Leslie rubbed his forehead. “This is going to cause an enormous amount of trouble, Miss Donat. We’ve managed to keep this whole agreement with the Germans under wraps, and while dealing with their nasty SS boys, and now diplomatic machinations are going to swamp us. There’s the situation with Austria, the question of the Sudetenland. The last thing we need is this situation to distract us from matters of policy. The Prime Minister would be furious if he knew.”
She took a breath, closed her eyes, and then spoke again. “Mr. Leslie, just for one moment, let us consider the horrors that await the man I just had to dismiss as not being my father. I have consigned a human being to more torture, and I am sure he has endured a terror beyond words in that place. Yet I could not pretend, as I would have liked to, just to get him out of there. I had to tell the truth, because I have to find my father. Now I will have that man on my conscience for the rest of my life—because I denied him his freedom.”
Leslie rubbed his eyes. “What do you mean, you have to find your father? I daresay you will be required to leave Germany soonest. There will doubtless be a veritable brick of paperwork waiting for me at the consulate.”
Maisie turned to Leslie. “I am not going anywhere until I know what has happened to my father. I want to know if my father is still in that prison. Frankly, I don’t think he is. How did that man come to be mistaken for my father? Make no mistake, those two thugs in uniform were as shocked as we were that he was not Leon Donat. They are now in the position of having received funds from the British government in exchange for a British citizen who was wrongly imprisoned—and they’ve lost him. My father could be dead, but if he isn’t, then where is he? And why did he not come home? I want to know all these things, Mr. Leslie.”
“But really, Miss Donat, you do not have any experience of these things.” His half laugh was dismissive, reminding her of Acker. “You should go home to England now, instead of waiting for news here.”
“I don’t intend to wait for anything, Mr. Leslie.” She looked out of the window. “I may not have the experience, but what I lack in experience, I will make up for in tenacity. I do not intend to take a backseat any longer.”
“The matter of your continued presence in Munich is something I have to discuss with my superiors. It will be a diplomatic embarrassment.”
“Discuss it all you want. I will do what I have to do.” She knew the insolence in her tone would not endear her to Leslie, but at the same time, she could only respond as if it were Frankie Dobbs who was unaccounted for.
Maisie turned away, looking out once more to the winter-barren trees lining the streets as the motor car wove through Munich traffic. Already a plan was forming in her mind, a plan that encompassed Elaine Otterburn, who was unaccounted for, and Mark Scott—who she hoped really was in her wake, the enemy in his sights.
Then there was the matter of the missing—presumed dead—Luther Gramm. Maisie wondered if the man’s murder was intertwined with the disappearance of an English businessman. Or was it just a distraction from the heart of the matter?
Where was Leon Donat?
Hurried plans were made for Maisie to spend the night at the consulate, in a room designated for visiting foreign office dignitaries. She requested a new reservation be made at the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten for the following day. When the consular clerk, an assistant to Leslie, asked how many nights she would be staying at the hotel, she replied, “Three,” not wanting Leslie to know she might be in Munich longer. The bill would be settled by the consulate upon receipt; she would change the date of anticipated departure when she signed the register.
The room where she would spend the night was well appointed in an almost Gothic décor, with heavy velvet curtains and thick Persian rugs on a carpet that, before it faded, would have been the color of crushed blackberries. The furniture seemed cumbersome, and she wondered how many men would have been required to move just one piece. As she stood on the threshold, she thought the room might serve well for a moving-picture show starring Bela Lugosi.
She was informed that the driver would take her to the hotel the following day, after lunch, and that Mr. Leslie would see her in the morning, when he’d had sufficient opportunity to speak with his superiors in London. Another visit to the Nazi headquarters might be necessary—“Though in the circumstances, they should come to us,” said the clerk, his voice tinged with contempt.