She ran a hot bath and allowed herself to soak, going over each move, each journey and possible interrogation, in detail yet again. She took one telephone call from Leslie, who confirmed he would pick her up in a consular motor car at eleven thirty. If all went to plan, he estimated, they would have the completed documents by half past twelve at the latest, and then proceed to Dachau—depending on traffic, they would be there by approximately a quarter past one. All being well, they would be leaving with Leon Donat at half past two and would proceed directly to the Munich railway station first-class waiting room.
As Maisie knew—and she hoped as far as Leslie did not know—every moment she was not on the train was a moment when the body of the young SS officer could be discovered. Without a shred of doubt, a warrant for her apprehension would be issued at once, given her perceived friendship with Elaine Otterburn, who would be considered a fugitive. She pushed away the image of black-uniformed men storming the station searching for her—and at the same time wondered if Elaine was already in England. She might not care for the Otterburns, but if Elaine had been detained, then the quest to take Leon Donat home would doubtless fail, and all would be lost. And she wanted to go home so very much. If nothing else, the assignment had brought the truth of her feelings into sharp relief. When Leon Donat was brought into the guard room, she would hold him as if he were Frankie Dobbs. The very thought of her own father being in such a brutal place brought tears to her eyes. She missed those she loved and who loved her in return so very much, and she wanted to be close to them.
Maisie ordered a light breakfast and dressed in her plain clothes, absorbing the persona of Edwina Donat. She was soon ready once more to step out onto the boards of risk, to watch the curtain open and then play her part.
The telephone rang again. She picked it up on the first ring.
“Edwina. It’s . . . it’s Elaine.”
Hearing another click on the line, Maisie faltered, then spoke clearly. “Oh, hello, Elaine—look, I cannot talk now. I’m expecting another call, and I have a lot on this morning. Do give my best to your parents when you speak to them. Must dash—”
She replaced the receiver in its cradle and put a hand to her mouth, closing her eyes. Think. Think. She pressed herself to make a plan. She had meditated on a perfect outcome to the day’s challenges—the documents, the journey to Dachau, the release of Leon Donat . . . to the train . . . crossing the border . . . Paris. What she had not accounted for, and perhaps quite deliberately, was that Elaine Otterburn had not left Munich. The sound of a train pulling into a station and steam pushing out across the buffers had punctuated the woman’s call. She must be at the railway station, in a public telephone kiosk. It occurred to Maisie that perhaps she should wonder who else might have been the beneficiary of late-night conversations fueled by drink and dancing. She’d received no assurance from any quarter that the sharing of information had gone in one direction only. Could Elaine have been passing information back to the Germans? And could she—Maisie felt almost lightheaded as her thoughts took her in this direction—could Elaine Otterburn have been working on behalf of her father from the beginning? Whatever might ensue, Maisie’s innermost thoughts warned her not to give Elaine the benefit of the doubt.
The telephone rang again. It was Leslie.
“Miss Donat. I’m waiting for you by the registration desk. Let’s not be late.”
“I’m ready, Mr. Leslie.”
Maisie took up her small leather case, her handbag, and her coat. In the mirror by the door she checked her hat and the wig underneath. Does it look the same as yesterday? Does it seem natural? Do I resemble Edwina Donat? And as she made one last check of the room, she knew Maurice would approve. In that moment she felt fear envelop her. Fear might well be her shield against failure, and she could only trust that it would keep her safe—along with the small revolver in the bag, which now seemed to carry all the weight of Robert MacFarlane behind it.
The drive to the Führerbau of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei on Arcis Strasse seemed to take longer than before. Leslie talked through the plan again. He asked Maisie questions as a teacher might test a pupil, and Maisie became aware that his demeanor had changed, that he was no longer playing the part of a somewhat nitpicking civil servant but a seasoned professional engaged in foreign affairs.
Then he surprised her.
“Of course, just to shift the elephant in the room a bit, Miss Donat.” He seemed to emphasize Maisie’s assumed last name. Had she imagined the tone, or were nerves getting the better of her? Could he have guessed that she was an agent for the British government charged with a sensitive assignment, not the somewhat naive daughter of a wealthy industrialist?
Leslie continued. “There is the problem of Miss Otterburn. Clearly you had your own reasons for paying her a visit, but it was most ill-advised, given her position. And of course there is the pressing question of her missing paramour.”
Maisie said nothing.
“I think you should prepare for the fact that the major might well ask you a few questions about her liaison with the SS officer.”
“I understand.”
“Be vigilant, listen to his questions with care, and do not fall into any traps.”