The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(12)
He leaned in close. “It’s the only rule you’ll need while you’re here,” he whispered, mirth gone from his eyes. “Easy to remember: Trust no one. Nothing is clear here. Everything is shadows.” He straightened and slapped one hand on the side of the vélo-taxi, letting the driver know she was in and ready. “Never forget that.”
He brushed Maggie’s cheek with his fingers. “Merde alors,” he said, the phrase agents used instead of good luck. Then, as the vélo-taxi pulled away from the curb, Maggie turned to watch as Jacques stuck his hands into his leather jacket pockets, tucked his head down, and stalked away with a long, loping stride. When he turned a corner and disappeared, she felt an unexpected jab of disappointment.
“Where to, mademoiselle?” the driver asked, as he strained at the pedals. With the extra heft of all the luggage, in addition to the weight of a passenger, he was already beginning to pant.
Maggie forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Why, the H?tel Ritz, of course!”
—
The man stood at a microphone, veins in his forehead bulging, perspiration glistening on his face, working himself into a fevered rage.
“…the hidden forces which incited England already in 1914 were Jews! The force which paralyzed us at that time and finally forced us to surrender with the slogan that Germany was no longer able to bear homeward a victorious flag, came from the Jews! It was the Jews who fomented the revolution among our people and thus robbed us of every possibility at further resistance!”
He gestured to an imaginary crowd, fixing his intense silver eyes upon them. From his uniform’s breast pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with a border of black swastikas to swipe at his brow.
“Since 1939, the Jews have maneuvered the British Empire into the most perilous crisis it has ever known. The Jews were the carriers of that Bolshevist infection which once threatened to destroy Europe. It is no longer a question of the interests of individual nations; it is, rather, a question of conflict between nations which want to make the lives of their people secure on this earth, and nations which have become the helpless tools of an international world parasite!”
With that, he looked over to the producer of the radio address and made a slashing movement with his forefinger at his throat. It was the end of the broadcast, and Adolf Hitler slumped down in his desk chair, breathing heavily.
As Hitler closed his eyes in exhaustion, rapturous applause erupted. The men were gathered around a small table in Hitler’s private office in Wolf’s Lair, his Führerhauptquartiere—Eastern Front military headquarters. The top-secret, high-security site was in the Masurian woods, five miles from the small East Prussian town of Rastenburg. It had been built in 1941 on damp swampland at the start of Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of Russia. According to Joseph Goebbels, the Reichsminister of Propaganda, Wolf’s Lair looked like “a holiday resort”—although the guarded railway, armed walking patrols, machine gun towers, and antiaircraft artillery on the roofs belied his description.
The assembled inner circle consisted of Joachim von Ribbentrop, foreign minister of Nazi Germany; Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS; Adolf Eichmann, one of the architects of the roundup and extermination of the Jews; and Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, Hitler’s commander in chief of the West.
“A triumph!” Ribbentrop exalted, as the producer silently removed the microphone and other broadcasting equipment. The foreign minister’s once-handsome face was aging; a softening jawline detracted from his cleft chin.
Eichmann nodded, one side of his mouth drawn up in its characteristic mocking half smile. “I would only add, my Führer, that in your speech for the Reichstag, you might include more about Roosevelt and his Jewish clique.”
Hitler was still breathing hard, as if he had just run a race. He reached down to pet his Alsatian. “Good girl,” he panted, stroking her head. The dog wagged her tail. “Good Blondi.” He rummaged through his desk drawer and pulled out a treat for her, making her wait and beg until finally, almost with disappointment, he let her have it.
The Führer’s office was surprisingly modest, with simple wood furniture, plain carpets, and cotton curtains. A tall-case clock ticked in the corner, its brass pendulum swinging. In a normal tone of voice, Hitler asked Eichmann, “What news from France?”
“We just received this telegram from Prime Minister Pierre Laval,” Eichmann answered, rising to hand it to Hitler. “Laval suggests including the children in the July roundup.”
“The children?” Hitler asked flatly, scanning the document.
“Yes, the Jewish children. Younger than sixteen. Laval says, and I quote, ‘Children should remain with their parents.’?”
Hitler pushed away the paper. “The fate of the French Jewish children does not interest me.” He sounded bored.
Eichmann hesitated. Then, “If you have no objections to including the children, we must hurry. Before the international community—Eleanor Roosevelt and her Jew cohorts—can hear of it and start an outcry.”
“There may be a hue and cry—for the moment. But who remembers the Armenian children now?” Hitler referred to the Ottoman Empire’s Armenian massacres of the late nineteenth century. “In a few decades, no one will remember what we do.”
A secretary knocked and then entered, carrying a tea tray with a plate piled high with Lebkuchen—spicy cookies. Young, with a full, childish face and pouty lips, the woman set it down in front of the men at the table, then poured a steaming cup for Hitler and brought it to him at his desk.