Chapter Seventeen

Diana Lynd laid the latest decrypts, just delivered from Station 53a, on Colonel Gaskell’s desk.

“What’s all this?” the colonel asked, searching for his reading glasses, although even the most nearsighted could read the red ink stamp across the top: SECURITY CHECK MISSING.

“It’s another decrypt, this one from Agent IDJ—that’s Hubert Taillier, code name Aristide.”

Gaskell gave her a blank look.

“IDJ’s real name is Hugh Thompson.”

Shoving his glasses up his nose, Colonel Gaskell read the decrypt:

22 JUNE 1942

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

“Why so glum, Miss Lynd? This is excellent news! Jolly good show, indeed! He’ll be coming back with a list of targets from Fortner. In the meantime, they need more agents, for more work! Maybe even a new cell!”

Lynd did not share in his enthusiasm. “He’s omitted his security checks, sir.”

“We’ve been over that, my dear.”

“If Thompson’s been compromised and we send in more agents, we’ll be sending them straight into a trap.”

“Believe me, Miss Lynd, I’m on top of it.”

“Please read the next decrypt. It was sent by GJW—Clothilde—from HJW. That’s Leo Ackerman.”

Gaskell gave her another uncomprehending look.

“You may know him as Reiner Dupont,” she explained patiently. “He’s our agent in Paris sanitation. And you’ll note all of his security checks are in place.”

“Ah, the garbageman,” Gaskell mused. He read the message and then turned to stare out the window overlooking Baker Street. “Well, well. There could be any number of reasons why our man was coming from Avenue Foch.”

Lynd folded her arms across her chest. “Am I to understand, sir, that you believe a message sent without security checks and doubt one sent with?”

“You don’t understand, Miss Lynd!” spluttered Gaskell. “Carry on with your duties! Leave the questions for your superiors!”

Lynd turned smartly on her heel and left Gaskell’s office before she said what was really on her mind.

Maggie was once again in von Waltz’s office. This time, it was daylight, the sky out the window low and sooty, with only a lone patch of blue on the horizon.

“Perhaps you don’t realize the position you’re in,” he began, this time sitting behind his carved desk, hands folded. He looked to be freshly shaven, smelling of lemon cologne. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so stubborn, mademoiselle, not because you’re guilty, or completely guilty, yourself. I will give you one more chance. I will give you until six o’clock this evening. If you haven’t become reasonable by then, I will have no option. I shall have to use stronger methods of persuasion.”

Despite the tang of fear in her mouth, Maggie gave him her most supercilious smile. “I can assure you, Obersturmbannführer, I do in fact realize the position I’m in. I was sent by the concierge of the Ritz on a fool’s errand, to ask for a certain person, which overlapped with something else—something that has nothing whatsoever to do with me.” She waved an imperious hand. “Obviously, Jeanne-Marie and Ora are common names. This is a simple misunderstanding.”

“As you know, we have captured Sabine Severin and Hubert Taillier. But we prefer to call them by their real names—Sarah Sanderson and Hugh Thompson.”

“So?” Maggie kept her expression placid. “Again, this has nothing to do with me. This is not my war.”

“We know all about SOE’s operations in France—F-Section, as you call it.”

“I have no idea who’s operating in France. I’m just an Irish bride-to-be here for my wedding trousseau.”

“We know about Colonel Maurice Buckmaster, Air Commodore Sir Charles Hambro, Colonel Gaskell, and Diana Lynd. We know about training in Scotland and parachute school, and your so-called finishing school at Beaulieu.”

Maggie shook her head, although her knuckles whitened. “These names mean nothing to me. I’ve never even been to Scotland. You have arrested me in error. And, I will say again, Obersturmbannführer, I insist upon speaking with someone at the Irish Consulate.”

“A fine idea,” von Waltz agreed genially. “Surely we can call the Irish Consulate—find out about a certain Paige Kelly—if that’s even your name, mademoiselle. Where were you born?”

“In Belfast, on the fifth of June, 1915. And I don’t need until six o’clock tonight to make up some story to satisfy you, Obersturmbannführer. Perhaps it is stupid of me, not to try to secure my release by making up some information which might deceive you into believing I know something. But the fact of the matter is—” She paused, doing her best to look vulnerable. “I’m a pretty girl, not a clever one—and certainly not cut out for your games. I’m telling you the absolute truth, sir, and that’s all I can do, regardless of your threats. It’s cruel of you to frighten me like this.”

He stared at her a moment, then reached over his desk and picked up the telephone receiver. “Ah yes, Fräulein Schmidt. Please place a call to the Irish Consulate here in Paris. Ask them if they can verify the existence of a young Irish woman named Paige Kelly—”

“Paige Claire Kelly,” Maggie interrupted, deciding to go for broke.

Von Waltz held up a hand in annoyance. “Born in Belfast, Ireland, on the fifth of June, 1915.” He replaced the receiver. “And now we’ll see if you are who you say you are, Mademoiselle Kelly.” He leaned back in his chair. “And you’d better hope to God they confirm your story.”

