Chapter Eight
Later, after an evening of dinner and debauchery at One-Two-Two, von Waltz and Bretz returned to 84 Avenue Foch.
Although their appearance was impeccable, they spoke in too-loud voices as they navigated the grand marble staircase, holding tight to the iron filigree handrail so they wouldn’t stumble. The office next to von Waltz’s had been cleared out; the enormous room with gilt-painted moldings was now empty, save for a tiny, wizened man with a thick beard and mustache and a rumpled suit who sat at a long wooden table. He was bent over, his bald head shining, his veined hands hard at work adjusting the wires and tightening the screws on a radio transmitter. When von Waltz and Bretz entered, he looked up and nodded.
“The English call it a Mark A II,” von Waltz said, leading Bretz in with a grand sweep of his hand. “It’s a transmitter and receiver in one—extremely clever. As you can see, it’s small enough to fit in an ordinary suitcase—only about thirty pounds.”
“What’s the range?” Bretz wanted to know.
“The frequency range is wide. But the signal is weak—twenty watts at best. It also needs about seventy feet of aerial. If you were to follow the wires out the window in daylight, you would see we have quite an elaborate antenna tangle in the back garden’s trees.”
Bretz rubbed at his stubbled chin. “How do you determine the frequency?”
“By changing the crystals—the English terrorists need at least two, one for nighttime and one for daytime transmission.”
“And what about the DF?” The German intelligence service used wireless direction-finding teams, known as the DF, to ferret out agents transmitting back to Britain. The DF worked from vans with hidden antennae, camouflaged as bakery or laundry trucks, and wore plain clothes as they wended their way around Paris. Bretz was still feeling the effects of all the alcohol he’d imbibed at One-Two-Two and chortled. “Wouldn’t it be amusing if the DF showed up at Avenue Foch?”
“Hilarious,” von Waltz responded. “No, you may be assured we have alerted them to our little operation here. By the way”—he gestured to the old man—“meet ‘Erica Calvert,’ English spy, part of Britain’s SOE’s F-Section.”
“Fräulein Calvert, you really must do something about that facial hair,” Bretz joked.
“I am Professor Franz Fischer,” the bearded man replied with pointed patience. “British radio expert.” Fischer looked with pale eyes to von Waltz, seemingly the more sober of the pair. “I have been practicing Calvert’s ‘fist,’ as you instructed, sir.”
“Good, good!” von Waltz enthused, clapping him on the back, a little too hard. Fischer gave a dry cough.
Von Waltz looked to Bretz. “The good professor here has been practicing by using recordings of Calvert’s earlier coding from Rouen—they did have the agent send a few messages from Gestapo headquarters there before bringing her to Paris. From the replies SOE sent back, it seems they haven’t noticed anything amiss about her lack of security checks.” He elbowed Bretz. “A bit dim, these British, eh?”
Bretz whistled through his chipped teeth in admiration. “But are you sure this will work?”
“We haven’t transmitted from here yet, but our professor is so good now, it’s impossible London will be able to tell the difference. In fact”—von Waltz slapped the radio operator on the shoulder, face beaming—“let’s send a message now!”
Fischer cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. What would you like me to type?”
Von Waltz considered. “Say, ‘I am safely installed and will commence broadcasts as scheduled. Bar Lorraine is still secure.’ ”
Fingers to the keys, Fischer tapped out the message in Morse code:
CALL SIGN TRV
20 JUNE 1942
AM SAFELY INSTALLED IN PARIS STOP WILL COMMENCE BROADCASTS AS SCHEDULED STOP BAR LORRAINE STILL SECURE OVER
“How do you know about Bar Lorraine? Did your captured agent give it away before she—” Bretz grinned and made a slicing motion across his throat.
“I have my ways.” Von Waltz smiled enigmatically. “We’re going to take it over and have one of our own act as barman. This way, any British agent counting on using the café will drop right into our lap.”
