Chapter Eighteen

Von Waltz ordered Sarah to the radio room and had her sit at the table in front of Hugh’s set. Sarah was exhausted, every nerve frayed. Fischer stood by the window, observing. The professor gave a loud sniff, then wiped at his nose with a handkerchief.

“I won’t try to sugarcoat it, Miss Sanderson. Your fellow terrorist Mr. Thompson died early this morning, rather than give over his security checks.”

She sat absolutely still. “No,” she said, quietly. “No—Hugh can’t be dead.”

“Yes.” Von Waltz smiled at her. “And so, although we didn’t wish to involve a woman if we didn’t have to, we’d now like you to use his radio to send messages. Messages we will dictate. We of course expect you to include your security checks.”

“No,” Sarah moaned. Her stomach heaved, and she bent over.

“Miss Sanderson,” von Waltz warned in stern tones.

“I—I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—” He snapped at the professor, who fetched the wastepaper basket for her. She gave a few dry heaves, then quieted.

Von Waltz waited, then asked, “Do we have to take you down to the basement to make you cooperate?”

Sarah placed her hands on the table in front of her and pushed back. The chair’s legs made a horrible grinding screech, and then she rose, slowly, with a dancer’s poise. “Do what you want with me.” Her voice was broken. “If Hugh’s dead, I don’t care anymore.”

Von Waltz stared at the resolute woman in front of him, then saw the blood trickling down her legs, puddling on the floor.

“What—what’s this?” he yelped, in real shock.

Sarah’s ashen face was etched with profound sorrow, like the Madonna of a Pietà, her eyes black holes of grief. She held back her sobs through sheer force of will.

Fischer coughed. “It’s blood, sir.”

“I know it’s blood, you idiot! Why is she bleeding? Why are you bleeding?” The Obersturmbannführer rounded on her. “My men did not touch you! I ordered it!”

“If it’s not from rape, then perhaps she’s losing a child,” Fischer observed mildly, as though commenting on the weather.

“Women!” von Waltz thundered. “Women in war! This is why it’s wrong! Guards! Get her cleaned up! Then take her to her room!” When she was gone, he clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace.

“Sir, we’ve picked up communications between Gibbon and his handlers in London,” the older man ventured.

“Yes?” von Waltz snapped. “Well, come now—don’t keep me hanging!”

“They’ve asked for him to return to London. On the next flight out.” The two men locked eyes.

“They might suspect something,” Fischer said finally, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose.

“They might.”

The sun was setting over St. James’s Park, exploding in fiery reds and oranges on the horizon. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.” Henrik Martens wrapped his striped university scarf tighter around his neck. “All the F-Section’s mail from Paris to London has been photographed. SOE is compromised. And I believe agents leaving off their security checks have been captured. They are either in Gestapo custody or dead.”

“This is terrible,” Colonel Bishop said, looking as if it were anything but. In a bowler hat and wrapped in a long black overcoat, the head of MI-6’s French Intelligence Section nearly melted into the shadows. “But I don’t see how you know for certain.”

“These.”

The colonel looked at the letters, turning them front and back, holding them up to the light from the window.

“You can’t tell by looking at them. But believe me, they’ve been lit and shot. I used to be an amateur photographer—I took letters that had arrived in the last batch and used chemicals to determine if they’d been exposed to bright light. They have.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” Bishop argued, unexpectedly looking like the cat who’d caught the canary.

“The only reason they’d be exposed to such a bright light is if they’re being photographed.”

“What does Colonel Gaskell say about all this?” Bishop asked carefully.

“When I spoke to him about agents leaving off security checks, he insisted he had it under control. He doesn’t know about F-Section’s mail being photographed yet. I’ve come to you, sir, because I’m extremely concerned there is a mole at SOE. Maybe a few moles. In addition, we have a message from one of our agents in Paris that Raoul was spotted entering 84 Avenue Foch.”

“If all this is true…” Bishop mused.

“Then we have a spy in our midst. We’ll need to get Raoul out of France. And quickly. Before any more of our agents are compromised. Lock him up.”