The heavy blond guard led Maggie back up the steep stairs. On the landing of the fifth floor a cleaning woman, spewing foul language, was bent over a dented metal carpet sweeper.

“Madame Bonhomme!” the guard admonished.

The petite woman merely shrugged bony shoulders. Maggie could see she’d once been handsome, but was now pinched from too much work and not enough food. “Yes, Sergeant Schneider,” she said to the pale man. “The damn thing’s broken—again.” She gestured to the carpet sweeper.

“I can fix it,” Maggie offered impulsively.

“You?” scoffed the guard.

“I can. When I was a little girl I liked to see how things worked, even carpet sweepers. I’ll need some tools, though.”

The guard returned with a metal box, watched suspiciously as she handled the tools. She fixed the sweeper and handed it back to Madame Bonhomme, who thanked her profusely. Even the guard looked at her with admiration. Maggie put the screwdriver back in the toolbox reluctantly, feeling her heart sink as Madame Bonhomme latched the box and took it away.

Her only hope had been to mend the carpet sweeper ineptly. But how soon would it break down again?

Martens had been copied on the same decrypts as Gaskell. As he finished reading the file in his underground office, he reached for the telephone receiver, to call the colonel.

But then, remembering the F-Section head’s lack of distress—as well as MI-6’s concerns with the professionalism of SOE—he pulled his hand back. What if SOE itself was compromised? What if the head of the snake were Gaskell himself? It was too horrible to contemplate, yet he had to. He had to consider every possibility. And he didn’t want to tip his hand.

He was, after all, Winston Churchill’s Master of Deception. Something was going on, something was very wrong, and something needed to be done—and fast. It was time to go on a spy mission of his own. “Miss Pinkerton,” he called to his secretary, an ancient gargoyle of a woman. “I’d like the letters and other paperwork sent back from France with the SOE agents. The real documents, not just copies.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I’ll be working out of the office today. Please call Colonel Mason, at Station 53a. Let him know I’ll be dropping by in a few hours for a little visit.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Very good, sir.”

“No—wait. On second thought, don’t telephone,” he said, putting on his cap. “Let’s make this visit a surprise.”

The Racing Club de France was located in the heart of Bois de Boulogne, on the Route of the Lakes, not far from Longchamp racecourse. All sports could be played—fencing, badminton, rugby—but SS Obergruppenführer Ulrich Friedrich Wilhelm Joachim von Ribbentrop, just arrived by train from Berlin, was meeting von Waltz to play tennis.

The two officers, dressed in their whites, met in the lobby of the clubhouse. When the inevitable Heil Hitlers had been exchanged, Ribbentrop asked, “Would you like to play indoors or out?” The Racing Club had both indoor terre battue courts with skylights and outdoor courts surrounded by perfectly pruned shrubs and tall trees.

“The weather could go either way.” Von Waltz glanced out the windows at the gathering clouds. “You choose, Obergruppenführer,” he said deferentially.

Ribbentrop was trim and muscular, with retreating blond hair, a cleft chin, and thin lips. “Outdoors then,” he decided. “We are Aryans, and must get out from behind our desks and into the fresh air as often as possible, regardless of weather.”

They passed a red clay court where the great champion Bernard Destremau was volleying. Since tennis balls were scarce due to the German ban on rubber for anything but war production, Ribbentrop had brought a new Slazenger. When he pulled it out of his pocket, von Waltz grinned. “Excellent, Obergruppenführer.”

They took their positions on opposite sides of the net; Ribbentrop served, and the men volleyed. Both were decent players, scrambling with speed and agility over the traditional en tous cas—the packed brick-dust surface—and well matched. But when the first drops of rain spattered, von Waltz lowered his game and let Ribbentrop win. “Back to the clubhouse for a drink?” he suggested as they shook hands over the net.

“Of course!”

In the clubhouse, they waited for their Champagne to be poured. Von Waltz nodded to René Lacoste as he passed. “If you could devote all your time to practice, you’d be ready for Roland Garros in no time at all!”

Ribbentrop nodded. “Perhaps after the war.”

The two Germans clinked their heavy crystal flutes. After they’d drunk, von Waltz asked, “And how long will you be in Paris, Obergruppenführer?”

“Alas, only a few days, then down to Vichy, to meet with Pétain and Laval about the upcoming roundup. And arranging for French troops in North Africa to be placed formally under German command.”

Von Waltz nodded his head.

“I was talking with the Führer before I left, at Wolfsschanze,” Ribbentrop said, never inclined to let anyone forget his close connection to Hitler. “About the expected Allied invasion. The discovery of the precise date and location of the Allied landings has become the overriding objective of the German Secret Services working in the West. I brought up your name, of course.”

“Ah,” said von Waltz. “Thank you, Obergruppenführer.”

