Chapter Seven

As Hugh and Sarah mingled with a crowd of musicians and dancers, people stopped to stare at the beautiful couple. Hugh carried the black bag with Calvert’s papers and sand samples over one shoulder. “The drop-off’s here?” Sarah said softly in his ear as they smiled and nodded to other members of the company.

“I was told I’m looking for a man in a blue suit with a pink carnation in his lapel,” Hugh whispered back. “We’re going to sit with him, have a short conversation. Then he’ll take the bag when he leaves.”

Sarah spotted the man with the pink carnation. “There,” she said, pointing. He was small but wiry, with piercing eyes and an upturned nose. She pulled Hugh to the man’s table.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” Hugh said to the man, in the prearranged signal. “Are you Raimond, the nephew of Lancelin Martin?”

When the man with the flower replied, “Lancelin Martin is my second cousin,” Hugh knew he was the contact. He and Sarah sat at his banquette. Hugh slid the bag under the table.

The man gave an imperceptible nod, his eyes on the other diners. “Would you like some wine?” was all he said.

Maggie approached the conductor and his entourage, all talking loudly with animated hands. She caught his eye with what she hoped was a suitably ingratiating smile. “Maestro Boulez—” she began, and he glanced up at her. He was short, barely five feet tall, and plump, with white hair. On his face was a light but detectable layer of makeup.

“What a wonderful performance,” she said, bending slightly. “I very much appreciated your tempi.”

“Why, thank you, mademoiselle. You must be a music lover, to notice such things.”

“I am,” she assured him. “I play the viola—quite badly, I’m sorry to say. But I’m a fan of conductors—a huge admirer of Miles Hess.”

“Ah, Hess!” Boulez exclaimed. “One of the greats. Back in Berlin now, I hear.”

“I’m friends with his daughter Elise Hess,” Maggie went on lightly, “and I heard she might be in Paris. Have you heard any mention of her being in town?”

“Afraid not, mademoiselle.”

But Maggie would not be dissuaded. “Do you happen to know where the Hess family stays when they’re here?”

“I don’t.” He looked to the other musicians around his table. “Anyone?”

“I do.” The speaker was a handsome man with a beak-like nose, smoking a Galois. Maggie recognized him as the first violinist. “Clara, that is, Frau Hess, once invited me to a party—”

One of the other men gave him a light punch on the arm. “A ‘party,’ now, was it?”

“It was,” the violinist protested, turning red. “I remember it perfectly. Had a great view.”

“Do you—do you happen to remember the address?” Maggie pressed.

He shook his head. “I do remember Clara, er, Frau Hess, mentioning that they lived in Germaine Lubin’s building.”

Bingo! Maggie thought.

Without warning, the double doors of the entrance banged open. Half a dozen German soldiers carrying machine guns walked in briskly, led by an SS captain in uniform and black leather boots. The pianist stopped midmeasure. All conversation and the scrape of silverware and clink of glasses ceased.

Hands clasped behind his back, the captain strode through the restaurant. The Germans looked on impassively, as if bored. The French, with the exception of Chanel, kept their heads down, studying their plates. The designer lit a gold-tipped cigarette, sat back, and settled in to observe.

Maggie’s heart caught in her throat when, on the other side of the restaurant, the captain walked up to Hugh and Sarah’s table. But he spoke only to the man with the pink carnation. “Monsieur, you’re to come with us immediately.”

The man raised his hands. “But, sir, I’ve done nothing!”

The SS captain nodded. Two soldiers grabbed the man with the pink carnation by the shoulders. When he didn’t get up, they dragged him. “Fucking Boche!” he screamed. One officer punched him savagely in the stomach.

As swiftly as they came, the SS officers were gone, taking the man with the pink carnation with them. The restaurant was left in silence. Leaning back with her cigarette between her teeth, Chanel clapped her hands, as if she had just witnessed a particularly delightful piece of theater.

“A round of Champagne for everyone!” Dincklage called. Slowly, people returned to their conversations and the piano started up again. Maggie, hands shaking, made her way back to Chanel’s table.

