French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  Etienne blinked as a single light flickered on. “You are the one?” Etienne managed basic English for his British audience.

  Joe motioned to a chair sitting in the nearly empty room. He moved to the bar, retrieved a brandy snifter then returned to hold it under Etienne’s nose. The Frenchman nodded and Joe poured out two fingers and handed the glass to Etienne. “Let’s try French,” Joe suggested. “I hope it is better than my German.”

  It was a slow conversation; Joe was not Joe Edwards the poker player; he was Joe the American secret bearer who was quick to the point. “The American government is concerned about the German buildup opposite the Soviet border.”

  The Frenchman twirled the brandy glass in his hand; he preferred the bouquet to the actual taste. “I am a mere diplomat,” he said, hoping modesty would allow him to escape.

  “You are,” Joe agreed. “We are not interested in what you know.”

  Etienne hesitated, considering whether he should be offended or relieved.

  “It is what Mademoiselle D’Estaing knows.” Joe returned to the brandy, pouring a glass.

  “Lisle?”

  Joe sipped, swallowed, nodded then pointed the glass at Etienne. “The other woman in your life.”

  “What does Lisle know? She is not political.”

  “She knows little, but it is what she can know that we want.”

  Etienne tried the brandy, swirled it in his mouth then swallowed. “I do not understand.”

  “The French. Your people sneer at Americans for not being sophisticated but -,” he shook his head. “You must realize this Lisle is seeing more men than you.”

  The glass slipped in Etienne’s hand but he recovered, setting it on his lap as his world began to collapse. “Lisle?” He was not the only one who provided comfort on her worst days.

  The American nodded. “Your girlfriend gets around, including the German embassy.” He emptied the glass and returned it to the bar. “A Colonel Freissler. He is a military attaché who was posted in Bucharest a few short months ago.” Joe grinned. “She is going younger, almost as young as that Russian boy she is hanging on like he was her last hope.”

  “Lisle.” More than fifteen years with this woman and she was seeing others, lying to him, making him as if their time together was so important. He jerked his head. “Why come to me, why not ask her?”

  “You are a diplomat,” Joe murmured. “You know her; she will do things for you that she will not do for an American stranger.”

  Etienne stood, holding out the glass and waiting for Joe to take it. When the American did not move he pushed past him and smacked it down on the bar, then drew himself up to his full height. “I am not a spy,” he declared. “I am a French patriot.”

  The American smiled. “I do not doubt that and I am not asking you to spy,” he paused. “On France.”

  “A spy is a spy,” Etienne said.

  Joe nodded. “Do you not tell Minister Laval your views on your neighbors, and what you expect them to do?”

  Etienne squinted as he untangled the American’s manipulation. “My position is to defend the French nation, not aid another nation in spying on France’s neighbors.”

  The American paused and wet his lips. “I respect your views but the United States is most concerned about the nations around Germany which are too small to defend them-.”

  “France is not a small country,” Etienne huffed, the American’s words lighting his temper. “France stretches across Africa, Asia, your Americas,” he sniffed at the mention of the offensive continent. “We do not seek nor do we need the aid of the United States.”

  Joe smiled, amused at Etienne’s patriotism while absently swirling the remains of the brandy in his glass. “They told me you were a true French patriot that is why I sought you.”

  The compliment cooled Etienne’s temper. “I fought for France in the last war,” he said.

  The American nodded. “You were one of the lucky few who returned home. Too many French soldiers did not.” He lowered his head. “I lost friends in 1918 and do not want another Great War or worse.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “But we are headed in that direction,” Joe warned. “The Germans have many allies.”

  “We are neutral.”

  “As of this time.”

  “This time?” He puffed out his chest, once again the French deputy foreign minister defending his country’s honor. “The French government has no desire or intent to join in any war or any alliance heading toward war.”

  “France may have no other choice if and when the Germans attack the Soviets. Our experts say the Russians are well equipped but poorly trained.” He cocked his head. “Have you heard of the T-34?”

  Etienne searched his mind for the numbers and letter but came up blank. “No.”

  “It does not matter. We need knowledge of the German forces to gauge if the Soviets can survive.” Lines creased his forehead. “There are some who believe the Russians will fall in eight weeks. If they do then European Russia could fall under German occupation by summer 1941. The Nazis will be the most powerful state in Europe if not the world.”

  “That is no concern of France,” Etienne said, struggling to hide his own doubts.

  The American sucked on the inside of his cheek. “A Germany of two hundred million people, unlimited resources, an army four to five times the size of the French military.” He leaned toward Etienne, “That should be France’s concern.”

  “The Maginot Line,” Etienne huffed, sounding more confident than he felt. He locked his gaze on the American; it was a standoff even as both understood the danger of a triumphant Hitler looking west.

  Joe finally broke. “Together we can lessen the threat to France. We seek only basic information such as the size of the invasion force and when they will attack.”

  Etienne sniffed. “I am not a spy for communists.” He lifted his head. “The information will find itself to the Kremlin.”

  “Where it goes after I collect it, I do not know.”

  “I cannot ask Lisle to spy.”

  “She is French patriot?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then use all of your diplomatic skill to convince her.”

  Etienne frowned even as he mulled the request. Lisle might enjoy the adventure and he knew she held the Germans in contempt. “And if I do this, what do I get?”

  The American laughed. “A true patriot. The American government rewards those who help it.” He closed one eye at Etienne. “Your new wife, she is accustomed to a lavish lifestyle?”

  The Frenchman did not react. The Americans had been watching him and Fiorenza.

