The man who entered was tall, with streaked blond hair, gray eyes, and a Viking’s profile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Prime Minister—”
“Yes, yes, yes—we don’t have time for all that.” The P.M. lit his cigar and puffed on it vigorously, setting the tip aglow. Smoke framed his round pink face. “Sit down, young man! Now, let me tell you what we’re asking you to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Martens folded his long frame into one of the leather chairs facing the P.M.
“Master of Deception!” Churchill growled. “Wazir of Ruses! Wizard of Trickery! Marquis of Misinformation!” He removed his gold-framed glasses, glowering at Martens. “You are to be the point person in charge of all of the deception plans that will accompany the European invasion. For the truth is so precious she must be accompanied by a bodyguard of lies. You see that, don’t you?
“You’re not limited to strategic deception but will also mislead, misinform, and mystify the Nazis using every ungentlemanly trick in the book.” Churchill pronounced the enemy’s name in his idiosyncratic way, Nazzi. “As Sun Tzu said, ‘Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable. When using our forces, we must seem inactive. When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away. When far away, we must make him believe we are near.’?”
If Martens was surprised or shocked in any way, he hid it well. “Yes, sir.”
“You will report only to General Ismay”—the two men nodded to each other—“and have an office in the War Rooms. Mr. Greene has prepared files for you, to get you up to speed.” Martens looked to David, who inclined his head.
“You are to be the coordinator for all of the agencies—MI-Six, MI-Five, SOE, et cetera—that deal in deception. The only way our ultimate plan will work is if, and only if, we’re all following the same playbook. And some of our agencies, well—they don’t play well with the others. MI-Six and SOE in particular don’t get along.”
David passed over a polished steel briefcase, complete with a set of handcuffs attached to the grip. “You will have safes in both your office and your flat,” the private secretary told the Welshman. “Any information pertaining to the invasion or any secret work will be kept either in the safes or in the briefcase chained to your wrist.”
“Do you have any questions?” Ismay asked.
“Only one,” replied Martens, reaching for the briefcase. “When may I start?”
“Now!” the P.M. thundered, rising to shake Martens’s hand. “Mr. Greene, please show our Norse god to his new office downstairs.”
As the men took their leave, Churchill called rapturously after them, “Welcome to the Great Game, Colonel Martens!”
Chapter Four
Like France itself, the H?tel Ritz Paris was divided.
It had always been made up of two edifices. The one that faced the Place Vend?me was originally the residence of the Duc de Lauzun, commander of the French troops at Yorktown during the American Revolutionary War. The other half was a building that happened to abut it on Rue Cambon. Lined with display cases, the long corridor that linked the two buildings was known as Temptation Walk.
But while César Ritz had founded the hotel in 1898 as a place where aristocrats and the wealthy could mingle, there was now segregation. The elegant front entrance, at 15 Place Vend?me, was for Germans and those from neutral countries only, while the less fashionable back entry, on the narrow, shady Rue Cambon, was for the French.
Because Maggie was posing as Irish, and Ireland was a neutral country—even seen as friendly toward Nazi Germany—she was allowed to use the Place Vend?me entrance. And so the Generaloberst directed his driver accordingly.
Place Vend?me was less of a square than an octagon, with canted corners, severe Neoclassical pediments, and pitched mansard roofs—in the shape of Coco Chanel’s iconic perfume bottle, Maggie realized. The Place was lined with shops such as Boucheron, Van Cleef & Arpels, Buccellati, and Chaumet, all seeming to be doing a brisk business with Nazi officers coming in and out as doormen bowed low.
At the center of the Place Vend?me rose a tall column, forged from melted cannons seized at the Battle of Austerlitz, topped with a bronze statue of Napoleon Bonaparte. As they circled, Maggie looked up at the emperor, imagining how pained he would be seeing this view, his square conquered, his people subjugated.
The Ritz itself was now the headquarters of the Luftwaffe. And as such, it looked less grand hotel than sandbagged fortress. Blood-red swastika banners flapped above the cream silk awnings and huge carriage-style lamps. Armed guards flanked the entrance in front of the curving topiaries. Long, shiny black cars with flags, convoy trucks, and motorcycles with sidecars queued at the doors. As the Generaloberst’s car pulled up, Maggie could hear officers shouting lusty Heil Hitlers to each other. She tried to assuage her fear by picturing Barbara Hutton Mdivani attempting to enter the Ritz in tennis shorts and being turned away, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Since I know where you’re staying,” the Generaloberst said as his driver opened the door, “may I call on you—when I arrive with your new gloves?”
Maggie accepted the driver’s proffered hand. “I plan on going to the Café de la Paix often,” she replied with a forced smile, as she stepped out of the car. She turned back to face the Generaloberst, hearing the approaching sound of marching jackboots in the square. She didn’t want his gloves or anything else he could give her, and there was no way she ever wanted to see him again. But she couldn’t say that.
“Perhaps we’ll meet there.” Note—stay far, far away from the Café de la Paix.
“I really do thank you—from the bottom of my heart,” he said.
Do you have one? Maggie thought but didn’t say, maintaining her glassy smile instead.
“So this is not au revoir, but à bient?t, mademoiselle.”
A thousand times no. “Merci…” Maggie realized she didn’t know his name.
“Generaloberst Ruesdorf. Christian Ruesdorf. At your service.”
As a bellhop swooped to take her trunk, suitcase, and hatboxes, Maggie attempted to hold on to her smile. She gave a small wave before a barrel-chested doorman in a long coat with brass buttons doffed his hat and whisked her through the revolving door.
His low voice rumbled, “Welcome to the H?tel Ritz, mademoiselle.”
Inside was a different world—a hothouse of gilded mirrors, marble, and damask, the air perfumed by lush arrangements of orchids and roses, the ripples of a harp’s arpeggios wafting through murmured conversations in both French and German. Maggie’s first impression wasn’t of a hotel but of a stately manor house, albeit one with its numerous Swiss clocks set precisely to Berlin time. Well-groomed men sat on Martin chairs reading freshly ironed newspapers.
But this was no fairy-tale palace—the lobby was also swarming with Nazis in gray-green uniforms. Maggie took a deep breath, raised her chin, and threw back her shoulders.
As she walked the long, carpeted hallway, past walls of silk moiré, Chinese pendant lanterns, and hopelessly banal artwork, she observed a slim, middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit. Topped by a dark widow’s peak, his face was worn and haggard, but his jaw was noble. He stood listening respectfully to a high-ranking German, short and balding, his chest decorated with medals, the Iron Cross at his throat. “I wish to thank you for arranging last night’s impromptu dinner party, Monsieur Auzello,” the officer was saying. “It was superb, as always.” He thrust out his right hand.
“You’re very welcome, sir.” Maggie watched as the Frenchman ignored the offered hand, then bowed gracefully, turned, and walked away—leaving the Nazi standing there with an outstretched palm and open mouth.
Resistance is alive, even at the Ritz, she thought, and instantly felt heartened.