Fischer’s message was now flying through the airwaves to Britain; von Waltz nodded in satisfaction. “This is only the first radio in what I see as a small army of shadow agents. Our Radio Game. And, sooner or later, someone will radio back the secret location of the coming invasion. Another drink, my friend? I happen to have a bottle of Cognac.”
He led the way to his own office. At his desk, he pulled a bottle from the bottom drawer.
Taking in the year on the label, Bretz raised his eyebrows. “Where on earth did you find that?”
“A certain Jew,” von Waltz answered as he opened it. “He’ll have no use for it where he’s going.”
“And what’s this?” Bretz asked, flipping back the cover on the birdcage.
“My parrot. A gift from Ribbentrop.”
The bird blinked its sleepy orange eyes, then shrieked, “Drunken fool!”
Von Waltz winced. “He has some bad habits.” He took out two glasses and poured.
“Drunken fool! Bed wetter! Nut tree!” The parrot made the sound of a loud belch and then a long fart. “He who chases two rabbits will catch none!”
“What’s his name?”
“Well, every time I tell him to shut up, it falls on deaf ears. So I call him Ludwig—as in Beethoven.” Von Waltz scowled as he handed Bretz a glass. “And if you’d like to drink in peace, my friend, I suggest you replace the cover.”
After a long night of dinner and drinking and ingratiating themselves with Hans Fortner at Maxim’s, Sarah and Hugh—Sabine and Hubert—were invited back to the Hôtel Le Meurice for more Cognac and cigars with the Reichsminister.
The Meurice wasn’t far from Maxim’s, on Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries Gardens between Place de la Concorde and the Musée du Louvre. And although Mata Hari had once been a guest at the hotel, the helmet-wearing guards carrying submachine guns at the entrance were intimidating enough that Sarah swayed slightly as she approached. When Hugh glanced at her in concern, she smiled. “It’s nothing, darling. Too much Champagne.”
“Never enough!” Fortner roared.
“Agreed!” called Hugh, and the trio laughed together merrily.
They bobbed and swayed through the polished lobby to an intimate, wood-paneled bar. Inside, the light was dim, with Rococo sconces punctuating the gloom. In the shadows, a few off-duty officers in black tie and French girls in gowns lounged in oxblood leather club chairs as a pianist played the tango “Schön ist die Nacht.”
They commandeered a corner table with a pâte de verre shaded lamp and a bouquet of velvety roses. As Fortner slumped into his chair, Hugh whispered to Sarah, “You have the pill, yes?”
The dancer tossed back her dark hair and gave him her most glamorous smile. Sarah was terrified—her palms damp and heart racing. But she had too much practice managing stage fright to show it. “Of course, darling.”
“Let’s have some bubbly, not Cognac, what do you think.” It was not a question. Fortner raised one hand and snapped his finger at the bartender. “Champagne!” the Reichsminister called. “Make it that ’twenty-eight Krug I so enjoyed the other night!” He turned to Hugh and Sarah. “Wait until you try it—you’ll understand why Dom Pérignon thought he was ‘tasting stars.’ ”
As the waiter brought a bottle to the table and opened it, pouring for everyone, Sarah noticed that the label had a red stamp in German and in French. It read: RESERVED FOR GERMAN ARMY OFFICERS. NOT FOR RESALE OR PURCHASE.
“Again,” Fortner announced, raising his glass, “to a brilliant performance! By both of you!” They clinked glasses and sipped. Looking at Sarah, the Reichsminister murmured, “You have such perfect posture—you look practically German!”
“Thank you, Hans,” she cooed. “One of the many benefits of all those ballet classes.”
“And you”—Fortner now looked directly at Hugh—“have a straight, solid frame, perfect for handling the cello.” He turned back to Sarah. “And what great benefits does playing the cello impart?
“After all,” Fortner continued, reaching over and seizing Hugh by the wrist to hold up his hand for examination, “this is its own instrument, to be played, to be honed, to be appreciated.”
Sarah was bewildered. She glanced to Hugh, who gently but firmly pulled his hand away. “Um—thanks.”
