The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(77)

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” Bishop argued, unexpectedly looking like the cat who’d caught the canary.

“The only reason they’d be exposed to such a bright light is if they’re being photographed.”

“What does Colonel Gaskell say about all this?” Bishop asked carefully.

“When I spoke to him about agents leaving off security checks, he insisted he had it under control. He doesn’t know about F-Section’s mail being photographed yet. I’ve come to you, sir, because I’m extremely concerned there is a mole at SOE. Maybe a few moles. In addition, we have a message from one of our agents in Paris that Raoul was spotted entering 84 Avenue Foch.”

“If all this is true…” Bishop mused.

“Then we have a spy in our midst. We’ll need to get Raoul out of France. And quickly. Before any more of our agents are compromised. Lock him up.”

“But first we need to know what he’s done exactly—and how much damage there is to the network. It’s essential we find that out.”

“I’ll send a message telling him to be on the next flight back.”

“Yes, good, but we must be delicate when he arrives. Otherwise he’ll realize what we’re doing and make a run for it.”

Martens nodded. “I’ll let Colonel Gaskell know.”

“No! Say nothing to Gaskell! If he asks why you’re bringing Raoul back, just say you’re doing some reorganizing of the network and want the agent’s advice, based on his experience and expertise. It’s imperative we get to the bottom, and I mean very bottom, of all of this without tipping our hand to Gaskell.”

“Agreed.”

“And what’s the story with that damn sand from Normandy?”

“Still missing in Paris.”

“It’s imperative we get it back to England. And find out if anyone else knows about it and what secrets it contains. Let me know when you expect Raoul. I want to be there when he arrives.”

—

Maggie moved her bed to a new part of the room every few hours, until Sergeant Schneider lost interest in the noises coming from her room. Then she moved the bed to the room’s center.

She wasn’t tall enough to reach the window, so she called for the guard. “I’d like a chair,” she said pleasantly through the grille, thankful that Sarah’s room had a regular window.

“A chair? Why do you need a chair?”

“To put my things on, at night.” She leaned forward, appealing to the most German part of his nature. “I do hate a mess, don’t you?”

There was a round of questions, but in the end, Maggie got her chair. If she put it on top of the bed, she might be able to reach the bars.

But before she could test her theory, she heard the muffled but unmistakable sound of sobbing through the wall. She got down and went to the pipe. You all right? she tapped out. Sarah?

Her only answer was moans, animalistic and raw. Maggie pressed her whole body against the wall, as if somehow she could reach her friend and comfort her. But she couldn’t; she was powerless. For the first time since Maggie arrived, she began to contemplate utter and complete defeat.

—

The professor’s cold was growing worse; along with his headphones, he now wore a scarf wrapped tightly around his throat to protect from drafts as he listened for any communications from London. Fr?ulein Schmidt had brought him a mug of the old German cold remedy, boiled beer. Although the older man was dubious of the beverage possessing any antibacterial properties, he sipped it, thankful for the woman’s thoughtfulness.

The Germans had been monitoring Gibbon’s messages coming and going from London since he and von Waltz had started working together in ’40. The latest was less than reassuring. As he finished decrypting it, Fischer forgot his runny nose and scratchy throat in his haste to reach von Waltz’s office.

“Gibbon, our ‘gift giver,’ has been summoned back to London!” the professor managed.

Von Waltz looked up from his papers.

“He was spotted by one of the British terrorists entering this building! They must know he’s meeting with you!”

“Let me see.” Von Waltz grabbed the decrypt and scanned it. He picked up his telephone receiver. “Fr?ulein Schmidt, arrange through the usual channels for Gibbon to meet with me. Immediately.”

—

The sweeper had broken again and the housekeeper appealed to the guard to let Maggie fix it once more. “In my room, if you don’t mind, madame,” Maggie suggested. “There’s not enough space for me to work in the hall.”

In her cell, Maggie examined the sweeper as intently as a surgeon would a body. “I’ll see what I can do, madame. I’ll need the toolbox again, of course.”

The cleaning woman’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Of course!” As she went to fetch the toolbox, Maggie summoned all her courage. The woman brought the box, and, as Maggie worked on the sweeper, the maid and the guard flirted, retreating to the hallway. Maggie could hear Sergeant Schneider asking her to dinner and Madame’s “yes” and nervous, high-pitched laughter in reply.

Maggie fixed the sweeper, then, taking a deep breath, she tucked the screwdriver down the front of her dress. Schneider stuck his head in. “How long is this going to take?”