Maisie ordered breakfast in her room, though this time she was careful to replace her wig long before she heard the maid’s knock at the door. As she opened it, she noticed the woman looking at her twice, as if trying to pinpoint what was different about her.
Maisie smiled. “I had my hair tied back last night—I’d just washed it, and couldn’t find a hair dryer. I wonder if you have such a thing here?”
The woman smiled. Her English was perfect. “We don’t have hair dryers—most of our guests are men, and if they’re accompanied by their wives, the maid attends to their hair.”
“Of course. Thank you. Anyway, it’s dry now, and a few curlers always do the trick.”
The woman nodded and left the room.
Maisie breathed a sigh of relief, though she wondered if the woman believed a word she’d said.
A sealed envelope bearing her assumed name had been placed to one side of her breakfast tray.
MISS EDWINA DONAT
Timetable, March 12, 1938
09:15 hrs Collected by Peter Stamont
09:30 hrs Library
Briefing with Mr. Gilbert Leslie
10:00 hrs Take private telephone call from London
10:15 hrs Depart for Nazi headquarters
10:45 hrs Briefing on investigation
11:15 hrs Proposed departure from Nazi headquarters
11:45 hrs Arrive at consulate; debrief in library
12:15 hrs Luncheon in consular dining room
13:00 hrs Depart for Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten
Miss Edwina Donat must submit daily timetable to the consulate for approval.
“Well, we’ll see about that.” Maisie ran her finger down the page, where she tapped her fingernail against one word: approval.
At the appointed time, not a minute too soon or a second too late, a man who introduced himself as Peter Stamont knocked at the door. Maisie was ready for the briefing and the journey to Nazi headquarters: she wore her plain burgundy costume and her stout walking shoes, and carried her coat over one arm. Her hat was already pinned to the wig, which for once felt secure on her head. Or perhaps she was simply getting used to it.
Stamont was what her stepmother would have called a “long, tall drink of water” in a blue pinstripe suit. He had a stoop to his shoulders, as if from childhood his height had caused him to lean forward in an effort to hear and be heard. She was sure he had no need of amplification, but whenever she spoke, he cupped his ear with one hand. His dark eyes and brows suggested an earnest approach to life, and she thought, he might be one of those people who always tried to please. She wondered how he felt when a column of men with brown uniforms raising their hands in a Nazi salute marched toward him on the street. He was too tall not to be noticed. Did he make a quick detour into a shop or down an alley? Or did he do as was expected in his host country? She suspected the latter. She could not blame him for it—he was too much of a target.
Stamont guided her to the library, where Gilbert Leslie waited, a black telephone on the table before him. As she sat down, Maisie realized there was a lock at the side of the telephone. Calls could neither be made nor received from it without the key on the table next to Leslie.
“Miss Donat. I trust you had a good night. Sleep well?”
“In that room, I suppose one expects to sleep like the dead.”
Leslie looked up, giving a brief smile. “Didn’t take you for one with a quick quip at the ready, Miss Donat—but I suppose it is a bit like an anteroom at an Italian mausoleum, not that I have ever been in one.” He pressed his lips together. “Right, down to business. First of all, I’ve been in touch with London—with a Mr. Brian Huntley. Not sure if you’ve heard his name, but he was one of the more important negotiators with regard to your father’s release.”
Maisie frowned. “The name is a little familiar.” She told the white lie with ease, continuing in the same vein. “I had a briefing from a woman, though I was not informed of her name. I was simply told I would meet you here in Munich, and off we’d go. Of course there was some indication of what I might expect when I relinquished the papers to be counterstamped by the Nazi authorities, that sort of thing.” Maisie pulled her chair in closer to the table, as if earnest in her words. “It’s all rather like being swept up into a nightmare, actually. I keep thinking I will wake up and find myself on a train to Paris with my father sitting next to me, asking me if I could possibly bear another game of cards.”
“Yes, quite. In any case, I’ve been on the telephone this morning to London, and my instructions are to assist and encourage our hosts—the term ‘hosts’ is loose—to search for Mr. Leon Donat. You have been given leave to remain for some three days, considering the toll this must have taken on you. We understand how difficult it would be for you to depart Munich, under the circumstances. You will want to know any information as it comes in.”