Sarah decided to take charge. “I’d like to thank you for all of the hospitality you’ve shown us,” she ventured, placing a graceful hand on Fortner’s arm, massaging the muscles.
“Ah.” The Reichsminister smiled. “I would hate for this evening to end. But, you must be exhausted.” He removed her hand. “After such a performance tonight, I think it’s time we got you home, my dear.”
Sarah and Hugh locked eyes, panicked. This wasn’t what they had planned. Not at all. “But—” she began.
“No buts about it. A dancer must rest. Besides, Hubert won’t be long.” As he said this, he glanced to Hugh with an expression that suggested the opposite.
“What…” Sarah scrambled for words, her heart sinking. “What about the curfew? I can’t go alone—”
Fortner snapped his fingers, and a guard approached. “See that Madame gets back to her apartment safely—on Avenue Frochot, in the ninth.”
Sarah felt real fear. “H-how do you know the address of our flat?”
“I make it my business to know many things, madame.” The German’s tone was dismissive. Sarah’s time with them was over and she was leaving, whether she wanted to or not.
As they all rose and Sarah put on her wrap, she turned away from Fortner and fumbled in her clutch to try to slip the lipstick case with the pill, as well as the camera hidden in the cigarette case, to Hugh—but her hands were trembling so badly, she dropped the purse.
Before Hugh could recover it, the Reichsminister bent, picked it up, and snapped it shut before he gave it back to Sarah. “Thank you,” she said weakly.
Hugh picked up the black dance bag and handed it over. Of course, it would be safer with her. Fortner gave her a sharp look as she shouldered it. “What’s that?”
“My dance bag, of course,” Sarah replied.
The Reichsminister’s forehead creased. “Looks heavy. What do you have in there?”
“Machine guns,” she deadpanned. “Three.”
“Ha!” Fortner rose and slapped his hand on Hugh’s shoulder, letting it linger. “Come, Hubert! I have a handwritten Bach cello manuscript up in my suite. You simply must see it.”
Hugh stepped toward Sarah. Gently, he kissed her lips. She loved his eyes, how green they were, how they sparkled, especially when he played the cello—and when they made love. But now, there was no light in them.
“Sleep well, darling,” he said softly.
“This way, madame.” As the guard gestured, Sarah hesitated. Finally, she acquiesced, looking back yet again at Hugh, who watched her go even as he was being led away by Fortner.
“Come, my dear Hubert!” The Reichsminister’s face lit up. “The night is still young!”
Polly Bonner was Erica Calvert’s godmother. Not in the literal sense; in SOE jargon, godmother was the name given to the radio operator assigned to monitor a particular agent’s transmissions after the agent had been dropped in Occupied Europe.
Polly was a FANY, short for First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. She was one of nearly four hundred women who worked at a top-secret SOE listening post called Station 53a based at Grendon Hall, a manor house in Grendon Underwood, in the Aylesbury Vale district in Buckinghamshire. While the main house was appropriated by officers and administration, the radio operators and code breakers used the Nissen huts, surrounded by radio aerials in arcs, dotted about the grounds.
The code-breaking FANYs, only recently transferred from their original home at Bletchley Park, were constantly receiving and sending messages—from Africa, Spain, Norway, Poland, Greece—and many, many messages to and from France. The agents’ schedules were posted on boards in the transmission rooms, along with their code names and frequencies.
Inside the huts, which served as transmitting rooms, the women sat, earphones fixed to their heads, in metal folding chairs at long tables. In front of them were receiving sets, notebooks, and pencils. First, they had to find the frequency at which the spy abroad was broadcasting—not necessarily an easy task. Then they had to listen to the Morse code transmission. It was difficult work—if the agents were nervous, the dots and dashes would often run together.
The FANYs at Station 53a all realized how safe their jobs were, compared to the perils faced by the agents in the field. Some made sure to always acknowledge receipt of the message with “Good luck!” or even “God bless you.” The agents and the operators never met—that would be against regulations—but they did “know” each other. Polly felt fiercely protective toward all of her agents.
