The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(68)

Martens’s eyes widened. “But—but what about people? The soldiers? The officers? All the support staff? You’re talking about thousands of men!”

“Actors get drafted for war work, too,” Bishop replied with a grim smile. “We’re going to create a phantom army, voiced by radio actors. They’ll be a cast of characters—real men with real issues. Not just the war, but men who need haircuts and have cheating wives. Who use toilet paper and condoms.”

“That’s insane!”

“Not at all, dear boy. We know Hitler can pick up radio messages. So we’ll create fake wireless communications about fictional activity in real time.”

“And you believe Hitler will buy it?”

“That’s where counterespionage comes in. You’ve read up on the Twenty Committee?”

“Not yet,” Martens admitted.

“Well, you should. You’ll find out that all of the agents Germany sent to Britain as part of the so-called Fifth Column have been captured by MI-Five. They’re all radioing back to the Fatherland under our control. Through their transmissions, we will pass the most vital secrets about Fortitude and the buildup for the attack. We’ll have the turned spies send messages back about activity they’re supposedly seeing—tank maneuvers and so forth that will corroborate our story.”

“Then what?”

Bishop took a sip of his drink. “Then we pray Hitler swallows our lies.”

“If you’re building up a ghost army near East Anglia,” Martens said slowly, “you must realize that the civilians nearby are in danger of being bombed. The Luftwaffe could decide to attack the fake buildup and kill some very real Englishmen.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” He crushed out his cigarette. “People could die thanks to that scenario you’ve dreamed up.”

“Ends and means, old thing.”

“The British people will never stand for this!”

“The British people will never find out.”

“Do General Ismay and the P.M. know?”

“We have their blessing to do whatever we need to do to win.”

Martens shook his head. “Is there nothing you wouldn’t sacrifice?”

“For survival?” Bishop gave a bitter laugh. “No, I have no limits. None at all. Before I let those Huns win, I’ll sell my soul to the Devil himself.”

—

Maggie had spent the day at various fashion shows and then returned to the Ritz for afternoon tea. Now, dressed and coiffed, with her face concealed, Maggie made her way to the ballroom with the designer.

“Well, it’s not one of Elsie de Wolfe’s soirées, but I suppose it will do,” Chanel said as she swept through the doors of the Ritz’s grand salon. Maggie looked over the scene. There were actually three salons, all connected, and each had a soaring ceiling, glittering chandeliers, gold-painted moldings, and velvet draperies. All had been transformed: the floors had been polished to a sheen, great gilded brackets held dripping candelabras, and bouquets of red roses and orchids overflowed on the linen-swathed tables.

Maggie had to fight the urge to turn and run; Goering was rumored to be attending. But instead, she pressed her mask—a confection of semiprecious stones and dyed feathers—against her face for concealment and descended the steps. The other hand demurely lifted the skirt of her dress, the pale blue hidden by a black lace gown she had worn to the ballet.

In the main salon, there was no shortage of haute couture on display. The ladies wore gowns of shimmering silk, frothy lace, and floating tulle. Jewels sparkled on their throats and dangled from their ears, and long kid gloves covered their hands and arms. The men were elegantly clad in evening dress, their shirt studs and gold cuff links glinting in the candlelight.

As the orchestra played a lilting fox-trot, the candlelit room swirled with dancers. The ballroom was a feast for the senses: the dancers in gowns of scarlet, crimson, and ruby keeping time to the sweet music of the strings. The fragrance of the women’s perfumes and men’s hair tonic combined with the heady scent of the flowers. And drifting above it all was the rise and fall of flirtatious conversation, mostly in French, but occasionally in German.

Maggie felt dizzy, from both the heat of the candles and the warmth of the dancers as they spun and twirled. A waiter stepped up to her with a silver tray. “Champagne?”

Maggie accepted a glass as Chanel was greeted by a group she obviously knew and took the opportunity to walk away, mask held firmly in place. The music finished and the assembled politely applauded. But before she could make her escape, a man blocked her path. “I couldn’t help but recognize you by your hair,” he said in German-inflected French. Despite his mask, Maggie recognized him instantly.

“Christian.”

“May I have this dance?”

Maggie nodded, and set down her drink. The General led her to the dance floor. As they began to move to the music, he asked, “Did you know that legend has it Elsa Maxwell rejected a diamond Cartier bracelet at a dinner at the Ritz given in her honor, saying she preferred having Fritz Kreisler play for her?”

“Must have been a while ago,” Maggie retorted drily. Jewels and gold were worth far more than francs.

“And at that, George Bernard Shaw proclaimed, ‘This woman is the eighth wonder of the world!’ I wonder, Mademoiselle Kelly, which would you pick?”