The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(26)
“Because it hit an iceberg!”
Sarah grabbed the bag, releasing a quick, grateful breath, then made her way to the orchestra pit.
Hugh was putting his cello back in its case, waiting. He smiled, green eyes bright, when he saw her. At the sight of him, her heart leapt for joy.
“Hello, my love,” he said, kissing her full on the lips. “How was the tempo?”
“Fine.” Sarah hadn’t even noticed. “Fantastic.” She looked around to make sure they were alone. “Here,” she said, handing over the black bag.
“It’s heavy.”
“The less we know, the better.” She took another glance at him. “You’re wearing glasses,” she said, finally noticing his silver frames.
“As it turns out,” he said, slipping them into his jacket pocket with a disarming grin, “I’m a bit nearsighted. It helps, even though I know most of the music by heart now.”
“Wherever did you find eyeglasses?”
“The conductor got them for me,” he explained. “Where they came from—well, I try not to think about that.”
Hugh looked down at the bag, then pulled on the zipper to reveal the contents. Inside, he rummaged through to see geological reports with readings, measurements, detailed field sketches of stratigraphic sections, and notes with drawings of various beaches and rock formations. Adding to the bag’s weight were a compass and glass jars, neatly wrapped in layers of tissue paper. Moving aside the tissue, he could see each jar contained sand samples, neatly labeled: BARNEVILLE-PLAGE, CABOURG, GRANVILLE, ?LES CHAUSEY, PORTBAIL, TROUVILLE. All beaches in Normandy.
Like Orpheus, he couldn’t look away. His eyes widened, as he realized the implication. “To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower—hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour,” he muttered.
“Put it away!” Sarah cautioned, refusing to look. “We don’t need to know what it is—we just need to get it back to London.”
She pulled away, then gestured for him to follow her. He acquiesced, and they walked backstage, where Sarah pulled him into a janitor’s closet, tugging at a string to turn on the bare bulb.
“You make everything romantic,” Hugh teased, closing the door. He lowered the bag and bent to kiss her. But Sarah was in no mood. Their mission after the evening’s performance was simple—and yet not.
Since their arrival in Paris three months ago, Sarah and Hugh had been cultivating a relationship with Reichsminister Hans Fortner, a German ballet aficionado, although whether Fortner truly loved the dance or just liked watching girls in tutus, Sarah didn’t know. Or care. What was more important was that he was the head of the Reich Ministry for Armaments and War Production in France. He would have the latest files on which French companies—such as Peugeot, Renault, Avions Voisin, and La Licorne—might be working with the Germans in violation of the terms of the armistice, aiding in the development of weapons. Once their collaboration was confirmed, the factories would be targets for RAF strikes or for SOE sabotage. Their mission—hers and Hugh’s—was to photograph the precious papers so SOE would have the concrete evidence they so desperately needed to bomb the weapons factories.
They knew from a fellow Resistance worker, a woman who worked as a maid at Fortner’s hotel, that the Reichsminister kept all of his files in a safe in his suite. Sarah had learned the safecracking skills needed to get the safe open and shut. Now she just had to get into his heavily guarded suite.
Through postperformance parties Lifar threw for the occupiers and collaborators who were ballet aficionados, Sarah and Hugh and Fortner had been introduced, then had become friendly, going out for drinks and for dinner, where Fortner flirted shamelessly with Sarah.
And tonight, after the party at Maxim’s, they would make sure they were invited back to his hotel. There the plan was for them to get drunk, or at least seem to. Hugh would pretend to become ill and need to return to their flat, and then Sarah would seduce Fortner, drug his wine with the sleeping pill hidden in the base of her lipstick, and then, while the Reichsminister was unconscious, break into his safe and photograph the plans with the tiny camera hidden in her cigarette case.
Sarah pulled away, Hugh still clasping her waist. “I’m worried, Hugh. I might have to, you know—”
“You have the pill to knock him out.”
“Yes, but how long will it take to work? This isn’t an exact science, you know. I’ve never even used it before!”
“As long as we get the names of the factories”—he pushed back the tendrils of dark hair that had escaped her bun—“that’s all we need. And then back to London—”
“Where we’ll be married, for real, this time.” They embraced, this time kissing passionately, until Sarah broke away, again. “I could tell him I’m having my period,” she said against Hugh’s chest, unable to look him in the eye. His arm cradled her head, and she could hear the faint tick of his watch.
“It won’t come to that.” He rubbed her back.
“How would you feel?” she asked softly. “If it did come to that? If I—had to?”
“It’s a job, darling.” He reached for her hands and looked her in the eye. “Think of it as acting.”
But Sarah loved Hugh. And, even knowing how selfish she was being, she didn’t want her actions to damage their burgeoning relationship. “But how would you feel about Fortner and me—in bed together?”