted a glass as Chanel was greeted by a group she obviously knew and took the opportunity to walk away, mask held firmly in place. The music finished and the assembled politely applauded. But before she could make her escape, a man blocked her path. “I couldn’t help but recognize you by your hair,” he said in German-inflected French. Despite his mask, Maggie recognized him instantly.

“Christian.”

“May I have this dance?”

Maggie nodded, and set down her drink. The General led her to the dance floor. As they began to move to the music, he asked, “Did you know that legend has it Elsa Maxwell rejected a diamond Cartier bracelet at a dinner at the Ritz given in her honor, saying she preferred having Fritz Kreisler play for her?”

“Must have been a while ago,” Maggie retorted drily. Jewels and gold were worth far more than francs.

“And at that, George Bernard Shaw proclaimed, ‘This woman is the eighth wonder of the world!’ I wonder, Mademoiselle Kelly, which would you pick?”

“Before the war, the violin performance.” She gave a short laugh. “But nowadays, the diamond bracelet.”

Christian spun her about, guiding Maggie across the crowded dance floor, one gloved hand holding hers, the other resting lightly on her back. In the arms of a German officer, even masked, she couldn’t possibly relax. And then she caught sight of Goering.

Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering, towering and rotund, was wearing a specially made dress uniform trimmed in golden braid that stretched tightly across his broad back, dark sweat stains under his arms. His beaded and feathered black mask depicted the horned hunting god, complete with antlers. Christian saw the direction of Maggie’s glance and immediately steered her closer. “Come, I’ll introduce you!”

But before she could protest, another man cut in. “May I?”

Christian released Maggie regretfully. “We must dance again, mademoiselle,” he said, then bowed and left.

The masked newcomer whirled her around the floor, away from Goering. Maggie stiffened in surprise, almost losing her step. “Jacques!” The orchestra began to play “A String of Pearls.”

“You look beautiful, mademoiselle.” His voice was thick with emotion.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something’s happened. We need to get to somewhere private to talk.”

He took her hand to lead her across the floor. They went through the salon to the glass-walled atrium and then to the garden. There was no one else outside; the threat of rain was enough to ensure privacy.

As they walked the darkened paths, Jacques kept hold of Maggie’s hand. “Are you cold? Would you like my jacket?”

“I’m fine.”

But he took his black dinner jacket off and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm from his body, and she pulled it closer around her. They faced each other, hands clasped, palm against palm, soft glove leather against leather, but the touch was surprisingly intimate.

“You need to leave Paris,” he said urgently.

The spell was broken. “Why? What’s happened?”

“Two agents have been captured.”

“What? Who?”

“I don’t know. I only know they’re at Avenue Foch. Who knows what they’ve said?”

“I promised my sister she could get out. And there’s an injured British pilot—”

“First we have to get you to the safe house on Rue Curial. Then we’ll worry about getting you all out. The full moon is less than a week away.” He leaned close. Once again, Maggie was aware of the warmth of his body. “It’s urgent. You’ll need to go tonight.”

“Tonight? What about the curfew?”

He looked at the face of his watch in the leaking light from the gala. “It’s best we get you there as soon as possible. Go upstairs, change, and pack a bag. Take the servants’ stairs back down. I’ll be waiting on the street.”

Maggie moved quickly, going up to her little room, changing into plain, dark clothes, packing a small suitcase of necessities, leaving behind the large Vuitton trunk and all the couture. Thank you, Paige, she thought as she left and closed the door behind her. You always were generous about lending your things.

She ran down the stairs with her case; Jacques was waiting for her as he’d promised. She walked to him. “We might never see each other again.” And wouldn’t that fit my pattern of romantic entanglements perfectly?

“You never know. Let’s say à bientôt, rather than au revoir. I’ll walk you to the safe house. Make sure you go there.”

“It’s better if I go alone. We shouldn’t be seen together.” And yet Maggie set down her suitcase. In the shadows, his arms wrapped around her.

They kissed. You fool, Maggie thought, you idiot—always falling for the unavailable man. They broke apart and stared at each other.

“I—” he began.

“No,” Maggie replied, drawing away. “Don’t say anything more.”

“Maybe after the war?”

Maybe. She picked up her suitcase again. “Stranger things have happened.”

At Station 53a, Elspeth Hallsmith bent over an encoded message, just received from the agent known as IDJ.

She didn’t know IDJ well; he—or she—had been sent to France only recently, and she’d decrypted only three previous messages. It had been a long shift, and now there was only an hour to go before the next crew took over. Even Elspeth’s usually perfect curl was falling out, her lipstick long since faded, her elegant fingers drumming restlessly on the long table. “All right, IDJ, let’s see what you’re up to,” she muttered as she began to translate the Morse code into English.

CALL SIGN IDJ

22 JUNE 1942

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED STOP TARGETS IDENTIFIED STOP REQUESTING MORE AGENTS FOR IMMEDIATE ACTION OVER

Elspeth went over the transcribed message not once but four times. For the first time, IDJ had forgotten his security check. She bit her lip. Another F-section agent leaving off security checks. It was becoming a far too common occurrence.

And so, like the others, she stamped the top of the decrypt SECURITY CHECK MISSING in bright red ink and put it in her outbox.

When Maggie arrived at the safe house, every window was dark and shuttered. All the doors were locked. Great, she fumed, just perfect.

Worried about being out after curfew, she made her way across the arrondissement to Bar Lorraine, still carrying the suitcase. Jacques had specified the safehouse, but she had nowhere else to go and couldn’t stay out past curfew.

The bar was dim and smelled of herbal cigarette smoke. A man with an accordion finished playing “Flambée Montalbanaise” and began passing around his worn hat. The patrons in Thonet chairs at the marble-topped tables resolutely ignored him.

Two gray-haired men, one with a nervous blink, the other chewing on the end of an unlit pipe, played a silent but intense game of bezique at a table in the back. In a mirrored corner, Maggie saw a pretty French girl laughing and flirting over a tumbler of wine with a doughy-faced Wehrmacht officer, who leaned in to kiss her hand before he stood, bowed, and left.

The instant the German was out the door, a Frenchman with faded eyes and teeth stained by a lifetime of coffee and wine came up to the girl’s table and, to Maggie’s astonishment, slapped her across the face, hard. The girl’s eyes filled instantly with tears as the man hissed, “Flirting with the Boche? Someday we’ll shave your head and march you naked through the streets of Paris in your shame.”

The girl rose. Her pretty face was very pale. “Be careful I don’t get you arrested, old man!” she shrilled. Then she spat in his face and flounced off after the officer.

One of the gray-haired men called over, “Non, monsieur. Revenge is not the right way.” His companion nodded in agreement. “That’s not what we’re fighting for.”

Maggie made her way to the bar. “Puis-je voir Jeanne-Marie, la fille d’Ora?” she asked the man behind the counter, using the agreed-upon question. He was lean and broad-shouldered, with clipped brown hair. A shiny white scar ran down one cheek.

“Vous voulez dire Babs?” he replied, exactly as he should.

Maggie’s entire body sagged with relief. “Oui.”

“Come.” He took off his stained rondeau apron, then led her to the back hallway. There was a door; he knocked three times. Then he opened it for her, gesturing her inside.

She entered. Three Gestapo officers in long black leather coats stood facing her.

The man with the scar covered her mouth with his hand. “Don’t make a sound.”