Polly, like the other godmothers, became familiar with the fists of their agents if she picked up their transmissions long enough. Polly had noticed “Agent TRV” had been long absent from the radio waves; she was relieved to see the agent transmitting again.
“Thank goodness.” Polly was a heavyset girl in her early twenties, her uniform straining at the buttons, with silky, fine hair that could never hold a curl, no matter how much she wanted to look like Rita Hayworth. She had a tic of blinking too much, which she did when she was particularly concerned about an agent. She’d been more than concerned about TRV—the agent’s last messages had been so hasty and full of errors. Polly could only imagine what kind of duress the agent had been coding under.
When Polly had finished taking down Agent TRV’s message, she was overcome by emotion. She sent back the receipt code and then added, May God keep you, dear. They might have been nameless and faceless to each other, but they did share a bond.
Wrapping a scarf around her throat, Polly made her way through the chilly night air to take the coded message to yet another hut on the manor’s grounds. There more FANYs in their khaki drill skirts and bush jackets sat at long pine tables, translating the Morse code into English.
“Here you go,” Polly told one of them, as she handed over the message from TRV. Elspeth Hallsmith was a slim, cool, elegant girl, who could somehow make even the FANY uniform look chic. It was rumored that she’d grown up in Windsor and knew the two young princesses. “It’s TRV—thank heavens!”
“Excellent! Glad old TRV’s on the air again,” Elspeth said in a fluty voice. “It’s been quite a while with that one.”
Polly left Elspeth alone with the missive so she could get to work. Elspeth had decrypted TRV’s missives before and had sent them on to SOE headquarters on Baker Street with a red stamp: SECURITY CHECK MISSING. She, too, was relieved to see the agent transmitting again—but her stomach clenched when she wondered if the checks would still be absent.
CALL SIGN TRV
20 JUNE 1942
AM SAFELY INSTALLED IN PARIS STOP WILL COMMENCE BROADCASTS AS SCHEDULED STOP BAR LORRAINE STILL SECURE OVER
Elspeth went over the transcribed message not once but three times. Again, Agent TRV had forgotten her security check. She bit her lip. Had TRV been compromised?
Everything else looked normal.
It wasn’t up to her.
Once again, she stamped the decrypt with the red ink letters: SECURITY CHECK MISSING. Then, unwilling to let it sit in her outbox, she put on her coat and took it herself to the Hall. There, Harold Sheldon, the chief decoding officer—a grim man with dark, brilliantined hair and a glass eye—bundled it with a sheaf of decrypts bound for London by motorcycle courier first thing in the morning.
“Cigarette before we go back in, Miss Hallsmith?” Sheldon asked, taking a pack from his breast pocket and holding it out. All of the rules of SOE forbade them from discussing the decrypt.
“Thank you, Mr. Sheldon,” Elspeth answered, plucking a cigarette from the pack with pink-painted fingernails. “I could really use one tonight.”
Fortner and Hugh stood in the doorway of the Reichsminister’s suite. “Please,” the German invited, flipping on the light switch and waving Hugh in with a flick of his hand.
Hugh commanded his legs to move forward, entering the room reluctantly. His eyes darted, taking in the décor and the layout. But the beauty of the antique boiserie, as well as the gueridons and bergères, was lost on him.
Fortner closed and locked the doors with a series of sharp clicks that caused Hugh’s heart to pound. Clenching his fists, he kept his back to Fortner, staring toward the window draped with blackout curtains.
The Reichsminister wasted no time. He strode up behind Hugh and spun him around. They were face-to-face, though Hugh was a good three inches taller. Fortner traced one stubby finger down Hugh’s cheek. “I love the arts,” the German cooed. “The beauty, the passion, the abandon….”
Hugh stared at a corner of the room, a potted palm in a Chinese urn the only thing he could focus on.
“Relax, dear boy,” Fortner crooned. “Relax.”
