—
The man known as Gibbon shivered as the rain eased and the swirling breeze picked up. With his hat pulled low and collar turned up, he set off through the streets of Paris, documents in a courier packet tucked inside his buttoned jacket.
Looking both ways and satisfied he wasn’t being tailed, he turned in to a glass-covered Belle époque arcade, looked both ways again, then ducked into a stairwell. Taking the worn marble stairs two at a time, he climbed to the third-floor landing. Looking around, he rapped at one of the black doors, using its brass knocker in the shape of a two-headed snake.
A man opened the door. He was plump, with a doughy face and glossy platinum hair brushed back without a part and wore a dark suit and a burgundy silk bow tie. He nodded when he recognized Gibbon, then stepped aside to let him enter.
The flat was unfurnished and shadowy. Any light from the windows was blocked out with taped-up newspapers. The living area was empty, except for a table, a chair, and a large black camera clamped to a wooden desk. The photographer’s monolight had a silver metallic interior, to reflect the light and increase brightness.
The man with the bright hair sat at the table, then held out his hand. Gibbon unbuttoned his rain-speckled jacket and took out the courier packet.
The seated man nodded. “Our boss wants to speak to you,” he said in German-inflected French, as he took the packet.
“When?”
“As soon as I’m done photographing the mail. There will be an unmarked car waiting outside. When the door opens, get in.”
A look of fear crossed the agent’s face. “Where will it take me?”
The German centered the first document in the bright beam of light. He picked up the camera and squinted through the eyehole before he pressed the button. “Avenue Foch, of course.”
“But what if I’m spotted?”
“The car will go all the way up the drive—you’ll use the servants’ back entrance.”
—
At the Ritz, Maggie changed into a plain cotton dress, raincoat, and sensible shoes before heading to the convent. It was her last chance to try to find Elise.
Still, she wanted to check in at the Place Vend?me front desk before she left. She had a distinct feeling Sarah might have tried to get in touch. She half-smiled, remembering Scotland Yard’s Detective Chief Inspector Durgin and all his talk of listening to “the gut.” Still, the DCI had been right, and she had the nagging worry that, somehow, Sarah needed her. “Bonjour, monsieur,” she said to the man with the thick, tortoiseshell framed glasses. “Do you have anything for me?”
The receptionist looked at the cubbies behind him and saw nothing in the K cubby, then checked underneath the desk for any packages. “I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle Kelly,” he told her. “Were you expecting something?”
“No, no,” Maggie replied. Gut? I must be getting paranoid.
There were florists arranging massive banks of flowers around the lobby, even more than usual. “Is something special going on?” she asked.
“There’s a ball tomorrow evening,” he replied. “A masked ball. Given by Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering. Didn’t you receive an invitation, mademoiselle? All the hotel’s guests are expected.”
A party with Goering? Who would remember me from Berlin? No—no thank you. “As you know, I only recently checked in,” she replied, hoping the bespectacled man couldn’t hear the quaver in her voice.
“Well, if you’re a guest of the hotel, you simply must come,” said a woman in a smart suit and ropes of pearls passing by, leading an overweight poodle with an equally bejeweled collar. “After all, it’s the event of the season!”
—
The sanitation truck rumbled noisily down Avenue Foch, stopping regularly to pick up each elegant building’s trash. As Voltaire parked, Reiner opened the huge metal back doors, bracing himself against whatever insulting new odors he might encounter. Nodding to the German guards on duty, who waved him through, Reiner made his way on a side walkway to the back of Number 84, where the building’s metal trash cans were neatly lined up. He dragged them back, struggling to empty the contents into the truck. When they were all empty, he hoisted the last two onto his shoulders and made his way back to return them.
Later, at the dump, they would dig through the garbage until they found the trash from the Sicherheitsdienst offices and sifted through it—everything from coffee grounds and half-eaten pastries to discarded documents. They would report any important findings to F-Section via courier.
As Reiner wrestled the empty bins back into their row, a man dressed in civilian clothes cut through the garden. The man looked both ways, then approached the servants’ entrance. His eyes slipped over Reiner in his overalls and cap. The agent felt a jolt of recognition but made sure to keep his head down, spending extra time lining up the cans perfectly as the other man knocked at the door and waited to enter.
Pulling his cap low, Reiner positioned himself to take a good look at the man’s face.
Yes, he was absolutely sure: it was Raoul, another SOE agent working in Paris.
Who was now being warmly welcomed to the heart of the counterespionage division of Sicherheitsdienst.
—
“Gibbon!” von Waltz called. “Come in!” He stood. “Take Monsieur Gibbon’s coat and hat, Fr?ulein Schmidt! And put on the coffee! Pastries, too—those delicious chestnut ones if we have them.” The German clapped the Frenchman on the back with genuine affection. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. It’s been far, far too long.” He pointed the agent toward the chairs in front of the fireplace.
Gibbon looked around, took a seat, and gave a low whistle. “Nice office you have here. Who would have thought back in Spain that someday you’d be a bigwig in Paris?”
“Ah, those were the days, my friend! Remember Madrid? The drinking, the se?oritas…The Spanish Civil War was only a precursor to our partnership now.”
“You’re doing quite well for yourself.”
“I’ve never had you here?” von Waltz exclaimed, also sitting. “Well, thank goodness we’re rectifying that now.”
“It’s dangerous for me here,” Gibbon countered. “Although I miss our drunken nights in Spain, I have no wish to be seen with you.” He smiled. “No offense, of course.”
“None taken,” replied von Waltz. “And rest assured we’re taking every precaution to make sure you’re not seen. You’ve done a superb job for us. We’ve gleaned more from those courier packets to England than you’ll ever know.”
“I’m glad. It’s not you Nazis that scare me—it’s the damn Communists. The Resistance is all Commies.”
“British intelligence must have complete trust in you now.”
“They seem pleased with my work,” Gibbon replied carefully. “But, of course, you never know.” He shrugged.
“We have a little change of plans, here at Avenue Foch. What I’m doing now is setting up what I’m calling a ‘radio game.’?” As Hertha Schmidt brought in a tray, he rubbed his hands together. “Ah, we do have those chestnut pastries! How wonderful!”
“I’m afraid they’re hazelnut, sir.” Hertha studiously avoided his eyes by picking up the silver pot and pouring cups of coffee, then handing them to the men.
“Ah, how we suffer here in Paris—”
“Sir?”
“Thank you, Fr?ulein Schmidt. That will be all. Please close the doors on your way out.”
Gibbon blew on his hot coffee, then took a small sip. “You have SOE agents here?” he asked the German.