The Paris Apartment, page 29
“Yes, that was what we had heard as well right before we left.” Sophie drummed her fingers on the edge of the mantel. “How often have you been inside this room where the device is located?”
“Only once.”
“Did you see anything that looked like a codebook?”
Estelle shook her head. “No. But there are locked cabinets inside the room.”
“Cabinets? Not a safe?”
“Cabinets,” Estelle confirmed. “That open with a key. A small one.”
“And what sort of lock is on the door to the room?”
“None.”
“None?” Sophie’s brows shot up.
“Access is through a closet with a false back.”
“It’s not guarded?”
“No. I’ve been in that suite a total of three times, and I’ve never seen anyone standing by the door. It’s supposed to be a closet, after all. I don’t even think it’s used when Göring is not in residence. I’ve only ever seen men with dispatches coming and going from the suite when he is present.”
“What arrogant fools,” Sophie marveled.
“The floor that the Imperial Suite is on is restricted access,” Estelle warned. “Not just anyone can wander about without being challenged. Hotel staff come and go to clean and maintain the room, of course, but they are known. You or I could not simply waltz into the suite unless we had a good reason to be there. And permission.”
Sophie absorbed that. “How will the officers inside the hotel be armed?”
“They’re not.”
Sophie’s head jerked around in surprise. “What do you mean, they’re not?”
“Officers are required to surrender their sidearms at the door. Can’t have such vulgarity in the hotel,” she mocked.
“Why were you in his suite?” Sophie asked. There was no judgement in the question, merely curiosity.
“I’ve…offered him fine jewels on occasion. An occasional piece of art. It’s kept me welcome amongst higher-ranking officers at the Ritz. And just as importantly, kept me welcome in the kitchens at the Ritz.”
“Ah.”
“What do you need in that radio room?”
Sophie was drumming her fingers on the mantel. “It’s the codebooks I’m after, though I can’t steal them, not even just to copy them. I can’t take the chance that they will be discovered missing, and then returning them adds additional risk. Under no circumstances can the Germans think that their codes or encryption device have been compromised.”
“I understand.”
“I had always thought that the best approach would be to take photos of the device and then the pages because to copy codebooks by hand would take hours. I have a camera—a Riga. It’s small, easily concealed.” Sophie hesitated. “I practiced before I left for France. With the camera, that is.”
“How long?” Estelle pressed, her mind racing.
“Assuming I can get through the locks with efficiency, maybe twenty minutes. Maybe less. Get in and get out and leave no trace.”
“And what happens when you’ve done that?”
“I’m to smuggle whatever information I’m able back to London.”
Estelle let out a bark of laughter. “You make it sound like you’ll simply board the next ferry heading back to Southampton.”
“I’m to make my way back to my original drop site on the next full moon. Where I met Vivienne and her network.”
“That’s still weeks away,” Estelle protested.
“Yes. Until then, I’ll need to disappear. Evade capture.”
“You don’t say,” Estelle muttered.
“At that point in time, they’ll send a Lizzie to fetch me. If not, I’ll figure something else out.”
“Who’s Lizzie?”
“Not who, what. A tiny plane they use to recover agents.” Sophie grimaced. “Though they are rather hit and miss, I’ve been warned. It’s harder than you might think to land a plane in a field in the dark in the middle of a country crawling with Nazis.”
Estelle looked back out the window.
“But that part is secondary at the moment. Of greater concern is how I will get into the Ritz undetected, get into the Imperial Suite undetected, stay there for twenty minutes undetected, and get back out. Undetected. We need a plan.”
Outside, on the pavement below Estelle’s window, a woman had appeared, wrapped in a tattered coat that might once have been a vibrant shade of blue. She was moving slowly and unevenly, her shoulders hunched, her head covered by a dark scarf. As she reached the corner of the street, she simply sagged to the ground on her hands and knees, whether from exhaustion, hunger, or illness, it was impossible to say. Approaching from the other direction were two Wehrmacht soldiers in pressed uniforms, leather gloves, and polished boots. One of the men had a brochure or possibly a map in his hand, and they appeared to be in deep discussion. They stopped, inches from where the woman huddled, the taller one pointing up the street to the west. The Germans seemed to come to some sort of decision, and they moved off in that direction. Neither spared the woman a glance. It was as if she didn’t exist.
Estelle left the window. “You won’t be undetected.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you ever been to the Ritz?” she asked Sophie, coming to join her near the empty hearth.
“Once. Many years ago,” the agent replied slowly. “But just to the dining room and the shops. I’ve since studied the blueprint though. Why?”
“Plain sight.”
“What?”
“We’ll do this in plain sight. Detected by many.”
“And what, exactly, is it that we are doing and how are we doing it?”
Estelle looked up at the painting and the fatalistic maiden with her arms outstretched above her tunic that was still a vibrant shade of blue. Waiting for the dagger that would end her life. “If Polyxena is so intent on being a willing sacrifice, I have a far better cause for her to sacrifice herself for.”
