The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(38)
Fischer cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. What would you like me to type?”
Von Waltz considered. “Say, ‘I am safely installed and will commence broadcasts as scheduled. Bar Lorraine is still secure.’?”
Fingers to the keys, Fischer tapped out the message in Morse code:
CALL SIGN TRV
20 JUNE 1942
AM SAFELY INSTALLED IN PARIS STOP WILL COMMENCE BROADCASTS AS SCHEDULED STOP BAR LORRAINE STILL SECURE OVER
“How do you know about Bar Lorraine? Did your captured agent give it away before she—” Bretz grinned and made a slicing motion across his throat.
“I have my ways.” Von Waltz smiled enigmatically. “We’re going to take it over and have one of our own act as barman. This way, any British agent counting on using the café will drop right into our lap.”
Fischer’s message was now flying through the airwaves to Britain; von Waltz nodded in satisfaction. “This is only the first radio in what I see as a small army of shadow agents. Our Radio Game. And, sooner or later, someone will radio back the secret location of the coming invasion. Another drink, my friend? I happen to have a bottle of Cognac.”
He led the way to his own office. At his desk, he pulled a bottle from the bottom drawer.
Taking in the year on the label, Bretz raised his eyebrows. “Where on earth did you find that?”
“A certain Jew,” von Waltz answered as he opened it. “He’ll have no use for it where he’s going.”
“And what’s this?” Bretz asked, flipping back the cover on the birdcage.
“My parrot. A gift from Ribbentrop.”
The bird blinked its sleepy orange eyes, then shrieked, “Drunken fool!”
Von Waltz winced. “He has some bad habits.” He took out two glasses and poured.
“Drunken fool! Bed wetter! Nut tree!” The parrot made the sound of a loud belch and then a long fart. “He who chases two rabbits will catch none!”
“What’s his name?”
“Well, every time I tell him to shut up, it falls on deaf ears. So I call him Ludwig—as in Beethoven.” Von Waltz scowled as he handed Bretz a glass. “And if you’d like to drink in peace, my friend, I suggest you replace the cover.”
—
After a long night of dinner and drinking and ingratiating themselves with Hans Fortner at Maxim’s, Sarah and Hugh—Sabine and Hubert—were invited back to the H?tel Le Meurice for more Cognac and cigars with the Reichsminister.
The Meurice wasn’t far from Maxim’s, on Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries Gardens between Place de la Concorde and the Musée du Louvre. And although Mata Hari had once been a guest at the hotel, the helmet-wearing guards carrying submachine guns at the entrance were intimidating enough that Sarah swayed slightly as she approached. When Hugh glanced at her in concern, she smiled. “It’s nothing, darling. Too much Champagne.”
“Never enough!” Fortner roared.
“Agreed!” called Hugh, and the trio laughed together merrily.
They bobbed and swayed through the polished lobby to an intimate, wood-paneled bar. Inside, the light was dim, with Rococo sconces punctuating the gloom. In the shadows, a few off-duty officers in black tie and French girls in gowns lounged in oxblood leather club chairs as a pianist played the tango “Sch?n ist die Nacht.”
They commandeered a corner table with a pate de verre shaded lamp and a bouquet of velvety roses. As Fortner slumped into his chair, Hugh whispered to Sarah, “You have the pill, yes?”
The dancer tossed back her dark hair and gave him her most glamorous smile. Sarah was terrified—her palms damp and heart racing. But she had too much practice managing stage fright to show it. “Of course, darling.”
“Let’s have some bubbly, not Cognac, what do you think.” It was not a question. Fortner raised one hand and snapped his finger at the bartender. “Champagne!” the Reichsminister called. “Make it that ’twenty-eight Krug I so enjoyed the other night!” He turned to Hugh and Sarah. “Wait until you try it—you’ll understand why Dom Pérignon thought he was ‘tasting stars.’?”
As the waiter brought a bottle to the table and opened it, pouring for everyone, Sarah noticed that the label had a red stamp in German and in French. It read: RESERVED FOR GERMAN ARMY OFFICERS. NOT FOR RESALE OR PURCHASE.
“Again,” Fortner announced, raising his glass, “to a brilliant performance! By both of you!” They clinked glasses and sipped. Looking at Sarah, the Reichsminister murmured, “You have such perfect posture—you look practically German!”
“Thank you, Hans,” she cooed. “One of the many benefits of all those ballet classes.”
“And you”—Fortner now looked directly at Hugh—“have a straight, solid frame, perfect for handling the cello.” He turned back to Sarah. “And what great benefits does playing the cello impart?
“After all,” Fortner continued, reaching over and seizing Hugh by the wrist to hold up his hand for examination, “this is its own instrument, to be played, to be honed, to be appreciated.”
Sarah was bewildered. She glanced to Hugh, who gently but firmly pulled his hand away. “Um—thanks.”
Sarah decided to take charge. “I’d like to thank you for all of the hospitality you’ve shown us,” she ventured, placing a graceful hand on Fortner’s arm, massaging the muscles.