Hugh did his best to gently extricate himself from Fortner’s embrace. “But the Nazis are against homosexuality.”
The Reichsminister turned and chuckled. “Rules are only for the little people. The Volk—they must make babies for the Reich. The SS officers, well…That’s often a different story. We are like the Greeks, the Romans! Although we’re always discreet, of course.”
Fortner placed a hand behind Hugh’s neck and pulled him forward. At the last moment, Hugh twisted his face away to avoid the man’s lips.
“Don’t be coy,” Fortner chided, taking Hugh’s hand and leading him toward the bedroom. “I’m very attracted to you. Surely you must have known…”
“And I’m sure your mistress is quite attracted to you, too,” Hugh said, for he’d met the pretty young Parisienne a few times.
“The girl’s for show. As is my wife, back in Berlin. And my five children.” He smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I put in for a Paris assignment—you French are so much more sophisticated about these things. You love sex and don’t worry too much about who’s involved.”
Hugh stood frozen. Was this really going to happen? Was he really going to go through with this?
Fortner whispered, “Take off your clothes.”
Hugh let the Nazi kiss him. He did his best to switch his feelings off. It was a job. Sarah had been prepared to do it. Hadn’t he even told her she had to, for the good of all? Once Fortner was asleep, he could get to the files…
“Ah, now you’re getting in the spirit—”
“No! Stop it!” Hugh pushed at Fortner’s bulk. “Stop! Get off of me!” Without thinking, Hugh kneed the German in the groin. Fortner groaned, grabbed himself, and bent over.
And then came the jolt, the shock. Hugh closed his eyes in defeat.
When he’d caught his breath, Fortner straightened, eyes locked on Hugh. He reached over to the top drawer of the bed table near him and pulled out a Luger pistol.
Hugh hadn’t just rejected Fortner, he’d done it in English—and blown his cover.
The instruction given at Beaulieu to SOE agents going abroad was that, if they were caught, they were to say nothing to the Gestapo for the first forty-eight hours. That way, everyone in the compromised agent’s circuit would have time to move to new safe houses, to cover their tracks. When the two days were over, if the agent was still alive, she or he could say anything.
Hugh knew this going in, just as he knew his odds of survival were low. And so he was surprised when he was taken by two SS guards from the Hôtel Le Meurice to 84 Avenue Foch and then up the impressive marble stairs to von Waltz’s office—not some sort of medieval-inspired torture chamber. The large room smelled of coffee—the real sort. It smelled warm. Comforting. A mockery of safety.
“Come in!” von Waltz called pleasantly from behind his desk as the SS officers with Walther pistols dragged him in and threw him into a chair.
“Be gentle with our guest!” von Waltz chided them, clicking his tongue. “And take those cuffs off—we don’t need them here.”
As his handcuffs were removed, Hugh saw the portrait of Hitler over the marble fireplace mantel, the silver-framed photograph of Ribbentrop on the desk, and his hands began to shake. He rubbed at his red wrists, not only to ease the pain from the shackles but to disguise the trembling.
Von Waltz noticed with amusement. “Oh, come now, Monsieur Taillier—despite what you may have heard, we’re not monsters. We’re both gentlemen, you and I—and I can be quite reasonable, I assure you.”
He slipped into the chair next to Hugh. “Should I use your code name, Hubert Taillier? Or should I call you Hugh Thompson?”
Hugh pressed himself back in the chair, the blood leaving his face.
“Yes, Mr. Thompson,” von Waltz continued, a smile of amusement curling his lips, “we know your real identity. We know you were sent here, along with your fellow SOE agent Sarah Sanderson. We know your mission was to make contact with Reichsminister Hans Fortner, who has the records of all the major French auto manufacturers collaborating with the Nazis.”
Hugh swallowed, his mouth dry, realizing he’d been betrayed. “Do you have a spy in London?” he asked. “Or here, in Paris?”