“You look pale,” the older woman observed, blowing smoke through her nostrils.

“I’m not used to this sort of thing.”

“What about those IRA bombs?” Chanel parried.

“You know I met Mademoiselle Chanel through Diaghilev,” Lifar interposed, before Maggie could reply. “I remember how he told Mademoiselle, ‘I’ve been to see a princess and she gave me seventy-five thousand francs.’ And then our Coco said, ‘Well, she’s royalty and I’m only a seamstress. Here’s two hundred thousand.’ ”

Those around the table laughed, raising their glasses, eager to forget what they had just witnessed. Chanel nodded her head in acknowledgment, her eyes bright. “I prefer to give rather than lend money,” she declared, picking up her own glass. “In the end, it costs the same.”

On the other side of the room, Hugh looked to Sarah. “Are you all right?” Then, “It’s here,” he whispered in her ear as he reached for the bag. “We still have it.”

She didn’t respond. Her face was white.

“Something to drink, darling?” he asked, putting his arm around her. “Something to eat?”

“No.” She shivered. “I’m fine, Hubert. Just need to splash some cold water on my face. Be back in a moment.”

From across the room, a man cast his eyes on Maggie and approached. “Mademoiselle Kelly.” The German officer placed one hand to his heart as if wounded. “You told me you frequented Café de la Paix—not Maxim’s. You aren’t trying to avoid me, are you?”

Maggie’s heart sank. It was the officer who’d given her and her luggage a ride to the Ritz after the shooting, now out of uniform and in black tie.

“Heavens, no!” Maggie exclaimed while Chanel looked on, one painted eyebrow quirked with curiosity. “When Mademoiselle Coco Chanel invites you somewhere, you go, of course. Would you like to sit with us, er…” She couldn’t remember his name.

“Generaloberst Ruesdorf. Christian Ruesdorf.” He smiled. “But, please—call me Christian.”

Chanel gave Maggie a side glance as he pulled out a chair. “You didn’t tell me you had friends in high places, Mademoiselle Kelly.”

The Generaloberst laughed. “I was privileged to give our Irish friend a lift to the Ritz after her vélo-taxi driver had given up in defeat, done in by her heavy Vuitton trunk.”

“The French are talented, especially with food and ballet, but lazy bastards in everything else,” Spatz remarked. “A German would never have given up!”

“And I was most grateful for your kind assistance,” Maggie lied, raising the corners of her lips in what she hoped looked like a smile.

“Mademoiselle and I spoke about German films with Irish themes—we have both seen Linen from Ireland.”

“I heard it was quite witty,” interjected Chanel. “And I do love linen.”

“Herr Goebbels has used Ireland as a setting for a number of his films. There’s also My Life for Ireland and The Fox of Glenarvon. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend, after all,’ ” Ruesdorf repeated, alluding to their previous conversation, smiling at Maggie. She felt ill.

“How do you know so much about film, Generaloberst?” Chanel took a delicate sip of her wine.

“I’ve worked with Herr Goebbels,” he replied, accepting a glass the waiter proffered. “He will be coming to Paris soon to inspect the cinemas, and I hope to arrange a special screening for him.” He smiled. “Of course, you all must come, as my guests.”

“Really?” Maggie’s voice quavered. She had met Goebbels while undercover in Berlin, when she had also met Goering. If they met again, he would recognize her instantly.

The Generaloberst grinned, mistaking the tremor in her voice for excitement. “I must insist.”

From the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Sarah rise and move toward the ladies’ room. “Excuse me,” she said to her companions.

Sarah was washing her hands in front of a carved trumeau mirror, her bloodless face lit by gaudy sconces dripping with crystal daggers and crowns. Maggie wished she could comfort her friend but instead disciplined herself to say, “Ah, it’s Madame Severin, yes?” She added a reassuring smile.

Sarah nodded, giving Maggie a wary glance.

“You were wonderful in tonight’s performance.”

They were both keenly aware of the only other person in the room: the bathroom attendant, a stout woman with thinning gray hair and the faint shadow of a mustache. She stood in front of a table arrayed with a silver tray of combs and brushes, flagons of Mitsouko, Je Reviens, and Shalimar, and a bowl of violet breath mints.

