She tried to reason with herself. If I don’t crack under interrogation, the Gestapo can’t pursue its investigation. And then no other pearls will drop off the string.
As Maggie lay on the bed, eyes open, she looked up through the gloom to the water-stained ceiling. Above her was the skylight, with three iron bars, fixed on a wooden frame. Hugh and Sarah most likely had bars on their windows, too. If only…
A surge of adrenaline ran through her. All I have to do is escape before they break me. The insanity of trying to break out of Gestapo headquarters wasn’t lost on her, but still, she was determined to focus on her plan—to escape with Sarah and Hugh, collect Erica’s precious package, pick up Elise and her RAF pilot, and somehow make it to the airfield by midnight on June 28.
She had five days.
Chapter Seventeen
Diana Lynd laid the latest decrypts, just delivered from Station 53a, on Colonel Gaskell’s desk.
“What’s all this?” the colonel asked, searching for his reading glasses, although even the most nearsighted could read the red ink stamp across the top: SECURITY CHECK MISSING.
“It’s another decrypt, this one from Agent IDJ—that’s Hubert Taillier, code name Aristide.”
Gaskell gave her a blank look.
“IDJ’s real name is Hugh Thompson.”
Shoving his glasses up his nose, Colonel Gaskell read the decrypt:
22 JUNE 1942
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED STOP TARGETS IDENTIFIED STOP REQUESTING MORE AGENTS FOR IMMEDIATE ACTION OVER
“Why so glum, Miss Lynd? This is excellent news! Jolly good show, indeed! He’ll be coming back with a list of targets from Fortner. In the meantime, they need more agents, for more work! Maybe even a new cell!”
Lynd did not share in his enthusiasm. “He’s omitted his security checks, sir.”
“We’ve been over that, my dear.”
“If Thompson’s been compromised and we send in more agents, we’ll be sending them straight into a trap.”
“Believe me, Miss Lynd, I’m on top of it.”
“Please read the next decrypt. It was sent by GJW—Clothilde—from HJW. That’s Leo Ackerman.”
Gaskell gave her another uncomprehending look.
“You may know him as Reiner Dupont,” she explained patiently. “He’s our agent in Paris sanitation. And you’ll note all of his security checks are in place.”
“Ah, the garbageman,” Gaskell mused. He read the message and then turned to stare out the window overlooking Baker Street. “Well, well. There could be any number of reasons why our man was coming from Avenue Foch.”
Lynd folded her arms across her chest. “Am I to understand, sir, that you believe a message sent without security checks and doubt one sent with?”
“You don’t understand, Miss Lynd!” spluttered Gaskell. “Carry on with your duties! Leave the questions for your superiors!”
Lynd turned smartly on her heel and left Gaskell’s office before she said what was really on her mind.
—
Maggie was once again in von Waltz’s office. This time, it was daylight, the sky out the window low and sooty, with only a lone patch of blue on the horizon.
“Perhaps you don’t realize the position you’re in,” he began, this time sitting behind his carved desk, hands folded. He looked to be freshly shaven, smelling of lemon cologne. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so stubborn, mademoiselle, not because you’re guilty, or completely guilty, yourself. I will give you one more chance. I will give you until six o’clock this evening. If you haven’t become reasonable by then, I will have no option. I shall have to use stronger methods of persuasion.”
Despite the tang of fear in her mouth, Maggie gave him her most supercilious smile. “I can assure you, Obersturmbannführer, I do in fact realize the position I’m in. I was sent by the concierge of the Ritz on a fool’s errand, to ask for a certain person, which overlapped with something else—something that has nothing whatsoever to do with me.” She waved an imperious hand. “Obviously, Jeanne-Marie and Ora are common names. This is a simple misunderstanding.”
“As you know, we have captured Sabine Severin and Hubert Taillier. But we prefer to call them by their real names—Sarah Sanderson and Hugh Thompson.”
“So?” Maggie kept her expression placid. “Again, this has nothing to do with me. This is not my war.”
“We know all about SOE’s operations in France—F-Section, as you call it.”
“I have no idea who’s operating in France. I’m just an Irish bride-to-be here for my wedding trousseau.”
“We know about Colonel Maurice Buckmaster, Air Commodore Sir Charles Hambro, Colonel Gaskell, and Diana Lynd. We know about training in Scotland and parachute school, and your so-called finishing school at Beaulieu.”
Maggie shook her head, although her knuckles whitened. “These names mean nothing to me. I’ve never even been to Scotland. You have arrested me in error. And, I will say again, Obersturmbannführer, I insist upon speaking with someone at the Irish Consulate.”
“A fine idea,” von Waltz agreed genially. “Surely we can call the Irish Consulate—find out about a certain Paige Kelly—if that’s even your name, mademoiselle. Where were you born?”
“In Belfast, on the fifth of June, 1915. And I don’t need until six o’clock tonight to make up some story to satisfy you, Obersturmbannführer. Perhaps it is stupid of me, not to try to secure my release by making up some information which might deceive you into believing I know something. But the fact of the matter is—” She paused, doing her best to look vulnerable. “I’m a pretty girl, not a clever one—and certainly not cut out for your games. I’m telling you the absolute truth, sir, and that’s all I can do, regardless of your threats. It’s cruel of you to frighten me like this.”
He stared at her a moment, then reached over his desk and picked up the telephone receiver. “Ah yes, Fr?ulein Schmidt. Please place a call to the Irish Consulate here in Paris. Ask them if they can verify the existence of a young Irish woman named Paige Kelly—”
“Paige Claire Kelly,” Maggie interrupted, deciding to go for broke.
Von Waltz held up a hand in annoyance. “Born in Belfast, Ireland, on the fifth of June, 1915.” He replaced the receiver. “And now we’ll see if you are who you say you are, Mademoiselle Kelly.” He leaned back in his chair. “And you’d better hope to God they confirm your story.”
—
The heavy blond guard led Maggie back up the steep stairs. On the landing of the fifth floor a cleaning woman, spewing foul language, was bent over a dented metal carpet sweeper.
“Madame Bonhomme!” the guard admonished.
The petite woman merely shrugged bony shoulders. Maggie could see she’d once been handsome, but was now pinched from too much work and not enough food. “Yes, Sergeant Schneider,” she said to the pale man. “The damn thing’s broken—again.” She gestured to the carpet sweeper.
“I can fix it,” Maggie offered impulsively.
“You?” scoffed the guard.
“I can. When I was a little girl I liked to see how things worked, even carpet sweepers. I’ll need some tools, though.”
The guard returned with a metal box, watched suspiciously as she handled the tools. She fixed the sweeper and handed it back to Madame Bonhomme, who thanked her profusely. Even the guard looked at her with admiration. Maggie put the screwdriver back in the toolbox reluctantly, feeling her heart sink as Madame Bonhomme latched the box and took it away.
Her only hope had been to mend the carpet sweeper ineptly. But how soon would it break down again?
—
Martens had been copied on the same decrypts as Gaskell. As he finished reading the file in his underground office, he reached for the telephone receiver, to call the colonel.