The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(27)
“I want us to complete this assignment and get safely back to London,” he answered firmly, either unable or unwilling to entertain seriously the possibility she was asking him about. “Once we have the photographs of the papers, I can radio back to London that they can schedule a pickup for us. Eight days until the full moon—and then we’ll be home!”
“So I should ‘lie back and think of England’?”
“Sarah…”
“Oh, it’s fine. Darling, people are being asked to kill in this bloody war! Surely, in context, fucking an old German—if it even comes to that, which it most assuredly won’t—isn’t such a huge deal.” Then, “If you were me, would you do it?”
“I would,” Hugh reassured her without hesitation. “Soldiers in the field endure far worse. Espionage, well, there’s a reason it’s called ‘the second oldest profession.’?”
“All right then,” she said resolutely, “if worse comes to worst, I’ll do it. I’m a patriot, after all. I’ll do what I need to,” she concluded, feeling both angry and not a little betrayed by Hugh’s reaction.
“Look,” he reminded her gently, cupping her cheek with his palm, “these files could take out dozens of weapons factories. They could save hundreds of thousands, if not more, of British lives. Wars aren’t won by respectable methods.”
“Wars aren’t won by respectable methods,” Sarah repeated softly. “I understand. God gave me a mind and a body, and I shall use both. If Mata Hari could do it, so can I.”
“I love you,” he said, kissing her.
“I love you, too.” She drew back and smiled. “I need to change into my costume and do my hair and makeup.”
He picked up the bag. “And after the performance, we drop this off, then have our own little performance.”
“Merde,” she said.
“Merde alors,” he replied.
—
In addition to attending the ballet, Nazis in Paris patronized the brothels. With no wives or children in tow, and the imposed exchange rate at twenty francs to one mark, carnal pleasure on demand was practically free.
The officers went to the established bordellos: the infamous Le Sphinx near Montparnasse, 32 Rue Blondel in the Sentier, just off the infamous Rue Saint-Denis, or House of All Nations. But the pinnacle was 122 Rue de Provence, known as One-Two-Two. The brothel was housed in a mansion that had once belonged to a prince, and was run like a luxurious gentlemen’s club, similar to the exclusive Travellers on the Champs-élysées, but with certain supplements. Before the Occupation, one could have spotted members of the French Parliament, nobility, members of the Académie, and stars of the Comédie-Fran?aise enjoying themselves there. Now the French could go only during the afternoons, while Nazis took over the more desirable evening hours.
There were multitudes of women to choose from, or else, for the shy or indecisive, proprietress Madame Georgette Jamet would make a suggestion and facilitate an introduction. The experience was further enhanced by differently themed rooms. Clients could select the hayloft, the Marquis de Sade dungeon, an igloo room—with a bed actually made of ice and covered in furs—a transatlantic liner cabin, or an Egyptian chamber complete with a sloe-eyed Cleopatra.
Von Waltz’s favorite courtesan was an unblemished young blonde with peachy skin named Selena, and his preferred room was designed to look like an Orient Express cabin, including a recording of engine noise and a vibrating bed.
When his rendezvous with Selena was over, the Obersturmbannführer took a leisurely hot bath, then dressed once again in his perfectly pressed trousers, a burgundy smoking jacket, and monogrammed slippers to enjoy a cigar and cocktail with some of his fellow officers before the formal dinner. He was looking forward to it: the night’s menu card read oysters, lamb, and strawberries with cream. But first, he wanted an aperitif.
Perfumed with Eau de Cologne du Coq, von Waltz entered, acknowledging various German officers smoking cigars and drinking Champagne, and a group playing an especially intense game of skat with gold-edged cards in one corner of the room. The gentlemen’s lounge was decorated to look like a Versailles salon, with boiserie panels, red brocade furniture, gilt sconces, cake-icing paneling, and an enormous glittering cage chandelier. A marble Louis XVI clock topped by a panther ticked faintly on the mantel, flanked by matching garniture.
“Bretz!” Von Waltz had spotted Hauptsturmführer Arlo Bretz. Von Waltz had trained with the younger Viennese man. Bretz was in charge of the Gestapo’s radio intercept station, located on Boulevard Suchet. Von Waltz walked to him. “Who were you with this fine evening?”
Bretz picked up his glass of cloudy, diluted pastis and raised it to von Waltz. “Angelique, this time. ‘The girl with the heart-shaped ass.’ You?”
“Selena, of course,” von Waltz replied, sitting opposite, a burr walnut games table between them. “I’m utterly faithful. If not to my wife, then at least I’m constant to my whore.” The men laughed. “Cigar?” von Waltz offered, pulling two Gildemanns from the breast pocket of his smoking jacket.
“I don’t think the girls like the smell of it.”
“True, true. Now ask me”—von Waltz put one back, then cut and lit it with a lighter engraved with a swastika and eagle, puffing on it until it flared—“who the fuck cares what the girls like?”