“I’m talking to you!” Von Waltz gave Hugh a kick in one shin with an alligator loafer. “But they don’t even care, your stupid SOE handlers! They merely told you to ‘remember your security checks’ next time!”
Hugh groaned and opened his eyes. “That’s what they said? I should remember my checks?” He looked as though he’d been hurt more by SOE’s overlooking his missing security check than the torture.
“You were at Maxim’s the night we arrested a man with a pink carnation in his lapel,” von Waltz insisted. “What did he give you?”
“Nothing!”
“So you do remember a man with a pink carnation.”
Hugh was silent.
The German kicked him again. “What did he give you?” Von Waltz’s eyes were wide and crazed. He kicked Hugh’s shin a third time, like a child having a temper tantrum. “And where have you hidden it?”
“I don’t know,” Hugh sobbed, knowing he had to protect Sarah. “I don’t. I don’t know!”
Von Waltz nodded to the stocky man. “Continue.”
—
Hugh couldn’t endure much more without giving up all he knew. And the truth was, he knew too much. He’d peeked inside the dance bag, seeing the sand samples from the Normandy beaches. He’d opened Pandora’s box, even though it was against every rule they’d learned at SOE. The one thing he didn’t know was what Sarah had done with the bag after she’d left the H?tel Le Meurice. But he knew she’d taken it—and he couldn’t bear the thought of her being tortured.
I’m sorry, darling. I love you. As the guard forced his head under the dirty water in the sink, this time, instead of fighting, Hugh breathed in deeply. Liquid flooded his lungs.
When the guard realized what was happening, he yanked the prisoner’s head out.
But it was too late. Hugh was dead.
Chapter Eighteen
Von Waltz ordered Sarah to the radio room and had her sit at the table in front of Hugh’s set. Sarah was exhausted, every nerve frayed. Fischer stood by the window, observing. The professor gave a loud sniff, then wiped at his nose with a handkerchief.
“I won’t try to sugarcoat it, Miss Sanderson. Your fellow terrorist Mr. Thompson died early this morning, rather than give over his security checks.”
She sat absolutely still. “No,” she said, quietly. “No—Hugh can’t be dead.”
“Yes.” Von Waltz smiled at her. “And so, although we didn’t wish to involve a woman if we didn’t have to, we’d now like you to use his radio to send messages. Messages we will dictate. We of course expect you to include your security checks.”
“No,” Sarah moaned. Her stomach heaved, and she bent over.
“Miss Sanderson,” von Waltz warned in stern tones.
“I—I’m going to be sick.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake—” He snapped at the professor, who fetched the wastepaper basket for her. She gave a few dry heaves, then quieted.
Von Waltz waited, then asked, “Do we have to take you down to the basement to make you cooperate?”
Sarah placed her hands on the table in front of her and pushed back. The chair’s legs made a horrible grinding screech, and then she rose, slowly, with a dancer’s poise. “Do what you want with me.” Her voice was broken. “If Hugh’s dead, I don’t care anymore.”
Von Waltz stared at the resolute woman in front of him, then saw the blood trickling down her legs, puddling on the floor.
“What—what’s this?” he yelped, in real shock.
Sarah’s ashen face was etched with profound sorrow, like the Madonna of a Pietà, her eyes black holes of grief. She held back her sobs through sheer force of will.
Fischer coughed. “It’s blood, sir.”
“I know it’s blood, you idiot! Why is she bleeding? Why are you bleeding?” The Obersturmbannführer rounded on her. “My men did not touch you! I ordered it!”
“If it’s not from rape, then perhaps she’s losing a child,” Fischer observed mildly, as though commenting on the weather.
“Women!” von Waltz thundered. “Women in war! This is why it’s wrong! Guards! Get her cleaned up! Then take her to her room!” When she was gone, he clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace.
“Sir, we’ve picked up communications between Gibbon and his handlers in London,” the older man ventured.
“Yes?” von Waltz snapped. “Well, come now—don’t keep me hanging!”
“They’ve asked for him to return to London. On the next flight out.” The two men locked eyes.
“They might suspect something,” Fischer said finally, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose.
“They might.”
—
The sun was setting over St. James’s Park, exploding in fiery reds and oranges on the horizon. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.” Henrik Martens wrapped his striped university scarf tighter around his neck. “All the F-Section’s mail from Paris to London has been photographed. SOE is compromised. And I believe agents leaving off their security checks have been captured. They are either in Gestapo custody or dead.”
“This is terrible,” Colonel Bishop said, looking as if it were anything but. In a bowler hat and wrapped in a long black overcoat, the head of MI-6’s French Intelligence Section nearly melted into the shadows. “But I don’t see how you know for certain.”
“These.”
The colonel looked at the letters, turning them front and back, holding them up to the light from the window.
“You can’t tell by looking at them. But believe me, they’ve been lit and shot. I used to be an amateur photographer—I took letters that had arrived in the last batch and used chemicals to determine if they’d been exposed to bright light. They have.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything,” Bishop argued, unexpectedly looking like the cat who’d caught the canary.
“The only reason they’d be exposed to such a bright light is if they’re being photographed.”
“What does Colonel Gaskell say about all this?” Bishop asked carefully.
“When I spoke to him about agents leaving off security checks, he insisted he had it under control. He doesn’t know about F-Section’s mail being photographed yet. I’ve come to you, sir, because I’m extremely concerned there is a mole at SOE. Maybe a few moles. In addition, we have a message from one of our agents in Paris that Raoul was spotted entering 84 Avenue Foch.”
“If all this is true…” Bishop mused.
“Then we have a spy in our midst. We’ll need to get Raoul out of France. And quickly. Before any more of our agents are compromised. Lock him up.”
“But first we need to know what he’s done exactly—and how much damage there is to the network. It’s essential we find that out.”
“I’ll send a message telling him to be on the next flight back.”
“Yes, good, but we must be delicate when he arrives. Otherwise he’ll realize what we’re doing and make a run for it.”
Martens nodded. “I’ll let Colonel Gaskell know.”
“No! Say nothing to Gaskell! If he asks why you’re bringing Raoul back, just say you’re doing some reorganizing of the network and want the agent’s advice, based on his experience and expertise. It’s imperative we get to the bottom, and I mean very bottom, of all of this without tipping our hand to Gaskell.”
“Agreed.”
“And what’s the story with that damn sand from Normandy?”
“Still missing in Paris.”
“It’s imperative we get it back to England. And find out if anyone else knows about it and what secrets it contains. Let me know when you expect Raoul. I want to be there when he arrives.”
—
Maggie moved her bed to a new part of the room every few hours, until Sergeant Schneider lost interest in the noises coming from her room. Then she moved the bed to the room’s center.
She wasn’t tall enough to reach the window, so she called for the guard. “I’d like a chair,” she said pleasantly through the grille, thankful that Sarah’s room had a regular window.
“A chair? Why do you need a chair?”
“To put my things on, at night.” She leaned forward, appealing to the most German part of his nature. “I do hate a mess, don’t you?”