But then, remembering the F-Section head’s lack of distress—as well as MI-6’s concerns with the professionalism of SOE—he pulled his hand back. What if SOE itself was compromised? What if the head of the snake were Gaskell himself? It was too horrible to contemplate, yet he had to. He had to consider every possibility. And he didn’t want to tip his hand.
He was, after all, Winston Churchill’s Master of Deception. Something was going on, something was very wrong, and something needed to be done—and fast. It was time to go on a spy mission of his own. “Miss Pinkerton,” he called to his secretary, an ancient gargoyle of a woman. “I’d like the letters and other paperwork sent back from France with the SOE agents. The real documents, not just copies.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll be working out of the office today. Please call Colonel Mason, at Station 53a. Let him know I’ll be dropping by in a few hours for a little visit.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Very good, sir.”
“No—wait. On second thought, don’t telephone,” he said, putting on his cap. “Let’s make this visit a surprise.”
—
The Racing Club de France was located in the heart of Bois de Boulogne, on the Route of the Lakes, not far from Longchamp racecourse. All sports could be played—fencing, badminton, rugby—but SS Obergruppenführer Ulrich Friedrich Wilhelm Joachim von Ribbentrop, just arrived by train from Berlin, was meeting von Waltz to play tennis.
The two officers, dressed in their whites, met in the lobby of the clubhouse. When the inevitable Heil Hitlers had been exchanged, Ribbentrop asked, “Would you like to play indoors or out?” The Racing Club had both indoor terre battue courts with skylights and outdoor courts surrounded by perfectly pruned shrubs and tall trees.
“The weather could go either way.” Von Waltz glanced out the windows at the gathering clouds. “You choose, Obergruppenführer,” he said deferentially.
Ribbentrop was trim and muscular, with retreating blond hair, a cleft chin, and thin lips. “Outdoors then,” he decided. “We are Aryans, and must get out from behind our desks and into the fresh air as often as possible, regardless of weather.”
They passed a red clay court where the great champion Bernard Destremau was volleying. Since tennis balls were scarce due to the German ban on rubber for anything but war production, Ribbentrop had brought a new Slazenger. When he pulled it out of his pocket, von Waltz grinned. “Excellent, Obergruppenführer.”
They took their positions on opposite sides of the net; Ribbentrop served, and the men volleyed. Both were decent players, scrambling with speed and agility over the traditional en tous cas—the packed brick-dust surface—and well matched. But when the first drops of rain spattered, von Waltz lowered his game and let Ribbentrop win. “Back to the clubhouse for a drink?” he suggested as they shook hands over the net.
“Of course!”
In the clubhouse, they waited for their Champagne to be poured. Von Waltz nodded to René Lacoste as he passed. “If you could devote all your time to practice, you’d be ready for Roland Garros in no time at all!”
Ribbentrop nodded. “Perhaps after the war.”
The two Germans clinked their heavy crystal flutes. After they’d drunk, von Waltz asked, “And how long will you be in Paris, Obergruppenführer?”
“Alas, only a few days, then down to Vichy, to meet with Pétain and Laval about the upcoming roundup. And arranging for French troops in North Africa to be placed formally under German command.”
Von Waltz nodded his head.
“I was talking with the Führer before I left, at Wolfsschanze,” Ribbentrop said, never inclined to let anyone forget his close connection to Hitler. “About the expected Allied invasion. The discovery of the precise date and location of the Allied landings has become the overriding objective of the German Secret Services working in the West. I brought up your name, of course.”
“Ah,” said von Waltz. “Thank you, Obergruppenführer.”
“The Führer is convinced the invasion will be on the coast of Normandy. The rest of them—Himmler, Eichmann, and von Rundstedt—believe it will be Pas de Calais. We’ve received some aerial photographs of Dover, across the channel from Calais. They’ve begun to widen the roads there, bringing in building materials. It certainly looks as if they’re creating a massive base from which to launch a future attack.”
Von Waltz raised an eyebrow.
“Our reconnaissance aircraft will, of course, continue to sweep up and down the British coast, to monitor what preparations are being made and where.” Ribbentrop looked to von Waltz. “What do you think?”
“I think, Obergruppenführer, that if we continue to play the radio games I’ve begun, we shall get a clear answer about Calais versus Normandy—with plenty of time to assure victory.”
“How are these ‘radio games’ progressing?”
Von Waltz heard the tinge of doubt in the other man’s question. “We have two agents’ radios under our control. We will soon commandeer others. We’re in contact with SOE in London—they suspect nothing.”
“And your man in Paris, this Gibbon—he can be trusted?”
“As much as anyone. But, yes, I’ve known him for years. He hates the Communists enough he’s willing to help us.” Von Waltz couldn’t resist adding one more tidbit. “There is also a package that one of the agents was supposed to deliver. One London is most keen on retrieving.”
“Where is this package?”
“We’re following up a few leads,” von Waltz evaded.
Ribbentrop drained his glass. The waiter rushed to pour him another. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? I have a reservation at Prunier. That’s near your Avenue Foch, isn’t it?”
“It is, and one of my favorite restaurants,” confided von Waltz. “They have a wonderful Breton lobster there, flambéed in Cognac—absolutely delicious.”
“And you’re still enjoying my gift? What did you name him—Ludwig?” Ribbentrop asked. “He must liven up the office considerably.”
“Honestly, Obergruppenführer,” von Waltz answered with a stiff smile, “I can’t tell you how much I adore that bird.”
—
In the attic of 84 Avenue Foch, Maggie pondered her options. She didn’t have the screwdriver yet, but if she did—when she did, she corrected herself—she’d need the bed underneath the skylight—it was too high for her to reach without assistance. If she moved the bed directly to the center of the room, the guard would be suspicious. And so she began by moving it to the other wall.
A guard heard the noise and rapped at the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded through the grille.
“I’m moving the bed,” she replied, in an isn’t-it-obvious? tone.
“Why?”
She shrugged, in the way she’d seen French women do: part charm, part fatalism. “Because I want to change the view.”
“Hmph,” the guard replied. And although he wasn’t pleased with the explanation, he slammed the grille shut and didn’t pursue the matter further.
—
While von Waltz and Ribbentrop had been playing tennis, Hugh was being tortured. The Gestapo’s brutal methods were authorized by German law, the fundamental principle of which had been laid down by Wilhelm Frick, who served as Reich Minister of the Interior in the Hitler Cabinet: “The law, as the state does, serves only the Volk.” And, in case there was any doubt, Heinrich Himmler had just officially authorized the “third degree,” a euphemism for torture, to obtain information.
The stocky man had moved on from cutting to burning to what was called la baignoire—the bath—forcing water into Hugh’s mouth and lungs until he was nearly drowned, then reviving him at the last moment.
Von Waltz strode into the dim basement chamber holding a decrypt he’d received from England, acknowledging Hugh’s message but asking for his checks in the next transmission. “You fool!” the German raged. “How dare you lie to me? You left off your damn checks!”
Hugh’s bloody and bruised head, still dripping from the baignoire, rolled back.