“But first we need to know what he’s done exactly—and how much damage there is to the network. It’s essential we find that out.”

“I’ll send a message telling him to be on the next flight back.”

“Yes, good, but we must be delicate when he arrives. Otherwise he’ll realize what we’re doing and make a run for it.”

Martens nodded. “I’ll let Colonel Gaskell know.”

“No! Say nothing to Gaskell! If he asks why you’re bringing Raoul back, just say you’re doing some reorganizing of the network and want the agent’s advice, based on his experience and expertise. It’s imperative we get to the bottom, and I mean very bottom, of all of this without tipping our hand to Gaskell.”

“Agreed.”

“And what’s the story with that damn sand from Normandy?”

“Still missing in Paris.”

“It’s imperative we get it back to England. And find out if anyone else knows about it and what secrets it contains. Let me know when you expect Raoul. I want to be there when he arrives.”

Maggie moved her bed to a new part of the room every few hours, until Sergeant Schneider lost interest in the noises coming from her room. Then she moved the bed to the room’s center.

She wasn’t tall enough to reach the window, so she called for the guard. “I’d like a chair,” she said pleasantly through the grille, thankful that Sarah’s room had a regular window.

“A chair? Why do you need a chair?”

“To put my things on, at night.” She leaned forward, appealing to the most German part of his nature. “I do hate a mess, don’t you?”

There was a round of questions, but in the end, Maggie got her chair. If she put it on top of the bed, she might be able to reach the bars.

But before she could test her theory, she heard the muffled but unmistakable sound of sobbing through the wall. She got down and went to the pipe. You all right? she tapped out. Sarah?

Her only answer was moans, animalistic and raw. Maggie pressed her whole body against the wall, as if somehow she could reach her friend and comfort her. But she couldn’t; she was powerless. For the first time since Maggie arrived, she began to contemplate utter and complete defeat.

The professor’s cold was growing worse; along with his headphones, he now wore a scarf wrapped tightly around his throat to protect from drafts as he listened for any communications from London. Fräulein Schmidt had brought him a mug of the old German cold remedy, boiled beer. Although the older man was dubious of the beverage possessing any antibacterial properties, he sipped it, thankful for the woman’s thoughtfulness.

The Germans had been monitoring Gibbon’s messages coming and going from London since he and von Waltz had started working together in ’40. The latest was less than reassuring. As he finished decrypting it, Fischer forgot his runny nose and scratchy throat in his haste to reach von Waltz’s office.

“Gibbon, our ‘gift giver,’ has been summoned back to London!” the professor managed.

Von Waltz looked up from his papers.

“He was spotted by one of the British terrorists entering this building! They must know he’s meeting with you!”

“Let me see.” Von Waltz grabbed the decrypt and scanned it. He picked up his telephone receiver. “Fräulein Schmidt, arrange through the usual channels for Gibbon to meet with me. Immediately.”

The sweeper had broken again and the housekeeper appealed to the guard to let Maggie fix it once more. “In my room, if you don’t mind, madame,” Maggie suggested. “There’s not enough space for me to work in the hall.”

In her cell, Maggie examined the sweeper as intently as a surgeon would a body. “I’ll see what I can do, madame. I’ll need the toolbox again, of course.”

The cleaning woman’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Of course!” As she went to fetch the toolbox, Maggie summoned all her courage. The woman brought the box, and, as Maggie worked on the sweeper, the maid and the guard flirted, retreating to the hallway. Maggie could hear Sergeant Schneider asking her to dinner and Madame’s “yes” and nervous, high-pitched laughter in reply.

Maggie fixed the sweeper, then, taking a deep breath, she tucked the screwdriver down the front of her dress. Schneider stuck his head in. “How long is this going to take?”

“Done!” She smiled broadly and closed the box. “Here you go!” she said, giving the sweeper back to the wiry woman. “Good as new.” Hiding her elation and fear, she latched the toolbox and handed that back as well.

When both had gone, she tapped on the pipe to Sarah: Have plan.

Again, there was no response. Maggie’s stomach churned with fear and worry. And grief. She didn’t know what had happened to Sarah, but given her friend’s sobs, it must have been something terrible. What if Sarah had been tortured? And what of Hugh? Had something happened to him? She lay on the bed and, through the barred window, looked up at the stars. She felt as if her heart had cracked.

