The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(57)
The stocky man nodded, and one of the men from the shadows flung a bucket of cold water at the naked Englishman. As Hugh struggled in his bonds against the icy spray, the man said, “Work with us, Mr. Thompson.”
Hugh spat and shook his head, breathing hard. The water dripped down his face, mixing with blood.
The man backhanded the Englishman with all his considerable might. Hugh staggered and swayed in his chains, groaning low in his throat. With a look of disgust, the man gestured to the others. “Continue!”
They picked up rubber truncheons.
Chapter Twelve
As Gibbon was shown out through the back, into a waiting unmarked sedan, von Waltz watched Avenue Foch from his window. Children played hide-and-seek on the contre-allée, their nursemaids overseeing prams and picnic baskets. Finally, a long, glossy Mercedes pulled up to the sidewalk.
The Obersturmbannführer clapped his hands in delight. “Another guest!” he called out cheerily. “More coffee, Fr?ulein Schmidt!” She narrowed her eyes, but rose to do his bidding.
“More coffee!” Ludwig gabbled. “More coffee!”
“Shut. Up!” Von Waltz yanked the curtain down over the bird’s cage.
Ludwig managed, “Snowpisser! Beer idiot! Bed wetter!” before he quieted again in the darkness.
Two uniformed SS agents climbed the staircase with Sarah in front of them, pushing her with the tips of their guns. Her head was covered by a sack, her hands bound behind her. When they reached the second floor, they shoved her into von Waltz’s office. She stumbled and fell.
Von Waltz eyed the two officers. Both looked the worse for wear. One had ugly red gouges down his cheeks, while the other’s hand was bound in a bloody handkerchief.
“Gentlemen,” he inquired. “What happened?”
The first SS officer poked the barrel of his gun into Sarah’s ribs. “She scratches, Obersturmbannführer.”
The second grimaced. “And bites.”
“Lift her up.” As they did, von Waltz sighed. “Well, remove the hood and untie her hands. Let’s see our little hellcat.” They removed the covering, revealing Sarah—eyes wild, lips chapped, hair snarled. A bruise bloomed on one cheek.
“Ah.” Von Waltz eyed her. “You must be Madame Sabine Severin.” He smiled. “Or should I say—Sarah Sanderson? We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Sanderson. We’re well aware the British are recruiting and using women as terrorists in Europe. Colonel Gaskell of Special Operations Executive has no shame.”
She stared at him, but said nothing.
“We know how frightened you’ve been,” von Waltz continued in honeyed tones, approaching her slowly, as one would a cornered wild animal. “You confessed as much in your letters home to your mother. She lives where? Ah, yes—Liverpool. You’re a long way from home, Miss Sanderson.”
Sarah’s eyes darted around the office; she recoiled when she saw the painting of Hitler.
“We know about SOE. We know about Sir Frank Nelson and Lord Selborne and Sir Charles Hambro. We know about Colonel Gaskell and F-Section. We also know about your paramilitary training at Arisaig House, about parachute school at Fulshaw Hall, about ‘finishing school’ in Beaulieu.”
Sarah schooled her face.
“We have a friend of yours here in custody as well—Hugh Thompson.” The Obersturmbannführer gave a sugary smile and paused. “Mr. Thompson has been rather…uncooperative. First with Hans Fortner and now with us.”
Sarah’s chest rose with a sharp intake of breath, but she refused to give von Waltz the satisfaction of an outburst. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said, haughty as a princess despite her bound hands and bruises. “You represent everything I despise.”
Von Waltz pressed his lips together and knit his eyebrows in a facsimile of sympathy. “Work with us, Miss Sanderson. Work with us and you will live. Not only that, but you will live fairly well. And your Mr. Thompson, too.”
Sarah said nothing.
“You’ll make me do things I dislike by not cooperating,” he mused. “I’m your victim, really. Miss Sanderson, I will ask you one more time: work with us.”
Her gaze held steady, and she said in her best Liverpudlian accent, “Fuck you.”
Von Waltz raised his hand as if to slap her, then dropped it. “We have your radio.” Impatience crept into his tone. “We found it in your apartment. In a perfect world, we would like you to send a few messages for us, back to England.”
“And I’d like to dance Giselle, but that’s not happening either, is it?”
Von Waltz’s manicured hands clenched. “Take this woman to the basement!”
—
Elise Hess had been busy in the convent’s herb gardens and kitchen, preparing medicines for the English captain: echinacea tincture to reduce swelling and calendula ointment to heal infection. She returned to the pilot’s room with fresh bandages and her concoctions, as well as a vase of roses. When she knocked and then unlocked his heavy wooden door, she was surprised to hear music.
“?‘Là ci darem la mano’?” she asked, putting down her tray on a low table.
“Yes, I love Mozart.” He smiled up at her from the bed. “Mère St. Antoine let me have her own personal wireless. And so I can listen to music. It’s been a blessed relief.”