“Thank you,” Sarah replied to Maggie as the woman silently handed her a hand towel. “And—you are?”

Good, we’re both playing the same game, Maggie thought. “Paige Kelly. Here in Paris from Lisbon, to shop for my trousseau.” She, too, began to wash her hands.

“All best wishes for your upcoming nuptials, Mademoiselle Kelly,” Sarah said in a measured voice, throwing the used towel in a basket. “Are you enjoying your time in Paris?”

“Well, this evening was quite…dramatic. And I’m speaking of the events just now, not those onstage.”

Sarah nodded, fishing out a coin and putting it on the attendant’s silver plate. “Yes.” She turned to Maggie, adding, “I’m so grateful not to be alone. When you’re married, you’ll know what I mean.”

“I am having a wonderful time at the Ritz, though,” Maggie said pointedly.

Sarah’s gaze flickered in acknowledgment. “Ah yes, the Ritz bar is wonderful. I’d always hoped to see Marlene Dietrich and Ernest Hemingway there—perhaps after the war.”

Maggie dried her hands on the proffered towel and she, too, placed a coin on the woman’s plate. The ladies’ lounge area was papered in a red Art Nouveau pattern and a trompe-l’oeil mural. A velvet recamier and a pair of Louis Quinze silk-covered fauteuil chairs ringed a low marble table. Sarah stumbled, then half-fell, half-sat on the sofa. Maggie’s breath caught in her throat; she ran to her friend. But Sarah had righted herself. Sitting up, she raised both palms to her face.

“Are you all right, madame?” Maggie asked, sitting beside the dancer and placing a hand on her hard, muscular back.

“I’m fine,” Sarah mumbled. Then, “No—no, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” The dancer once again tried to rise. Then she crumpled.

“Madame Severin?” Maggie managed to catch her friend as she fell. “Madame!” Sarah didn’t respond. “Get a doctor!” Maggie called to the attendant. The woman scurried out the door.

For a moment, they were alone. “Sarah…” Maggie whispered urgently, laying her back on the cushion. “Sarah, can you hear me?”

The attendant returned, accompanied by a robust Frenchman whose fringe of sandy hair surrounded a shining bald spot, his face flushed from too much wine. “I’m Dr. Fournier,” he announced crisply, kneeling beside Sarah. “What happened to the young lady?”

“She seemed to be feeling dizzy,” Maggie told him. “Then she fainted.”

The doctor placed his meaty fingers around Sarah’s delicate wrist to feel her pulse. “Thready,” he reported. “Is she a dancer?” he asked, taking in her physique. “Did she perform tonight?”

“She is and she did.”

He snapped his fingers at the attendant. “Bring me a cool, damp cloth.”

“Yes…” The woman wet one of the towels under the faucet, wrung it out, then brought it to him. He folded it and placed it across Sarah’s temples.

Sarah’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Mademoiselle?” he asked.

Maggie bent to wipe a smudge of mascara from her friend’s lower eyelid. Oh, Sarah, don’t forget your cover now…

But Sarah didn’t break character. “Madame,” she corrected. “Madame Severin.”

“Madame, you fainted, but you seem to be fine. You need to eat more.” Maggie and the doctor both helped Sarah to sit up. “If I may ask, madame, have you been feeling fatigue lately?”

“Yes.”

“And have you noticed any breast tenderness?”

“…yes.”

“And, if I may ask, when was your last menstrual cycle?”

“I—I don’t remember. A few months ago, probably.”

“Well, then, madame—may I offer you congratulations? I believe you and your husband are to be parents!”

Sarah sagged, her face instantly ashen. “I—I…”

“I would recommend seeing a doctor tomorrow for a full examination to confirm, but…madame—I’m sorry, but you didn’t know?”

Sarah looked to Maggie with panicked eyes. “All best wishes, madame,” Maggie intervened evenly, before the dancer could speak. “I’ll take care of her, Doctor, don’t worry. We’ll just sit here for a moment, until Madame’s a bit steadier on her feet.”

