The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(40)

Wrapping a scarf around her throat, Polly made her way through the chilly night air to take the coded message to yet another hut on the manor’s grounds. There more FANYs in their khaki drill skirts and bush jackets sat at long pine tables, translating the Morse code into English.

“Here you go,” Polly told one of them, as she handed over the message from TRV. Elspeth Hallsmith was a slim, cool, elegant girl, who could somehow make even the FANY uniform look chic. It was rumored that she’d grown up in Windsor and knew the two young princesses. “It’s TRV—thank heavens!”

“Excellent! Glad old TRV’s on the air again,” Elspeth said in a fluty voice. “It’s been quite a while with that one.”

Polly left Elspeth alone with the missive so she could get to work. Elspeth had decrypted TRV’s missives before and had sent them on to SOE headquarters on Baker Street with a red stamp: SECURITY CHECK MISSING. She, too, was relieved to see the agent transmitting again—but her stomach clenched when she wondered if the checks would still be absent.

CALL SIGN TRV

20 JUNE 1942

AM SAFELY INSTALLED IN PARIS STOP WILL COMMENCE BROADCASTS AS SCHEDULED STOP BAR LORRAINE STILL SECURE OVER



Elspeth went over the transcribed message not once but three times. Again, Agent TRV had forgotten her security check. She bit her lip. Had TRV been compromised?

Everything else looked normal.

It wasn’t up to her.

Once again, she stamped the decrypt with the red ink letters: SECURITY CHECK MISSING. Then, unwilling to let it sit in her outbox, she put on her coat and took it herself to the Hall. There, Harold Sheldon, the chief decoding officer—a grim man with dark, brilliantined hair and a glass eye—bundled it with a sheaf of decrypts bound for London by motorcycle courier first thing in the morning.

“Cigarette before we go back in, Miss Hallsmith?” Sheldon asked, taking a pack from his breast pocket and holding it out. All of the rules of SOE forbade them from discussing the decrypt.

“Thank you, Mr. Sheldon,” Elspeth answered, plucking a cigarette from the pack with pink-painted fingernails. “I could really use one tonight.”

—

Fortner and Hugh stood in the doorway of the Reichsminister’s suite. “Please,” the German invited, flipping on the light switch and waving Hugh in with a flick of his hand.

Hugh commanded his legs to move forward, entering the room reluctantly. His eyes darted, taking in the décor and the layout. But the beauty of the antique boiserie, as well as the gueridons and bergères, was lost on him.

Fortner closed and locked the doors with a series of sharp clicks that caused Hugh’s heart to pound. Clenching his fists, he kept his back to Fortner, staring toward the window draped with blackout curtains.

The Reichsminister wasted no time. He strode up behind Hugh and spun him around. They were face-to-face, though Hugh was a good three inches taller. Fortner traced one stubby finger down Hugh’s cheek. “I love the arts,” the German cooed. “The beauty, the passion, the abandon….”

Hugh stared at a corner of the room, a potted palm in a Chinese urn the only thing he could focus on.

“Relax, dear boy,” Fortner crooned. “Relax.”

Hugh did his best to gently extricate himself from Fortner’s embrace. “But the Nazis are against homosexuality.”

The Reichsminister turned and chuckled. “Rules are only for the little people. The Volk—they must make babies for the Reich. The SS officers, well…That’s often a different story. We are like the Greeks, the Romans! Although we’re always discreet, of course.”

Fortner placed a hand behind Hugh’s neck and pulled him forward. At the last moment, Hugh twisted his face away to avoid the man’s lips.

“Don’t be coy,” Fortner chided, taking Hugh’s hand and leading him toward the bedroom. “I’m very attracted to you. Surely you must have known…”

“And I’m sure your mistress is quite attracted to you, too,” Hugh said, for he’d met the pretty young Parisienne a few times.

“The girl’s for show. As is my wife, back in Berlin. And my five children.” He smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I put in for a Paris assignment—you French are so much more sophisticated about these things. You love sex and don’t worry too much about who’s involved.”

Hugh stood frozen. Was this really going to happen? Was he really going to go through with this?

Fortner whispered, “Take off your clothes.”

Hugh let the Nazi kiss him. He did his best to switch his feelings off. It was a job. Sarah had been prepared to do it. Hadn’t he even told her she had to, for the good of all? Once Fortner was asleep, he could get to the files…

“Ah, now you’re getting in the spirit—”

“No! Stop it!” Hugh pushed at Fortner’s bulk. “Stop! Get off of me!” Without thinking, Hugh kneed the German in the groin. Fortner groaned, grabbed himself, and bent over.

And then came the jolt, the shock. Hugh closed his eyes in defeat.

When he’d caught his breath, Fortner straightened, eyes locked on Hugh. He reached over to the top drawer of the bed table near him and pulled out a Luger pistol.

Hugh hadn’t just rejected Fortner, he’d done it in English—and blown his cover.