As she did in times of strife, she took refuge in math, almost as a form of prayer or meditation. In her mind, she turned numbers over, upside down, and inside out, observing. Why is it that when you pick a number, any number, then double it, add 6, halve it, and take away the number you started with, your answer is always 3?

If God is both all-powerful and all-good, why does he allow such evil?

Why are there never any real answers?

Gibbon spotted von Waltz, his elegant legs crossed, on a verdigris metal slat bench in the Bois de Boulogne, not far from Porte Dauphine, and sat down next to him. The park was nearly empty in the slanting sun, only a few mothers pushing prams and older men in caps playing a game of petanque in the distance.

Von Waltz looked to the sky. “No hot-air balloons today.”

“And no Proustian strolls.” But Gibbon was not in the mood for small talk. “I assume you asked to see me because you overheard the message from London. They want me back. It could be a trap.”

Von Waltz nodded. “I want you to know if you don’t feel it’s safe to go, we will keep you here, take care of you. You’ve served the Reich well. We’ll honor that.”

Gibbon shook his head. “I must go. If I don’t, they will know I’ve betrayed them. And I’ll be no further use to you. But if I go…First of all, they might, as they say, merely want help with the network’s reorganization. Even if they don’t, I can always talk my way out of it. No,” he disagreed, meeting the German’s eyes. “I’ll take the risk.”

“You’re a brave man.” Von Waltz inclined his head. “Come back to us safely.”

Gibbon squinted at the sky. “Maybe I can find out something useful while I’m there,” he offered as he rose to leave.

“We have a redhead in custody now, a woman—young, very pretty. Insists she’s Irish. She’s one of yours, I assume.”

Gibbon stilled, then shook his head. “No, not that I’m aware.”

“Well, of course you’d know! You know all of them coming in and out of France!”

“Well, I don’t know this one—if she’s as pretty as you say, I’d remember, I’m sure!” He gave a brusque laugh. “I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

He left, not noticing that Reiner, cap pulled low over his eyes, emptying trash cans, had observed the entire meeting.

In the dark, relieved only by the fast-rising waxing moon, Maggie set the chair on the bed, which was now in the middle of the floor, then climbed on top of it, using the skylight’s bars to steady herself as she worked. She had the bedsheet draped around her shoulders. The screws that attached the bars to the wooden frame were tight and rusted, and she was working at an awkward angle; with a sinking heart, she realized it was going to take much longer than she had expected.

Maggie heard the scrape of the key in the lock and the bolt sliding back. She slipped the screwdriver up her sleeve as the door opened. “Get down, Fräulein! What the devil are you doing?” Sergeant Schneider exclaimed.

Maggie gestured with the sheet. “What do you think I’m doing?” she sobbed.

“You’re trying to kill yourself?” The guard ripped the sheet from her hand. “Nein! You will not die—not on my watch!” He sounded surprisingly disturbed. “The other one—the one who jumped—she should not have died. I was on duty that night.”

So he’d known Erica Calvert. Maggie placed the chair on the floor, then collapsed on the bed in elaborate sobs. “Fine, fine,” she managed. “I will live. I will live for you, Sergeant Schneider…” she whispered through crocodile tears. “…for you.”

As he left, the German called back, not unkindly, “I will pray for you, Fräulein.”

When she was sure he was gone, Maggie took a breath, smoothed her hair, put the chair once more up on the bed, and went back to work.

As the sun rose, Maggie left the screwdriver in the cabinet in the lavatory for Sarah, to pass it between them until they had managed to loosen the bars on their windows.

Although she didn’t hear anything through the pipes from Sarah, she was relieved to see the screwdriver had disappeared from the cabinet the next time she used the lavatory.

The screwdriver reappeared the following morning.

Finally, Maggie was able to loosen the last bar. It was June 25. They had only three days before the scheduled pickup. She passed back the screwdriver. Sarah signaled that her bars were off as well. Tonight is the night, Maggie tapped back. Take sheet. Wait for signal. Tell Hugh.