When the doctor was gone, Sarah felt her breasts, then slid her hands down to her stomach. Maggie watched her face run through a storm of emotions—shock, joy, fear, then back to joy again. “It’s…I think—I think he might be right. I mean, I haven’t had my period since…But my body’s changing…I guess with all the…excitement…I haven’t been paying attention.”

“Congratulations, Madame Severin,” Maggie said a little too loudly, knowing the attendant was staring. “From the bottom of my heart—I mean it.” But all she could think was Pregnant? On a mission? We need to get you out of here—as soon as possible. “And to your husband, too.”

“It’s not the…best time to have a baby, you know,” Sarah said carefully. The attendant busied herself arranging the tray of combs and perfumes.

“No, not the ideal time.” Maggie squeezed her hand. “But I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful mother.”

“A mother…I never even imagined…”

“This is good. A good thing, a great thing, in a world gone mad.”

“I—I want this baby,” the dancer said, making her choice plain. “But I can’t…continue dancing.”

“Well, then you should take…time off. Surely they can call in…an understudy? So you can go home?”

“No, I can make it through the run,” Sarah insisted. “I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“Madame Severin, I’m sure you will make the right decision.” They embraced. “Please find me at the Ritz, if you’d ever like to have tea and talk further. Remember, my name is Paige. Paige Claire Kelly.”

Sarah’s lips curved at the bittersweet irony of Maggie’s cover name. “Oh, believe me,” the dancer said, rising with the ghost of a smile. “I could never forget that name.”

When Sarah returned to their table, she had a resolute look in her eyes.

“Are you all right, darling?” Hugh asked, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

“I’ll tell you later, my love.” Looking around, she caught a glimpse of Reichsminister Hans Fortner, who’d just arrived. He was over forty, sallow, and pot-bellied. His long thin arms and legs increased his unfortunate resemblance to a spider.

“Darling, I believe I see our friend Hans,” Sarah said pointedly. They still had one more act in their performance tonight. “Shall we go to his table and say hello?”

Hugh studied her face, bewildered, then nodded, reaching for the dance bag. As the two approached the Reichsminister, he struggled to his feet and bent to kiss Sarah’s hand. “Mes artistes!” he exclaimed. “You were dazzling tonight. Come, sit with me! Waiter—more Champagne!”

Maggie was on her way back to Chanel’s table when she realized she was being observed. She scanned the room. Jacques was sitting in a corner banquette, engaged in conversation with another well-dressed Frenchman. Although he nodded to his companion, his eyes followed her.

When he saw her looking, he grinned. It was bad enough she and Sarah and Hugh were all in the same place, now Jacques, too? And what’s his excuse? She felt a sense of deep disquiet, as if a black cat had crossed her path. And yet, she had to admit she was happy to see him.

As his companion rose and left, Jacques beckoned her over. Against her better judgment, she went. “Sit with me, mademoiselle,” he urged. “S’il vous plaît.”

“Who was that?” she asked.

“A shady businessman, whom I use as part of my disguise. You’re not the only one with a cover. I’m a black-market racketeer in my spare time.”

Maggie sat with trepidation, realizing Chanel was watching. “You look so different,” she remarked, noting his gold cuff links, embossed with Janus heads. “Aristocratic, even.”

“I’ve found that the more you look like a collaborator, the less you’re questioned. Speaking of which, if anyone asks why we’re speaking, tell them I’m getting you a good price for Champagne for your wedding reception. Oyster?” He gestured to an icy heap topped by slices of lemon.

“I only eat oysters in months that end in r.”

“As one should.” He opened a tarnished silver cigarette case, holding it out to her.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Then you must join me in some Champagne.” The bottle read DOM PERIGNON GRAND CRU 1935. “A happier moment in time, between wars, bottled and preserved.”

“No. Thank you.”

He shifted toward her, his face suddenly earnest. “I called you over because I want to let you know…” He stopped speaking.

Maggie felt a rush of impatience. “Know what?”

He looked around to make sure they could not be overheard. “I’ve only just found out—and I’m terribly sorry to tell you, but—Agent Calvert is dead.”

