“And then?” Bretz drained his glass.
“Then, after some time has gone by, we begin again, make London trust her. All the while either capturing more agents and commandeering their radios or letting them signal back as our prisoners, operating under our watch.”
“And our endgame?”
“The Allies will be making plans for their eventual invasion attempt, of course,” von Waltz answered, resting his cigar in an opaline ashtray. “To prepare, they will need covert agents in place, supplies, plans of destruction. By playing our Radiospiel, we’ll learn the time and place of the invasion. Information invaluable to Himmler. And to our Führer. Ribbentrop is on his way to Paris as we speak.”
“?‘Radio game.’ I like the sound of that!” Bretz swallowed the last of his pastis. “But the British might know. It’s possible they are playing us at our own game. They could have given us this agent in order to have someone on the inside. She just didn’t go along with the plan.”
“I studied at Cambridge years ago and know a few things about the English,” von Waltz replied. “They’re smart, they fight hard when they have to, they always do their duty—but they have an idealistic sense of ‘fair play’ that never fails to trip them up. And they would never, ever deliberately sacrifice one of their own, even in the name of victory.”
“But we can’t have this agent ‘in hiding’ forever,” Bretz objected. “And to truly use her radio, we’re going to need more information about her network. Specific details, so they don’t begin to suspect anything.”
Von Waltz leaned closer. “I have a spy on the inside—a double agent. My relationship with him goes back to the Spanish Civil War.”
“Ah. And what contacts does this agent have with the English?”
“Through the whimsies of war and his own quite considerable ambitions, he’s risen to a position of critical importance inside English intelligence. He’s the SOE’s roundhouse, through which most vital movements of their spy networks are scheduled. If we protect him and the British activities from any untimely discovery and arrest—keep the police and the Wehrmacht away from the safe houses and the Luftwaffe from their takeoffs and landings, at least as much as possible—he will continue to be extremely valuable to them.” Von Waltz doused his cigar in a small pool of water in the ashtray. “They will grow to trust him more and more.”
“Won’t they get suspicious if their agents start disappearing?”
“We mustn’t be greedy. We’ll pick off only a few at a time, no mass arrests. After all, the more agents he gets home safely, the more confidence the English will have in him. And the more they trust him, the better an agent he’ll be for me. We should follow these spies, see who they meet, find out the locations of the safe houses, and so on. By leaving their networks more or less intact,” von Waltz continued, “we’ll have access to unprecedented intelligence—up to and including the time and place of any Allied landings.”
One of the girls, wearing only a satin robe, poked her head into the salon. “And pierce the heart of the British spy network.” Bretz blew her a kiss. She giggled and left. “But why would your man be so keen to betray the British? After all, we invaded his country.”
“He’s no fan of the Reich, but he loathes Communism even more. He’s appalled at the way the French Communists have joined the Resistance, collaborating with the British. He thinks the Commies are planning on taking over if the Allies win. And he’d rather see his country Fascist than Bolshevik. Besides, the money is very good. He likes the finer things in life.” Von Waltz reached for his cigar. “As we all do.”
“But the agents—they’re not going to confide the details of their missions to this man. What information other than drop-offs and deliveries will he have access to?”
“This is where things become truly wonderful. In addition to smuggling agents in and out of France, he picks up their mail going back to London and various letter drops around Paris and hands it over to the pilots of outgoing flights. He brings it to me first, however, so that I can read and photograph anything of importance. In addition, to arrange a landing, the Allies will need to send their agents materials in advance. The information on maps, blueprints, and drawings can’t be transmitted by radio. It’ll have to be in papers handed off by courier. These pages will ultimately provide the secrets of the invasion.”
“Tell me, who is this mystery man, this double agent?” Bretz was nearly giddy with pastis and curiosity.
“I can only tell you his code name: Gibbon. I chose it specifically—it’s French for ‘friend with a gift.’?”
Bretz grinned. “Well then, let the Radio Games commence!”
“Come by Avenue Foch with me tonight. I’ll give you a little demonstration.”
“Now?” Bretz protested, grabbing his crotch. “I’ve barely begun!”
“No, after. After, of course!”
Chapter Six
It was l’heure bleu—the blue hour, when one couldn’t tell if it was afternoon or evening—when Maggie and Chanel arrived at the Palais Garnier. Signs outside the theater proclaimed the Paris Opéra Ballet’s opening night performance of La Belle au bois dormant was sold out.
Once inside, Chanel gestured toward the monumental marble staircase. “Shall we?” Lights blazed, and golden reflections danced along the marble and gilt as if the theater were a palace in a Belle époque fairy tale. Graceful female torchères, created by Albert-Ernest Carrier-Belleuse, held candelabra aloft. Don’t their arms get tired after all this time? Maggie wondered, trying to distract herself. The ceiling above the sweeping staircase had been painted by Isidore Pils with a number of murals, including Minerva Fighting Brutality Watched by the Gods of Olympus.
Both women were exquisitely dressed: Coco, of course, in one of her own creations, a gossamer black tulle gown with a ruby Maltese cross brooch, Maggie in a clinging, pale blue silk, bias-cut gown by Vionnet with a black embroidered net overdress. She caught Chanel eyeing it with a look of both envy and approbation. Together, they made their way up the marble steps. The crowd, recognizing the iconic couturiere, parted before them.
It was clear to Maggie that Paris, like London, had turned to ballet to ameliorate the grim misery of war. From the German-inflected French she could hear, it seemed that the occupiers were great balletomanes—although whether it was because ballet had no language barrier or because it was a superb opportunity to see pretty girls in skimpy clothing, she couldn’t say.
As they reached the top step, Chanel pulled Maggie aside to one of the balconies to watch the continuing procession on the wide staircase, her eyes wandering over the crowd. Maggie could smell cigarette smoke, perfume, and hair tonic; all around them rose birdlike chatter.
“This is my stage,” the designer announced as they looked down over the people making their entrances. “The most important runway in all of France, perhaps in all the world. You know, Hitler adores the architecture of the Palais. It was the first thing he went to see when he came to visit.”
On the grand stairway, Parisian socialites flirted with handsome Luftwaffe officers. Frenchmen in evening dress—powerful industrialists, designers, and politicians—held out their arms to be clasped by women clad in silk and satin gowns covered by ostrich-feather capes. In their gloved hands, they carried beaded evening bags, hanging by fragile gold chains.