Maggie had spent the day at various fashion shows and then returned to the Ritz for afternoon tea. Now, dressed and coiffed, with her face concealed, Maggie made her way to the ballroom with the designer.
“Well, it’s not one of Elsie de Wolfe’s soirées, but I suppose it will do,” Chanel said as she swept through the doors of the Ritz’s grand salon. Maggie looked over the scene. There were actually three salons, all connected, and each had a soaring ceiling, glittering chandeliers, gold-painted moldings, and velvet draperies. All had been transformed: the floors had been polished to a sheen, great gilded brackets held dripping candelabras, and bouquets of red roses and orchids overflowed on the linen-swathed tables.
Maggie had to fight the urge to turn and run; Goering was rumored to be attending. But instead, she pressed her mask—a confection of semiprecious stones and dyed feathers—against her face for concealment and descended the steps. The other hand demurely lifted the skirt of her dress, the pale blue hidden by a black lace gown she had worn to the ballet.
In the main salon, there was no shortage of haute couture on display. The ladies wore gowns of shimmering silk, frothy lace, and floating tulle. Jewels sparkled on their throats and dangled from their ears, and long kid gloves covered their hands and arms. The men were elegantly clad in evening dress, their shirt studs and gold cuff links glinting in the candlelight.
As the orchestra played a lilting fox-trot, the candlelit room swirled with dancers. The ballroom was a feast for the senses: the dancers in gowns of scarlet, crimson, and ruby keeping time to the sweet music of the strings. The fragrance of the women’s perfumes and men’s hair tonic combined with the heady scent of the flowers. And drifting above it all was the rise and fall of flirtatious conversation, mostly in French, but occasionally in German.
Maggie felt dizzy, from both the heat of the candles and the warmth of the dancers as they spun and twirled. A waiter stepped up to her with a silver tray. “Champagne?”
Maggie accepted a glass as Chanel was greeted by a group she obviously knew and took the opportunity to walk away, mask held firmly in place. The music finished and the assembled politely applauded. But before she could make her escape, a man blocked her path. “I couldn’t help but recognize you by your hair,” he said in German-inflected French. Despite his mask, Maggie recognized him instantly.
“Christian.”
“May I have this dance?”
Maggie nodded, and set down her drink. The General led her to the dance floor. As they began to move to the music, he asked, “Did you know that legend has it Elsa Maxwell rejected a diamond Cartier bracelet at a dinner at the Ritz given in her honor, saying she preferred having Fritz Kreisler play for her?”
“Must have been a while ago,” Maggie retorted drily. Jewels and gold were worth far more than francs.
“And at that, George Bernard Shaw proclaimed, ‘This woman is the eighth wonder of the world!’ I wonder, Mademoiselle Kelly, which would you pick?”
“Before the war, the violin performance.” She gave a short laugh. “But nowadays, the diamond bracelet.”
Christian spun her about, guiding Maggie across the crowded dance floor, one gloved hand holding hers, the other resting lightly on her back. In the arms of a German officer, even masked, she couldn’t possibly relax. And then she caught sight of Goering.
Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering, towering and rotund, was wearing a specially made dress uniform trimmed in golden braid that stretched tightly across his broad back, dark sweat stains under his arms. His beaded and feathered black mask depicted the horned hunting god, complete with antlers. Christian saw the direction of Maggie’s glance and immediately steered her closer. “Come, I’ll introduce you!”
But before she could protest, another man cut in. “May I?”
Christian released Maggie regretfully. “We must dance again, mademoiselle,” he said, then bowed and left.
The masked newcomer whirled her around the floor, away from Goering. Maggie stiffened in surprise, almost losing her step. “Jacques!” The orchestra began to play “A String of Pearls.”
“You look beautiful, mademoiselle.” His voice was thick with emotion.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something’s happened. We need to get to somewhere private to talk.”
He took her hand to lead her across the floor. They went through the salon to the glass-walled atrium and then to the garden. There was no one else outside; the threat of rain was enough to ensure privacy.
As they walked the darkened paths, Jacques kept hold of Maggie’s hand. “Are you cold? Would you like my jacket?”
“I’m fine.”
But he took his black dinner jacket off and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm from his body, and she pulled it closer around her. They faced each other, hands clasped, palm against palm, soft glove leather against leather, but the touch was surprisingly intimate.
“You need to leave Paris,” he said urgently.
The spell was broken. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Two agents have been captured.”
“What? Who?”
“I don’t know. I only know they’re at Avenue Foch. Who knows what they’ve said?”
“I promised my sister she could get out. And there’s an injured British pilot—”
“First we have to get you to the safe house on Rue Curial. Then we’ll worry about getting you all out. The full moon is less than a week away.” He leaned close. Once again, Maggie was aware of the warmth of his body. “It’s urgent. You’ll need to go tonight.”
“Tonight? What about the curfew?”
He looked at the face of his watch in the leaking light from the gala. “It’s best we get you there as soon as possible. Go upstairs, change, and pack a bag. Take the servants’ stairs back down. I’ll be waiting on the street.”
—
Maggie moved quickly, going up to her little room, changing into plain, dark clothes, packing a small suitcase of necessities, leaving behind the large Vuitton trunk and all the couture. Thank you, Paige, she thought as she left and closed the door behind her. You always were generous about lending your things.
She ran down the stairs with her case; Jacques was waiting for her as he’d promised. She walked to him. “We might never see each other again.” And wouldn’t that fit my pattern of romantic entanglements perfectly?
“You never know. Let’s say à bient?t, rather than au revoir. I’ll walk you to the safe house. Make sure you go there.”
“It’s better if I go alone. We shouldn’t be seen together.” And yet Maggie set down her suitcase. In the shadows, his arms wrapped around her.
They kissed. You fool, Maggie thought, you idiot—always falling for the unavailable man. They broke apart and stared at each other.
“I—” he began.
“No,” Maggie replied, drawing away. “Don’t say anything more.”
“Maybe after the war?”
Maybe. She picked up her suitcase again. “Stranger things have happened.”
—
At Station 53a, Elspeth Hallsmith bent over an encoded message, just received from the agent known as IDJ.
She didn’t know IDJ well; he—or she—had been sent to France only recently, and she’d decrypted only three previous messages. It had been a long shift, and now there was only an hour to go before the next crew took over. Even Elspeth’s usually perfect curl was falling out, her lipstick long since faded, her elegant fingers drumming restlessly on the long table. “All right, IDJ, let’s see what you’re up to,” she muttered as she began to translate the Morse code into English.
CALL SIGN IDJ
22 JUNE 1942
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED STOP TARGETS IDENTIFIED STOP REQUESTING MORE AGENTS FOR IMMEDIATE ACTION OVER
Elspeth went over the transcribed message not once but four times. For the first time, IDJ had forgotten his security check. She bit her lip. Another F-section agent leaving off security checks. It was becoming a far too common occurrence.
And so, like the others, she stamped the top of the decrypt SECURITY CHECK MISSING in bright red ink and put it in her outbox.
—