“Fr?ulein Donat? Please follow me.” His English was perfect.
Soon Maisie was in her room overlooking Maximilian Strasse. There were few people on the street. To a person they executed a perfect salute, arm extended, whenever a man in uniform walked past in the opposite direction. Maisie sighed. She stepped back from the window, kicked off her shoes, and lay down on the bed. On the one hand, she didn’t like the idea of having a “bit of time to kill”—but on the other, it gave her an opportunity to see if she could find Elaine Otterburn, the needle in a haystack. And she realized she was glad she had time, though had she not, she would have reported honestly to the Otterburns that she’d been restricted due to a schedule set by the authorities. She could still make her excuses, if she wanted to avoid any responsibility for Elaine. Yet her thoughts turned to the “little man”—a child who was loved, but without the constant attention and affection of the woman most important to him, his mother. If she could reverse the child’s fortunes, Maisie thought, then it was worth a try.
As she lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling above, she was intrigued—and yes, troubled—by Leslie’s comment that someone “on high” had spoken on behalf of Leon Donat. If all went well, he would be one of very few prisoners released from a Nazi prison camp because he had money and contacts. She had not been informed of that small detail, and she wondered who the mystery person in such an exalted position might be.
Following an uneventful evening—she had opted to dine alone in her room—Maisie read through her notes twice more and checked her weapon again, heeding Strupper’s instructions to get to know the revolver, to handle it, to become accustomed to its weight in her hand. She laid out her clothing and had a hot bath before going to bed, but sleep eluded her until the early hours.
Though she had not rested well, the thought of what was to come during the next twenty-four hours diminished feelings of fatigue in the morning. She was served a light breakfast, again in her room, but could only eat a small piece of warm bread. When she made her way down to the hotel entrance, Leslie was already waiting. It was ten minutes to nine, and he looked as if he had been there for a while.
Before leaving her room, she had lingered with the revolver in her hand, wondering if she should take it with her. No, not this time, she decided. Even if she had cause to use it, there would be too many heavily armed men around her; she would stand no chance at all. And what could possibly go wrong if all she was doing was presenting papers? Huntley had said the worst that could happen would be a last-minute refusal, but Maisie suspected it might be more serious. She could be incarcerated herself. She was already on thin ice. Leon Donat’s great-grandfather had indeed been a Jewish Italian immigrant to London. And of course, her own maternal grandmother was a gypsy—and there had been reports of Nazi brutality toward gypsies.
Maisie stood to the side of the reception desk for a moment. Before Leslie saw her, she touched her middle, just at the point of the buckle securing the belt on the soft burgundy fabric of her jacket. She wanted to remind herself to be steady, to be strong from the very center of her being. Maurice had taught her, years ago—in those early days when she was green and young, a sapling next to a mature tree—that there was a connection between the physical being, the spirit, and emotions. He taught her to be aware of her bearing, of the way she entered a room, sat down to her work, or reacted to news, good and bad. Strength in the very center of her body would lend power to every word she spoke, and every thought that passed through her mind.
She straightened her spine, broadened her shoulders, and walked with a precise, clipped step to meet Gilbert Leslie, who seemed an inch or two shorter than he had the previous day.
“Ah, good morning, Miss Donat. Ready?”
“As ready as I will ever be,” said Maisie, reminding herself that she was Edwina Donat, daughter of Leon Donat, currently incarcerated in a notorious prison at the behest of Adolf Hitler’s Nazi regime. She imagined how she would feel if her own beloved father were in the same position. At once the strength in her spine ebbed almost—almost—beyond control; then it returned, stronger than before. She was determined to carry out her assignment to the letter.
Leslie seemed nervous. He gave a running commentary every step of the way, pointing out various landmarks to her as if he were quoting a guidebook to Munich. After they had passed the grand Residenz and were walking on toward Odeonsplatz, he took her elbow. “We’ll go down this little alley, not across the square.”