The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(3)
Erica hesitated for a moment. Then, “I don’t believe you.”
Von Waltz rose. He crossed to his desk, flipping through pages of her file, choosing one. Walking back, he handed it to her. “?‘Your 5735 security check acknowledged,’?” he recited from memory, taking his seat. “?‘You forgot your double security check. Next time be more careful.’?”
He studied her face, relishing the expression of abject shock on her bruised countenance. “Yes, we have a mole in SOE.”
She flinched. But who was the mole? And where? In France? Or in England?
Von Waltz continued, his voice still gentle. “We know how frightened you are, Mademoiselle Calvert. You’ve been confessing your fears in your letters home to your father.”
“There’s no way you can know that!”
Von Waltz ignored her outburst. “Fear in wartime, mademoiselle—well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But I must speak frankly. Your superior, Colonel Harold Gaskell, has sent you—a woman—here, in direct violation of the Geneva Convention, as well as all the rules of gentlemanly warfare.”
Despite her shock and fear, Erica let out a snort at the Nazi’s hypocrisy.
“You have been sent here against all the rules of war,” the Obersturmbannführer persisted. “A woman. In civilian clothes. As a secret agent. To commit acts of terrorism against us. You know what the penalty for that is, yes?”
Erica didn’t reply. Of course she knew. Execution. By firing squad or noose.
“But I am a civilized man. I don’t want you, a woman—a lady—to be sacrificed for the stupidity and rash decisions of your superiors. Your Colonel Gaskell dropped you into a trap—and then quite stupidly failed to recognize his organization’s own security checks, put into place to keep his spies safe, were being left off deliberately to signal you’d been captured.”
He stood again, then crossed the plush Persian carpet. “They think on Baker Street that we’re bungling, ham-handed fools.” At his desk, he picked up another file and pulled out another piece of paper. It was a chart of the SOE hierarchy in London, every name correct. When he walked over and handed it to Erica and she realized what it was and how much sensitive information it contained, she felt tears sting her eyes.
“I know you told your little cover story ad nauseam to the SS officers in Rouen, but let’s dispense with it here, shall we, mademoiselle?” Von Waltz resumed his seat next to her. “I can’t promise you everything, but I can tell you I can save your life. Instead of being executed, you’ll stay here. You’ll share all the information you know, then you will work with us. And when the war is over, you will find out who betrayed you—and get your revenge.”
There was an ugly silence as the British spy struggled to process everything von Waltz was telling her. She’d been captured in Rouen, yes, but the Nazis still didn’t know she’d come ashore on the west coast of France. They didn’t know she’d studied geology and that she’d been sent to the beaches of Normandy to obtain sand and soil samples and to determine beach gradients.
If von Waltz learned the truth, the Nazis would realize that while Pas de Calais was the obvious choice for the inevitable invasion, Normandy was also being seriously considered. Sand samples, which would help the engineers know what sort of equipment and tanks to send when the Allies invaded, would serve as a red flag to the possibility of using Normandy. The enemy didn’t know and they couldn’t know—not because of her. The bag, with her notes and specimens, was with a fellow agent at a safe house in Paris. As long as I can keep that from him…
Von Waltz regarded her smugly. “A terrorist, sent against the Geneva Convention, out of uniform, behind enemy lines, seeking to sow seeds of fear and unrest.” He shook his head. “A female terrorist at that. How badly things must be going in England for them to send their little girls! Sweet little doves, all of you. They should not have made you come.”
“I wanted to come.” She straightened. “I volunteered. It was my choice.”
His voice was suddenly steel. “They should not have allowed you.” Then, in softer tones, “You know there is nothing you won’t tell me when we’re through, mademoiselle. Save me time—and your pretty face—and tell us everything now.”
Erica stared at him in despair, then slumped over in submission. Like all other SOE agents, she’d been issued a cyanide capsule, in case of situations such as this. But hers was concealed in a fountain pen in her handbag, which had been confiscated.
“Yes, we know everything, Mademoiselle Calvert.” Von Waltz moved to the edge of his seat. “Look—give us the names and locations of the remainder of the English spies, tell us where they’re storing their arms and explosives, and we’ll forget the rest. Those arrested as a result will be interned until the end of the war—they won’t be killed. You won’t have betrayed them.” He smiled, revealing even white teeth. “This is an agreement we will make—you and I.”
Erica sat with her head down, mute, seemingly broken.
“If this does not happen, the villages around where we believe the depots are will be burned. And all of the inhabitants, including your fellow agents, will be killed.”
“No…”
“We are all afraid in this war, mademoiselle. But now you can free yourself from fears. There’s nothing dishonorable in it. Help us!” He leaned forward and grasped her hands, holding them gently in his.