The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(76)

“Nothing!”

“So you do remember a man with a pink carnation.”

Hugh was silent.

The German kicked him again. “What did he give you?” Von Waltz’s eyes were wide and crazed. He kicked Hugh’s shin a third time, like a child having a temper tantrum. “And where have you hidden it?”

“I don’t know,” Hugh sobbed, knowing he had to protect Sarah. “I don’t. I don’t know!”

Von Waltz nodded to the stocky man. “Continue.”

—

Hugh couldn’t endure much more without giving up all he knew. And the truth was, he knew too much. He’d peeked inside the dance bag, seeing the sand samples from the Normandy beaches. He’d opened Pandora’s box, even though it was against every rule they’d learned at SOE. The one thing he didn’t know was what Sarah had done with the bag after she’d left the H?tel Le Meurice. But he knew she’d taken it—and he couldn’t bear the thought of her being tortured.

I’m sorry, darling. I love you. As the guard forced his head under the dirty water in the sink, this time, instead of fighting, Hugh breathed in deeply. Liquid flooded his lungs.

When the guard realized what was happening, he yanked the prisoner’s head out.

But it was too late. Hugh was dead.





Chapter Eighteen




Von Waltz ordered Sarah to the radio room and had her sit at the table in front of Hugh’s set. Sarah was exhausted, every nerve frayed. Fischer stood by the window, observing. The professor gave a loud sniff, then wiped at his nose with a handkerchief.

“I won’t try to sugarcoat it, Miss Sanderson. Your fellow terrorist Mr. Thompson died early this morning, rather than give over his security checks.”

She sat absolutely still. “No,” she said, quietly. “No—Hugh can’t be dead.”

“Yes.” Von Waltz smiled at her. “And so, although we didn’t wish to involve a woman if we didn’t have to, we’d now like you to use his radio to send messages. Messages we will dictate. We of course expect you to include your security checks.”

“No,” Sarah moaned. Her stomach heaved, and she bent over.

“Miss Sanderson,” von Waltz warned in stern tones.

“I—I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—” He snapped at the professor, who fetched the wastepaper basket for her. She gave a few dry heaves, then quieted.

Von Waltz waited, then asked, “Do we have to take you down to the basement to make you cooperate?”

Sarah placed her hands on the table in front of her and pushed back. The chair’s legs made a horrible grinding screech, and then she rose, slowly, with a dancer’s poise. “Do what you want with me.” Her voice was broken. “If Hugh’s dead, I don’t care anymore.”

Von Waltz stared at the resolute woman in front of him, then saw the blood trickling down her legs, puddling on the floor.

“What—what’s this?” he yelped, in real shock.

Sarah’s ashen face was etched with profound sorrow, like the Madonna of a Pietà, her eyes black holes of grief. She held back her sobs through sheer force of will.

Fischer coughed. “It’s blood, sir.”

“I know it’s blood, you idiot! Why is she bleeding? Why are you bleeding?” The Obersturmbannführer rounded on her. “My men did not touch you! I ordered it!”

“If it’s not from rape, then perhaps she’s losing a child,” Fischer observed mildly, as though commenting on the weather.

“Women!” von Waltz thundered. “Women in war! This is why it’s wrong! Guards! Get her cleaned up! Then take her to her room!” When she was gone, he clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace.

“Sir, we’ve picked up communications between Gibbon and his handlers in London,” the older man ventured.

“Yes?” von Waltz snapped. “Well, come now—don’t keep me hanging!”

“They’ve asked for him to return to London. On the next flight out.” The two men locked eyes.

“They might suspect something,” Fischer said finally, taking out his handkerchief and blowing his nose.

“They might.”

—

The sun was setting over St. James’s Park, exploding in fiery reds and oranges on the horizon. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.” Henrik Martens wrapped his striped university scarf tighter around his neck. “All the F-Section’s mail from Paris to London has been photographed. SOE is compromised. And I believe agents leaving off their security checks have been captured. They are either in Gestapo custody or dead.”

“This is terrible,” Colonel Bishop said, looking as if it were anything but. In a bowler hat and wrapped in a long black overcoat, the head of MI-6’s French Intelligence Section nearly melted into the shadows. “But I don’t see how you know for certain.”

“These.”

The colonel looked at the letters, turning them front and back, holding them up to the light from the window.

“You can’t tell by looking at them. But believe me, they’ve been lit and shot. I used to be an amateur photographer—I took letters that had arrived in the last batch and used chemicals to determine if they’d been exposed to bright light. They have.”