But the bearded man burst in, his collar unbuttoned, his tie askew. “Obersturmbannführer! You must see this!”
Von Waltz was finishing a telephone call. He hung up the receiver, then looked up. “Next time you arrive unannounced, Professor, I’ll have you shot.” It was clear, despite his mild tone, that he wasn’t joking.
“Have you shot!” echoed Ludwig the parrot. “Snowpisser! Beer idiot! Bed wetter!”
The older man, still struggling to catch his breath, set the decrypt in front of his superior.
“Shut! Up!” von Waltz barked to the bird.
Ludwig replied, “Parrot stew! Parrot stew!” then gleefully made a loud farting sound.
The professor waited as the Obersturmbannführer read the decrypt:
YOUR MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED STOP RENDEZVOUS WITH RAOUL STOP YOU WILL RETURN TO LONDON STOP BRING BAG STOP OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE STOP DO NOT FORGET SECURITY CHECK AGAIN OVER
As he read, an enormous smile spread across von Waltz’s face. “They took the bait!” he crowed. “And swallowed it whole!” He rubbed at the nearly imperceptible stubble on his chin. “Now, what was Calvert carrying that is so important?”
Fischer coughed delicately. “They realize we don’t have the security check, sir.”
“And the stupid fools don’t seem to particularly care. We don’t need to radio back quite yet—but we do need to find out about this bag she’s supposed to have had.”
“How do we do that?” Ludwig began to sing the Austrian folk song “Lieserl Walzer,” fluttering from perch to perch in his cage.
Von Waltz picked up the telephone’s receiver and waved Fischer away. “Back to the radio for you.”
“Back to the radio!” Ludwig called after the older man. “Have you shot!”
—
Inside Our Lady of Sorrows Church, a few blocks from the Hess apartment, the light seeped around the edges of the taped and boarded windows and the damp air smelled of incense and candle wax. Maggie passed the cistern where worshippers dipped fingers into holy water to make the sign of the cross before walking past banks of candles flickering their hopes and prayers. Up in the balcony, an anonymous organist practiced; a Franck fugue echoed through the shadows.
A graceful, white-haired woman with impeccable posture was arranging blossoms and swags of greenery in a brass urn in front of the altar, where an ormolu-framed oil painting presided: Christ crowned by thorns, his bloody palms nailed to the cross.
Off-duty Germans with cameras looped around their necks walked along the aisles, gasping up at the great vaulted ceiling and Gothic windows. Some of the sightseers knelt in pews, eyes closed in prayer, which surprised Maggie—or at least made her wonder what they were praying for, exactly.
Maggie sat in a pew but didn’t pray. She was a mathematician and believed in science. She would find Elise—or not—but she was certain that kneeling and mumbling ancient words wasn’t going to help. She did like the contemplative feel of churches, though. They were good places to think and reflect, oases of comfort in an often disappointing world. She smiled, remembering Mr. Churchill’s take on religion and his place in the Church of England: “I am not a pillar of the church, but a flying buttress.”
After summoning her resolve, she made her way down the checkerboard marble aisle to the woman with the flowers. “Good day, madame—do you know where I can find the priest?” Maggie asked, noting the red roses, white lilies, and blue delphinium. The Tricolor—another act of resistance?
“Father Janvier is hearing confession now,” the woman answered, cutting thorns off of a long-stemmed crimson rose before placing it in the large urn.
“Ah,” Maggie replied. She had only a dim understanding of the Sacrament of Penance and other traditions of the Catholic Church. “Thank you, madame.”
She walked to the elaborately carved confessional and stood waiting, listening. There was only silence. Surreptitiously, she checked under the curtain: no feet. The confessional was empty. She pushed aside the purple velvet curtain to enter the small booth.
Across from her was a metallic grille; behind it, she could make out a man dressed in black with a white collar—the priest. “Bonjour, Father Janvier.”
“This is not how we begin confession, my child,” he scolded gently. “Please kneel.”
She did. “I’m sorry, Father, but I’m not looking for forgiveness today.” Or, at least, not from the Church.
“Actually, I’m searching for a woman—who may have recently visited your parish. Her name is Elise Hess—she’s young, twenty-five, with short blond hair. Probably quite thin, as she came to Paris after an incarceration in Ravensbrück. She was held as a political prisoner, for helping a priest named Father Licht from St. Hedwig’s in Berlin.” She slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out the framed photograph. “Have you seen her?”
The priest pushed aside the grille so he could see Maggie clearly, and then, after a moment, took the photograph. “This is most unusual, young woman!” he exclaimed. He was sharp-featured, as if he had fasted for too long.
“I know, Father. And I wouldn’t have come barging in on you like this, except I’m extremely worried about her. Her family’s apartment is nearby and she’s a devout Catholic. I’m hoping she might have come to Mass here, and that perhaps you may have seen her?”
He took reading glasses from the pocket of his cassock and studied the photograph. “What is your concern with this woman?”
“She’s my sister.” Half sister. Still…
“Well,” he said, thawing slightly, “I don’t know of this young woman, this Elise Hess, but I’ve only recently come to this church from Marseilles. Perhaps you could return and speak with one of the other priests, someone who’s been here longer? He might know.”
Maggie swallowed her disappointment as she took the picture back. “Thank you,” she said. Yet another dumb plan come to nothing, Hope…
But she had to try once more. “Elise wanted to be a nun at one point in her life—may still want to be one. Are there any convents associated with this church?”
“There is an order affiliated with our parish—the Convent of Labarde.”
“Is it nearby?” she asked, her heart lifting.
“Not too far. The sisters run a hospital for the insane in the countryside near Chantilly, about fifty kilometers away. You can get there by train.”
“Father, thank you. Thank you so much. This means— Well, it means more than you know.”
“Good luck, mademoiselle—your sister is lucky to have you looking out for her.”
Maggie’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I just hope she feels the same way.”
He inclined his head. “I will pray for you both.”
Chapter Eleven
Outside the church, Jacques leaned against one of the columns, hat at a slant, a collaborationist newspaper under his arm. He was dressed well, as he had been at Maxim’s—flannel trousers, white shirt and striped tie, houndstooth jacket. When he saw Maggie, he grinned like a matinee idol and raised his hat.
Their eyes met. He made a “follow me” gesture with his head. She felt a stab of irritation—she had another lead on Elise—but she followed anyway. Jacques was her contact; he must have something important to tell her if he had made a point of tracking her down.
He led her to a park, a small one—only a city block’s worth of space—but beautiful, with yellow and red roses and pleached trees. It was surrounded by boxwood hedges, and a fountain in the center was topped by a statue of Joan of Arc. A few dun-colored sparrows perched on her outstretched bronze arms while others splashed in the water.
They reached a wooden bench, greenish with lichen and age. Jacques sat on one end and opened his newspaper. Maggie sat on the other. Except for two men in tweed caps playing chess in a far corner of the park, they were alone, with only the faint sound of a car in the distance and the occasional birdcall.