Chapter
20
Sophie
Paris, France
26 August 1943
The lorry that stopped in front of the doors on Place Vendôme was expertly handled by a driver in the Ritz’s dark uniform, gloved and groomed to the hotel’s uncompromising standards. His assistant, a youth likewise outfitted smartly, hopped from the passenger-side door and hurried to the rear of the vehicle. He was joined by the driver, and both set to work immediately maneuvering a large, flat object out of the lorry. The object was the height of a man and perhaps half as wide, and it was wrapped in stiff canvas, bound neatly with rope.
The car that Estelle and Sophie were riding in glided to a rolling stop behind the lorry and beside the lines of black vehicles, many adorned with miniature versions of the swastika banners covering the façade of the hotel. Sophie swallowed hard and reminded herself that she was not here to fight these Nazis. Not tonight. Tonight, she was here to be their friend. To help others one day obliterate them all.
She glanced up through the open window, following the lines of the Vendôme column up toward the unsettled sky. It was early evening but it seemed later, and the heavy clouds that had loomed earlier now sat squarely over the city, rumbling ominously and threatening rain.
A soldier hurried forward. He was painfully young, and his fair, flushed cheeks had probably never seen a razor. “Stop!” he said as the driver turned off the car. “You can’t be here.”
Sophie wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the driver or themselves, sitting silently in the back.
The driver merely glanced at the young soldier as if he were a fly buzzing at the periphery of the vehicle. He exited the vehicle and then opened Estelle’s door for her. Estelle gracefully slid from the vehicle. She was wearing the stunning yellow-crepe gown that had hung in her wardrobe. It clung to her in effortless style, and with her hair gathered in glossy waves and secured at her nape and her makeup applied with a skill that had startled Sophie, Estelle Allard had transformed herself from a heartsick woman to a femme fatale. Vera Atkins would have approved.
“Mademoiselle Allard,” the soldier said, taking a step back, confusion crossing his face as Estelle advanced toward him. “It is a pleasure to see you again, but you can’t be here. I must remind you that this entrance is reserved for officers only.”
Estelle snorted inelegantly and let the strap of her gown slip from her shoulder. “Hauptgefreiter Müller, a pleasure to see you too. Tell me, how is the lovely Madeleine?”
The young soldier blushed. “She is well, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “But you can’t be here, truly. This is the officers’ entrance.”
“I know this,” she said with a pretty laugh. “I also know that if you care to check in with Colonel Meyer, you will discover that he is expecting me. He did, after all, send a car for me. And transport.” She gestured at the lorry. “I have a gift for the Reichsmarschall.”
The young soldier blinked under the barrage of name dropping and effortless charm. From where Sophie sat, it was difficult to tell which had more impact.
“What sort of gift?” Müller asked.
“You are now the Reichsmarschall’s curator?” Estelle asked as the two men from the lorry started toward the entrance with the package.
“What? No.” His eyes darted toward the two men, who were getting closer to the entrance, clearly torn between stopping the errant entries and speaking with Estelle.
“Then be a dear and go tell the colonel that Mademoiselle Allard has arrived with the Reichsmarschall’s art.”
The driver had come around the other side of their car and opened the door for Sophie. She tried to exit with the same grace Estelle had. She wasn’t entirely sure she managed it.
Müller’s attention snapped to Sophie, and his eyes widened in a manner that suggested Sophie’s efforts at glamour hadn’t been wasted either. She, too, wore a dress fit for a starlet, courtesy of a French Tempsford seamstress. It was pale blue with a beaded bodice, the long sleeves she had requested gathered at her wrist with silk ribbon. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and when she had emerged from Estelle’s bedroom, the woman had, with a wry smile, called her an ice princess.
“Who are you?” the soldier asked warily.
Sophie only smiled in reply because, at the door, there was a predictable fracas as the men carrying the package were stopped.
“Must I do everything?” Estelle huffed and stalked toward the door, her heels striking the pavement in a sharp staccato.
Müller followed her hastily, protesting as he went. Sophie simply slipped in behind the two at a discreet distance.
Another soldier, alerted by the fuss, had come forward, blocking their path. The two men from the lorry set their burden down on the pavement outside the hotel.
“If someone would be so kind as to let Colonel Meyer know that Mademoiselle Allard has arrived with a gift for the Reichsmarschall, we would not all be standing out here,” she said before the second soldier could open his mouth.
“The colonel is not here. He is at dinner,” the soldier told her. “He has a standing order not to be disturbed.”
Sophie already knew this. Estelle had told her that Meyer rarely deviated from a two-hour routine that usually included red wine, braised lamb, buttered potatoes, and roasted vegetables, all served at Maxim’s. And a pretty redhead named Collette for dessert, served somewhere else entirely.
Estelle put her hands on her hips and scowled. “Well then, after he has finished his dinner, you may be the one to tell him that the Le Brun that I had promised the Reichsmarschall was destroyed in the rain outside this hotel because you would not admit us entry.”
The two young soldiers looked at each other with indecision.
The Ritz employees merely waited, their eyes averted. Sophie wondered where their allegiances lay. Given the muscle jumping in one of the lorry drivers’ jaw every time the soldiers spoke, Sophie was reasonably certain that his loyalty, at least, did not belong to the Reich.