After lights out, Maggie waited, heart pounding, watching the moon as it rose through the clouds, once again listening to the music of the building. When she was convinced Sergeant Schneider and Madame Bonhomme were deep in conversation, she tapped on the pipe. Now.

Gently, she removed the window bars and placed them on the floor. Then she climbed up on the chair. Opening the skylight, she grabbed on to the ledge and pulled herself up.

Sarah was already there, holding her sheet in her arms. The two women nodded, then edged across the length of the rooftop. It was a cool night, with the moon darting in and out of the clouds.

“Where’s Hugh?” Maggie whispered.

“Dead.”

Maggie stopped and gasped. She grabbed Sarah by the arm. “No.” But the pain in her friend’s eyes confirmed what she’d said. “Oh, Sarah!” Maggie bit back a sob.

“We can grieve later,” Sarah said, with a coldness that chilled Maggie. But she was right: they had to go.

Once they reached the house on the other side, each tore her sheet and knotted the strips together to make a rope. Story by story they climbed down, silently as cats. Maggie stepped over a bird’s nest on a rain gutter and slipped, one leg dangling over the black abyss of the garden. She bit back a cry as, slowly, she righted herself.

Together, they shimmied to the ground. Once they’d reached the grass, they put on their shoes. But just as they slipped through the back garden and out the gate onto the street, the air-raid siren sounded, a low, insistent wail.

“The RAF?” Maggie groaned, incredulous. “Now?” Already, antiaircraft fire was exploding upward as searchlights swept the skies. It wouldn’t be long until the guards checked their cells and discovered they’d escaped. “Once they figure out we’re gone, they’ll cordon off the area,” Maggie whispered to Sarah. “We need to get as far as we can, as fast as we can, even with the bombing.”

Keeping to the shadows, the two women crept down Boulevard de l’Amiral-Bruix to the park. They could see armed soldiers in helmets patrolling the gated entrance. “We’re going to have to make a dash for it,” Maggie whispered. Sarah nodded.

As they reached the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne, there was a terrifying whine overhead and, immediately, a volley of answering fire from antiaircraft guns on the ground. When the clouds parted and the moonlight spilled down, a Spitfire dropped its cargo. The wind from the dropped bomb whistling in her ears, Maggie grabbed Sarah and rolled into the park’s underbrush. The shell exploded on impact yards away, bursting into hot orange flames. The guards dove for cover as fire threatened to engulf them.

Around them, roused birds took off, calling and squawking. Tiny animals ran through the grass. Maggie’s ears were ringing. “You all right?” she asked.

“That was…close,” Sarah managed.

Praying the officers were distracted by the bomb and the fire, they made their way quickly through the shadowed park, keeping to the trees, listening for German hobnailed boots on pavement or the French Milice officers on their bicycles.

They found shelter under some overgrown shrubs, deciding to stay there until daylight. As the moon set and the sun rose, bright red in the east, Maggie whispered to Sarah, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Hugh should be with us.”

Sarah flinched but did not reply.

“How are you—how’s the, I mean—”

“I lost it,” Sarah answered bleakly. Maggie bit her lip and squeezed Sarah’s hand tightly.

Maggie wanted nothing more than to console her friend, but first they needed to escape. “We’ll take the train to Chantilly—my sister is near there. She’s got an injured pilot we also need to rescue. Then, once we get the all-go signal, we’ll head to the airfield.”

“No.” Sarah shook her head. “We need to go to the Ritz.”

Maggie was ready to cut their losses and run. “We don’t have time to go, Sarah. Whatever it is, we need to leave it behind. The SS is no doubt already looking for us.”

“Hugh died for what’s in that damn bag. We’re going back to get it.”

“Delaying leaving Paris is suicide.”

“I’m not leaving without it.”

Maggie knew Sarah’s tone; there was no arguing with the dancer. And she wasn’t about to leave her friend behind. “All right then—we’ll go.” She heard a ghost of a chuckle from her friend.

“You can’t go to the Ritz looking like that, darling. Your dress is a disaster and you’ve got twigs in your hair.”