Von Waltz ignored his questions. “Would you like some water?” he asked solicitously, then nodded to one of the SS. “Go get our friend a glass.” He turned back to Hugh. “My colleague at the Meurice says you were with Reichsminister Fortner in his suite. Let me guess—Sarah Sanderson was supposed to be the ‘honey trap.’ But what your friends at SOE didn’t tell you is that Fortner is a noted sodomizer.” Von Waltz cocked an eyebrow. “You’d kill for your country, but not have sex?” The German shook his head in mock disapproval. “And yet you’d expect Miss Sanderson to make the sacrifice?”
He chuckled as the guard brought in a glass and set it on the table beside Hugh. “And they say women are the weaker sex. Not very gallant, Mr. Thompson, asking a woman to do what you would not. And yet, that is how your SOE is set up, yes? You have women doing men’s jobs—that’s not exactly chivalrous, now, is it?” Von Waltz winked. “At any rate, it’s understandable you wouldn’t go through with it—Fortner’s not exactly the Adonis type. No wonder you blew your cover. I don’t believe a woman would have, though….They’re made of sterner stuff than we are. Do you think Miss Sanderson would have kept going? And going? Finished the job, so to speak?” The mocking words were having their intended effect on Hugh.
“Ah, but where are my manners? Please allow me to introduce myself properly.” The German stood. “I am Obersturmbannführer Wolfgang von Waltz, but we can dispense with all that formality here. It’s quite a mouthful to say, after all, even for a German.” He chuckled at his own joke and clasped his hands behind his back. “Mr. Thompson, you’re at 84 Avenue Foch, headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst, the counterintelligence branch of the SS. At this moment, our agents are capturing Sarah Sanderson, who will join us here soon. Along with anything incriminating we may find.”
Hugh raised his eyes. “Sarah!”
“We know how difficult this is for you, Mr. Thompson. We’ve read the letters you’ve sent home to your beloved mother, professing your fears—of capture, of torture. Of death.” His voice was caressing.
“You’ve—read my letters?” Letters from SOE agents in Paris to family members, as well as messages too long and too dangerous to be transmitted over the radio, were smuggled out of France by Lysander when new agents were flown in. Hugh shook his head in disbelief.
Von Waltz picked up a folder from his desk and walked to Hugh. There, sure enough, were photographs of Hugh’s letters home, in his own handwriting. “Work with us,” the German coaxed, in his most persuasive tones, as Hugh slumped in shame and despair. “You are an officer, like me. There’s a bond between us.” Hugh didn’t reply.
“SOE has sent you here in violation of all the rules of warfare: you’re a traitor in civilian clothes. You’re a spy. A spy!” Von Waltz paused. “Why give up your life for some stupid, inbred, Eton-educated snob working on Baker Street? Yes, we know all about Colonel Gaskell and his F-Section operation.” At the mention of Gaskell’s name, Hugh started. “And Diana Lynd, as well as the other ‘Baker Street Irregulars.’ ” He leaned over to the desk and picked up another file, which he handed to Hugh.
In horror, Hugh scanned the paper. It was an organizational flowchart of all of SOE, rendered with stunning accuracy. “Who? Who betrayed us?”
“Work with us,” von Waltz urged, ignoring his question. “I’m not going to make you any false promises. Life here won’t be exactly luxurious, but you will survive if you cooperate. Now, we’re going to make use of you. You will agree to code messages for us. You will pretend to your contacts back in London that you’re still an agent at large. And we will use the information they send to you.”
“Who betrayed us?” Hugh repeated, eyes dull with shock. Who else was in danger of being exposed?
“Work with us.”
“No!”
“No?” Von Waltz was incredulous.
Hugh took a ragged breath. Softer now, he repeated, “No.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But perhaps you’ll become more amenable after a little…encouragement.” Von Waltz really did look regretful. “It didn’t have to be this way, you know. You’re bringing it on yourself.”
Hugh raised his chin. “Can’t be as bad as British boarding school.”
Von Waltz gave him a pitying glance, then looked to the two guards and snapped his fingers. “Take our friend down to the basement.”