The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(41)
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The instruction given at Beaulieu to SOE agents going abroad was that, if they were caught, they were to say nothing to the Gestapo for the first forty-eight hours. That way, everyone in the compromised agent’s circuit would have time to move to new safe houses, to cover their tracks. When the two days were over, if the agent was still alive, she or he could say anything.
Hugh knew this going in, just as he knew his odds of survival were low. And so he was surprised when he was taken by two SS guards from the H?tel Le Meurice to 84 Avenue Foch and then up the impressive marble stairs to von Waltz’s office—not some sort of medieval-inspired torture chamber. The large room smelled of coffee—the real sort. It smelled warm. Comforting. A mockery of safety.
“Come in!” von Waltz called pleasantly from behind his desk as the SS officers with Walther pistols dragged him in and threw him into a chair.
“Be gentle with our guest!” von Waltz chided them, clicking his tongue. “And take those cuffs off—we don’t need them here.”
As his handcuffs were removed, Hugh saw the portrait of Hitler over the marble fireplace mantel, the silver-framed photograph of Ribbentrop on the desk, and his hands began to shake. He rubbed at his red wrists, not only to ease the pain from the shackles but to disguise the trembling.
Von Waltz noticed with amusement. “Oh, come now, Monsieur Taillier—despite what you may have heard, we’re not monsters. We’re both gentlemen, you and I—and I can be quite reasonable, I assure you.”
He slipped into the chair next to Hugh. “Should I use your code name, Hubert Taillier? Or should I call you Hugh Thompson?”
Hugh pressed himself back in the chair, the blood leaving his face.
“Yes, Mr. Thompson,” von Waltz continued, a smile of amusement curling his lips, “we know your real identity. We know you were sent here, along with your fellow SOE agent Sarah Sanderson. We know your mission was to make contact with Reichsminister Hans Fortner, who has the records of all the major French auto manufacturers collaborating with the Nazis.”
Hugh swallowed, his mouth dry, realizing he’d been betrayed. “Do you have a spy in London?” he asked. “Or here, in Paris?”
Von Waltz ignored his questions. “Would you like some water?” he asked solicitously, then nodded to one of the SS. “Go get our friend a glass.” He turned back to Hugh. “My colleague at the Meurice says you were with Reichsminister Fortner in his suite. Let me guess—Sarah Sanderson was supposed to be the ‘honey trap.’ But what your friends at SOE didn’t tell you is that Fortner is a noted sodomizer.” Von Waltz cocked an eyebrow. “You’d kill for your country, but not have sex?” The German shook his head in mock disapproval. “And yet you’d expect Miss Sanderson to make the sacrifice?”
He chuckled as the guard brought in a glass and set it on the table beside Hugh. “And they say women are the weaker sex. Not very gallant, Mr. Thompson, asking a woman to do what you would not. And yet, that is how your SOE is set up, yes? You have women doing men’s jobs—that’s not exactly chivalrous, now, is it?” Von Waltz winked. “At any rate, it’s understandable you wouldn’t go through with it—Fortner’s not exactly the Adonis type. No wonder you blew your cover. I don’t believe a woman would have, though….They’re made of sterner stuff than we are. Do you think Miss Sanderson would have kept going? And going? Finished the job, so to speak?” The mocking words were having their intended effect on Hugh.
“Ah, but where are my manners? Please allow me to introduce myself properly.” The German stood. “I am Obersturmbannführer Wolfgang von Waltz, but we can dispense with all that formality here. It’s quite a mouthful to say, after all, even for a German.” He chuckled at his own joke and clasped his hands behind his back. “Mr. Thompson, you’re at 84 Avenue Foch, headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst, the counterintelligence branch of the SS. At this moment, our agents are capturing Sarah Sanderson, who will join us here soon. Along with anything incriminating we may find.”
Hugh raised his eyes. “Sarah!”
“We know how difficult this is for you, Mr. Thompson. We’ve read the letters you’ve sent home to your beloved mother, professing your fears—of capture, of torture. Of death.” His voice was caressing.
“You’ve—read my letters?” Letters from SOE agents in Paris to family members, as well as messages too long and too dangerous to be transmitted over the radio, were smuggled out of France by Lysander when new agents were flown in. Hugh shook his head in disbelief.
Von Waltz picked up a folder from his desk and walked to Hugh. There, sure enough, were photographs of Hugh’s letters home, in his own handwriting. “Work with us,” the German coaxed, in his most persuasive tones, as Hugh slumped in shame and despair. “You are an officer, like me. There’s a bond between us.” Hugh didn’t reply.
“SOE has sent you here in violation of all the rules of warfare: you’re a traitor in civilian clothes. You’re a spy. A spy!” Von Waltz paused. “Why give up your life for some stupid, inbred, Eton-educated snob working on Baker Street? Yes, we know all about Colonel Gaskell and his F-Section operation.” At the mention of Gaskell’s name, Hugh started. “And Diana Lynd, as well as the other ‘Baker Street Irregulars.’?” He leaned over to the desk and picked up another file, which he handed to Hugh.