“The Führer is convinced the invasion will be on the coast of Normandy. The rest of them—Himmler, Eichmann, and von Rundstedt—believe it will be Pas de Calais. We’ve received some aerial photographs of Dover, across the channel from Calais. They’ve begun to widen the roads there, bringing in building materials. It certainly looks as if they’re creating a massive base from which to launch a future attack.”

Von Waltz raised an eyebrow.

“Our reconnaissance aircraft will, of course, continue to sweep up and down the British coast, to monitor what preparations are being made and where.” Ribbentrop looked to von Waltz. “What do you think?”

“I think, Obergruppenführer, that if we continue to play the radio games I’ve begun, we shall get a clear answer about Calais versus Normandy—with plenty of time to assure victory.”

“How are these ‘radio games’ progressing?”

Von Waltz heard the tinge of doubt in the other man’s question. “We have two agents’ radios under our control. We will soon commandeer others. We’re in contact with SOE in London—they suspect nothing.”

“And your man in Paris, this Gibbon—he can be trusted?”

“As much as anyone. But, yes, I’ve known him for years. He hates the Communists enough he’s willing to help us.” Von Waltz couldn’t resist adding one more tidbit. “There is also a package that one of the agents was supposed to deliver. One London is most keen on retrieving.”

“Where is this package?”

“We’re following up a few leads,” von Waltz evaded.

Ribbentrop drained his glass. The waiter rushed to pour him another. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? I have a reservation at Prunier. That’s near your Avenue Foch, isn’t it?”

“It is, and one of my favorite restaurants,” confided von Waltz. “They have a wonderful Breton lobster there, flambéed in Cognac—absolutely delicious.”

“And you’re still enjoying my gift? What did you name him—Ludwig?” Ribbentrop asked. “He must liven up the office considerably.”

“Honestly, Obergruppenführer,” von Waltz answered with a stiff smile, “I can’t tell you how much I adore that bird.”

In the attic of 84 Avenue Foch, Maggie pondered her options. She didn’t have the screwdriver yet, but if she did—when she did, she corrected herself—she’d need the bed underneath the skylight—it was too high for her to reach without assistance. If she moved the bed directly to the center of the room, the guard would be suspicious. And so she began by moving it to the other wall.

A guard heard the noise and rapped at the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded through the grille.

“I’m moving the bed,” she replied, in an isn’t-it-obvious? tone.

“Why?”

She shrugged, in the way she’d seen French women do: part charm, part fatalism. “Because I want to change the view.”

“Hmph,” the guard replied. And although he wasn’t pleased with the explanation, he slammed the grille shut and didn’t pursue the matter further.

While von Waltz and Ribbentrop had been playing tennis, Hugh was being tortured. The Gestapo’s brutal methods were authorized by German law, the fundamental principle of which had been laid down by Wilhelm Frick, who served as Reich Minister of the Interior in the Hitler Cabinet: “The law, as the state does, serves only the Volk.” And, in case there was any doubt, Heinrich Himmler had just officially authorized the “third degree,” a euphemism for torture, to obtain information.

The stocky man had moved on from cutting to burning to what was called la baignoire—the bath—forcing water into Hugh’s mouth and lungs until he was nearly drowned, then reviving him at the last moment.

Von Waltz strode into the dim basement chamber holding a decrypt he’d received from England, acknowledging Hugh’s message but asking for his checks in the next transmission. “You fool!” the German raged. “How dare you lie to me? You left off your damn checks!”

Hugh’s bloody and bruised head, still dripping from the baignoire, rolled back.

“I’m talking to you!” Von Waltz gave Hugh a kick in one shin with an alligator loafer. “But they don’t even care, your stupid SOE handlers! They merely told you to ‘remember your security checks’ next time!”

Hugh groaned and opened his eyes. “That’s what they said? I should remember my checks?” He looked as though he’d been hurt more by SOE’s overlooking his missing security check than the torture.

“You were at Maxim’s the night we arrested a man with a pink carnation in his lapel,” von Waltz insisted. “What did he give you?”

“Nothing!”

“So you do remember a man with a pink carnation.”

Hugh was silent.

The German kicked him again. “What did he give you?” Von Waltz’s eyes were wide and crazed. He kicked Hugh’s shin a third time, like a child having a temper tantrum. “And where have you hidden it?”

“I don’t know,” Hugh sobbed, knowing he had to protect Sarah. “I don’t. I don’t know!”

Von Waltz nodded to the stocky man. “Continue.”

Hugh couldn’t endure much more without giving up all he knew. And the truth was, he knew too much. He’d peeked inside the dance bag, seeing the sand samples from the Normandy beaches. He’d opened Pandora’s box, even though it was against every rule they’d learned at SOE. The one thing he didn’t know was what Sarah had done with the bag after she’d left the Hôtel Le Meurice. But he knew she’d taken it—and he couldn’t bear the thought of her being tortured.

I’m sorry, darling. I love you. As the guard forced his head under the dirty water in the sink, this time, instead of fighting, Hugh breathed in deeply. Liquid flooded his lungs.

When the guard realized what was happening, he yanked the prisoner’s head out.

But it was too late. Hugh was dead.