The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(69)
“Before the war, the violin performance.” She gave a short laugh. “But nowadays, the diamond bracelet.”
Christian spun her about, guiding Maggie across the crowded dance floor, one gloved hand holding hers, the other resting lightly on her back. In the arms of a German officer, even masked, she couldn’t possibly relax. And then she caught sight of Goering.
Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering, towering and rotund, was wearing a specially made dress uniform trimmed in golden braid that stretched tightly across his broad back, dark sweat stains under his arms. His beaded and feathered black mask depicted the horned hunting god, complete with antlers. Christian saw the direction of Maggie’s glance and immediately steered her closer. “Come, I’ll introduce you!”
But before she could protest, another man cut in. “May I?”
Christian released Maggie regretfully. “We must dance again, mademoiselle,” he said, then bowed and left.
The masked newcomer whirled her around the floor, away from Goering. Maggie stiffened in surprise, almost losing her step. “Jacques!” The orchestra began to play “A String of Pearls.”
“You look beautiful, mademoiselle.” His voice was thick with emotion.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something’s happened. We need to get to somewhere private to talk.”
He took her hand to lead her across the floor. They went through the salon to the glass-walled atrium and then to the garden. There was no one else outside; the threat of rain was enough to ensure privacy.
As they walked the darkened paths, Jacques kept hold of Maggie’s hand. “Are you cold? Would you like my jacket?”
“I’m fine.”
But he took his black dinner jacket off and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm from his body, and she pulled it closer around her. They faced each other, hands clasped, palm against palm, soft glove leather against leather, but the touch was surprisingly intimate.
“You need to leave Paris,” he said urgently.
The spell was broken. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Two agents have been captured.”
“What? Who?”
“I don’t know. I only know they’re at Avenue Foch. Who knows what they’ve said?”
“I promised my sister she could get out. And there’s an injured British pilot—”
“First we have to get you to the safe house on Rue Curial. Then we’ll worry about getting you all out. The full moon is less than a week away.” He leaned close. Once again, Maggie was aware of the warmth of his body. “It’s urgent. You’ll need to go tonight.”
“Tonight? What about the curfew?”
He looked at the face of his watch in the leaking light from the gala. “It’s best we get you there as soon as possible. Go upstairs, change, and pack a bag. Take the servants’ stairs back down. I’ll be waiting on the street.”
—
Maggie moved quickly, going up to her little room, changing into plain, dark clothes, packing a small suitcase of necessities, leaving behind the large Vuitton trunk and all the couture. Thank you, Paige, she thought as she left and closed the door behind her. You always were generous about lending your things.
She ran down the stairs with her case; Jacques was waiting for her as he’d promised. She walked to him. “We might never see each other again.” And wouldn’t that fit my pattern of romantic entanglements perfectly?
“You never know. Let’s say à bient?t, rather than au revoir. I’ll walk you to the safe house. Make sure you go there.”
“It’s better if I go alone. We shouldn’t be seen together.” And yet Maggie set down her suitcase. In the shadows, his arms wrapped around her.
They kissed. You fool, Maggie thought, you idiot—always falling for the unavailable man. They broke apart and stared at each other.
“I—” he began.
“No,” Maggie replied, drawing away. “Don’t say anything more.”
“Maybe after the war?”
Maybe. She picked up her suitcase again. “Stranger things have happened.”
—
At Station 53a, Elspeth Hallsmith bent over an encoded message, just received from the agent known as IDJ.
She didn’t know IDJ well; he—or she—had been sent to France only recently, and she’d decrypted only three previous messages. It had been a long shift, and now there was only an hour to go before the next crew took over. Even Elspeth’s usually perfect curl was falling out, her lipstick long since faded, her elegant fingers drumming restlessly on the long table. “All right, IDJ, let’s see what you’re up to,” she muttered as she began to translate the Morse code into English.
CALL SIGN IDJ
22 JUNE 1942
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED STOP TARGETS IDENTIFIED STOP REQUESTING MORE AGENTS FOR IMMEDIATE ACTION OVER
Elspeth went over the transcribed message not once but four times. For the first time, IDJ had forgotten his security check. She bit her lip. Another F-section agent leaving off security checks. It was becoming a far too common occurrence.
And so, like the others, she stamped the top of the decrypt SECURITY CHECK MISSING in bright red ink and put it in her outbox.
—
When Maggie arrived at the safe house, every window was dark and shuttered. All the doors were locked. Great, she fumed, just perfect.