“No.” She was unable to absorb the news. “No, it can’t be true.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“How do you know? How do you know it was really her?”

“I have a friend…at the morgue. He gave me a heads-up and I went to look myself. It was definitely her.”

“How…?”

“A fall. The death certificate said accident.”

“Where did she fall?”

“From the top floor of 84 Avenue Foch.” Maggie and Jacques locked eyes, both thinking the same thing: Gestapo.

“She must have killed herself rather than…” Maggie shuddered, knowing all too well what young women on morgue slabs looked like.

“Yes,” he agreed simply, sliding over the leather seat of the banquette and putting his mouth close to her ear. “Bar Lorraine is still the place to send and receive messages. The best way to contact me now is to go there.”

“Understood. Now that our…she is…gone…there’s only my sister left for me to find. How much time do we have? When’s the next scheduled plane out?”

“The next full moon’s June twenty-eighth—a week from tomorrow. Wait for the signal on the BBC—it will be ‘the night has a thousand eyes’—and be at the airfield where you were dropped. Just give word at the Bar Lorraine that you’ll be there. We won’t leave without you.”

She stood. “Thank you. For letting me know.”

He, too, rose, then seized her hand and bent to kiss it. “Try that again and I’ll smack you,” Maggie warned, pulling her hand away.

“We need a reason to meet. Our cover can be that we’re lovers.”

“Are you insane? I’m supposed to be engaged, here to shop for my trousseau.”

“This is Paris, Mademoiselle Kelly. All sorts of things happen here.” He winked.

“Do you have something in your eye, monsieur?”

The cocky grin was back. “I could be your ‘Parisian dalliance.’ ”

Maggie leaned close and raised herself on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Do you know how many ways I know to kill a man? With or without my sister, I will see you on the twenty-eighth. Now, unless you have anything else relevant to say, good night.”

“Is this man annoying you, Mademoiselle Kelly?” It was Ruesdorf; the sudden appearance of the German officer nearly made her gasp.

“No,” she said, recovering quickly. “Not at all. But I’m ready to go back to my table now.”

“Of course,” he replied, offering his arm. As they walked, he remarked, “You look very beautiful tonight, if I may.”

“Thank you, Generaloberst. But I must remind you—I’m engaged.”

He nodded. “I am a gentleman. And your fiancé is a very lucky man, whom I respect. But please—call me Christian.” He observed Maggie closely. “Are you ill? You’re quite pale.”

Maggie looked at the table of Chanel and her cohorts. All were speaking too loudly, acting like drunken fools. How much more of them could she endure? “I can take you back to the Ritz, if you’d like,” Ruesdorf offered, as if he could read her mind.

Maggie was tempted. “I wouldn’t want to curtail your good time…”

He pressed his lips together, taking in Germans swigging beer from bottles, the women who’d let their dresses fall off their shoulders. “As I said, I’m a gentleman. And this—well, this is not my sort of crowd, or my idea of a ‘good time.’ ”

“Then, if it’s no trouble, I would appreciate a ride back to the Ritz. But first, let me thank Mademoiselle Chanel and take my leave.”

As they were driven slowly through the darkened streets of Paris by the man with the eye patch, Christian ordered, “Turn on the wireless.”

The song on the radio was “Clair de lune,” and they listened to Debussy’s music, both silent as the bright waxing moon above them wove its way in and out of wisps of translucent clouds. The car pulled up in front of the Ritz. “Thank you,” Maggie told the German officer.

“No, thank you. You gave me an excuse to get away. And to hear such lovely music.”

Their eyes met. For a moment, Maggie thought the German might try to kiss her, and she felt a fierce panic rise in her chest.

“Good night, mademoiselle,” was all he said, however. “Perhaps we’ll meet again—at the Café de la Paix.”

Maggie offered her gloved hand. He took it, clasped it, then lifted it to his lips, kissing it with a startling desperation, as if he were drowning and she could somehow save him.

The driver opened the door, breaking the spell. As she emerged into the cool night air, Maggie let the hotel doorman help her through the revolving door, thankful the evening was over.