Thunder growled low, and a gust of wind raced across the square, chasing a chill around Sophie’s bare legs. The timing could not have been better.
“At the very least, allow me to have the painting brought in,” Estelle snapped imperiously. “Before you are required to assume the cost and consequences of your inaction. Because I can assure you that you cannot afford it.”
“Fine.” It was Müller who finally spoke. “Bring it in.”
At a wave of Estelle’s hand, the two men lifted the awkward canvas-wrapped painting and maneuvered it carefully through the door.
“Where do you want it put?” the shorter lorry driver asked.
“We’ll take it directly to the Imperial Suite. It’s to be hung before the Reichsmarschall returns.”
“W-we can’t allow that,” the young soldier stuttered.
“You most certainly can. Do you know how many pieces I have brought to the Reichsmarschall?” Estelle demanded.
“But—”
“Look,” Estelle said, gentling her voice, “I understand that you are only doing your job here. But this is a very valuable painting, and the longer it sits unprotected the greater risk of damage. The safest place for it is in his rooms.”
“Then we will have it taken there.”
“Not without us, you will not,” Estelle said primly. “I will not rest until I see it right to the end of its journey.”
“Us?”
Estelle gestured at Sophie. “This is Madame Beaufort, recently of Marseille. At my request, she has come to Paris to deliver this painting. I promised the Reichsmarschall a Le Brun and he shall have it. I always keep my promises.”
Sophie kept her gaze steady as she met the abrupt scrutiny of the soldiers.
“This is true?” the second one asked.
“It is,” Sophie answered easily in German. “It is an honour to offer such a piece to the glory of the Reich.” The soldiers straightened. The older lorry driver closest to Estelle gave her a speculative look.
“You’re German.” The soldier’s tone had warmed considerably.
“Half,” Sophie said, telling them the same thing she had told the Gestapo outside Sacré-Coeur. “My mother was from Berlin.”
“Mine too,” said Müller eagerly.
“That almost makes us neighbours, then,” Sophie said, smiling at him, trying her best to focus on the fact that the boy in front of her was just that. A boy. It was easier to smile that way.
He blushed to the roots of his fair hair and smiled back.
Sophie looked away.
“It was the colonel who suggested that I find a suitable place in the Reichsmarschall’s suite to best display the work,” Estelle said, sounding bored.
And with that lie, the clock had started ticking.
“In the interest of the efficiency that he so values,” Estelle continued, “as well as my own peace of mind, this work could be hung long before he finishes his evening. He can inspect it then, should he so desire. Or, alternatively, if you feel you must interrupt his evening to confirm his instructions to myself and Madame Beaufort, then please, go ahead. We’ll wait—”
“Wait?” Sophie cut Estelle off, her words brittle and just loud enough for the soldiers to hear. “What is going on here, Mademoiselle Allard? You indicated that this painting was very valuable to the Reichsmarschall but it seems that perhaps you have oversold its importance? Reichsführer Himmler has also expressed interest in this work, and I’m wondering if perhaps I should offer it to him instead—”
“No.” It was the young officer who interrupted her.
And Sophie knew they had won this first part.
“That will not be necessary,” he continued hastily, no doubt imagining a conversation in which he was required to explain why a painting the Reichsmarschall supposedly coveted had been taken elsewhere. “Do as you wish, Mademoiselle Allard.” He gestured toward the interior of the hotel. “I will accompany you.”
“Thank you,” Estelle said graciously and swept into the hotel, Sophie and the wrapped image of Polyxena with a knife to her breast following in her wake.
The procession made its way through the hotel, heading toward the staircase that would take them up to the Imperial Suite.
“Tell me, who is Madeleine?” Sophie asked the young soldier who was dogging their heels like a puppy. She spoke deliberately in German.
“My girl,” he told her earnestly, blushing again. “She lives over near Notre Dame. She is something, truly. I never thought I would get so lucky.”
“How long have you been in Paris?”
“Three months,” he replied. “In truth, I didn’t think I would see any action in this war but here I am. Not that this post is as important as what my countrymen are doing on the front lines,” he said. “My mother cried when I told her that I was leaving.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” he mumbled.
“Your parents must be very proud of you,” Sophie told him, the words coming out far more easily than she had anticipated. “Proud of your service.”
His cheeks were scarlet. “Thank you.”
“You should be grateful that—” Sophie stopped abruptly, taking two quick steps forward so that the painting was between her and the salon they were passing. Without turning her head, she glanced up at the tall mirror mounted on the wall closest to her, reflecting the occupants of that salon.
Scharführer Schwarz was reclining in a brocaded chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, frowning fiercely. He was sitting off to the side, not a part of the conversation that was taking place amongst a group of Luftwaffe officers. Instead, his eyes followed the employees carrying the painting and the woman in the yellow dress leading them.
Sophie lowered her gaze and bent her head, cursing inwardly. Had he seen her? And if he did, would he recognize her? She looked much different than she had in front of Sacré-Coeur but that didn’t mean much.
“Madame Beaufort?” The question came from the young soldier. “Is something the matter?”