  “We can subsidize her activities,” Joe said. “Remove some of the pressure of keeping a younger woman happy.”

  Etienne wet his lips, knowing his next question was dangerous. “How much?”

  “Forty thousand Francs,” the American said without hesitation. “I am authorized to pay you a portion with your agreement to speak to Mademoiselle D’Estaing.”

  “I agree to speak with her, but there are no guarantees.”

  Joe nodded, then checked his watch. “I need not keep you away from your wife.” He raised his head, chin pointed at the Frenchmen. “The American government appreciates your cooperation.”

  Etienne worked his lips. “I will speak with her.” He squinted. “Our agreement?”

  “An envelope will be waiting for you when you depart. It will include your subsidy and a Paris contact.” He extended his hand. “I doubt we will meet again. I am known to the Germans and Soviets, and we prefer this arrangement remain in the dark.”

  Etienne could not disagree. Laval had his subsidies, mainly from French manufacturing interests seeking contracts, it would not be a problem for his deputy to also receive payment for services. The Americans were no threat. He nodded at Joe and left the room, waiting for the slow elevator to make its way to the fourth floor then hopping aboard and climbing to the fifth floor. He wondered if Fiore
nza would respect the ends he took to keep her happy.

  16

  April 11, 1940

  An assignment. Over a month in Sofia, spent mainly in his hotel suite, Exner Updegrove, future ninth lord of Braxtonshire had been assigned a duty. It was delivered by his friend Kingsley Abbott, who invited him to his embassy office. Coffee, a Turkish brand, was served, which made Exner blanch the moment it touched his lips. Setting it aside, he wiggled in the chintz chair that was reserved for Kingsley’s visitors.

  “The minister requires your special abilities.” His thin lips curled. “Your aristocratic bearings and connections.”

  Exner knew he was being taunted, his friend enjoying as much “aristocratic tendencies.” “I am here,” he said.

  Kingsley lit a cigarette.” Countess Baronyi, part of the old Hungarian royal family has regular soirrees with other exiles. Sofia is filled with them.” He set down his cigarette, face reddening at his misstep. “That is not what I meant.”

  “It doesn’t-,” Exner waved his hand. “My exile is more planned than punitive. I shall return to England. It is a temporary situation.” He sank deeper in his chair with every word.

  “The minister has sought British participation but the baroness has a high sensitivity to title.” He grimaced. “Nobility cannot dirty their hands with mere work.”

  “My hands are clean.”

  “The countess agreed.” Kingsley retrieved his cigarette. “She has issued an invitation because of her familiarity with the family.”

  “My father?” The eighth lord had his share of European connections.

  “Maria.”

  “Maria?”

  “Sh.e speaks highly of Maria.”

  Exner did not ask, Maria’s many contacts giving him a headache.

  “It would be wise to talk of Maria.”

  “Maria.” Many an evening had been consumed on the subject of the Russian princess.

  “Avoid politics at all cost.”

  It was an easy request.

  “Especially Hungarian politics.”

  Exner nodded.

  “The countess blames Bela Kun for the demise of the royal family.”

  “Bela Kun?”

  “The communist who seized power in Budapest and was defeated by Admiral Horthy.”

  Exner’s face crinkled. Balkan politics was beyond his understanding. He nodded, hoping Kingsley would ignore his friend’s confusion.

  “The regent, the current ruler in Budapest.”

  “Horthy,” Exner said. “Of course.” Exner eyed his friend’s cigarette, nerves demanding one.

  “The minister would like you to be an unofficial plenipotentiary, representing the empire at these gatherings. The baroness is key.”

  “I will only talk of the estate, of Sofia, of Maria,” Exner promised. “How did they meet?”

  “You would have to ask Maria or the baroness.” His friend held out a thick envelope, wax seal protecting the papers inside. “Not until you are in your suite.”

  Exner slid the package into his coat pocket and prepared to leave. A motion from his friend stopped him, Kingsley coming from around his desk and easing into the seat beside Exner. “There is another reason for your attendance.” He glanced toward the closed door, head cocked as he continued. “We have a contact in the Hungarian embassy, a Major Koszorus, an adjutant who opposes the regime.”

  “A spy?”

  “A patriot. The major opposes the alliance with Germany. “

  “A communist? In the Hungarian military?”

  “A patriot,” Kingsley repeated. “He wants Hungarian guns turned against the Rumanians, a return of the Transylvania lands and a revival of the Hungarian empire.”

  More Balkan politics. The countess had no worries about her English guest raising issues about the inscrutable region.

  “The major has contacts in the Yugoslav government.”

  Another puzzle wrapped in an enigma.

  “The foreign office fears German influence creating instability and threatening the monarchy.”

  Exner’s face scrunched. He vaguely recalled an assassination, the Yugoslavs never a stable people.

  Kingsley leaned into his friend. “There is the possibility of a military coup, the Croatian Ustashe movement.”

  Exner held out his hands in mock surrender. “I thought you said not to engage in political discussion.”

  “There will be no discussion. The major will offer you an envelope, an invitation to another ball but its contents will contain military information.”

  “Military information? What am I to do with it?”

  “Include it in your report.”

  “Report?” Exner squeaked. “I have to prepare a report?” A night of drinking, dancing and light conversation had taken on a disagreeable odor.

  “It does not matter, just a few notes on who you saw, anything they said seemed of importance. You will include what the major gives you.” Kingsley reached to his desk and finished his cigarette, hand trembling as he flicked ash into the worn Turkish carpet. Kingsley said no attention, pushing from his chair. “I hope this will be pleasant for you.”

  “For king and country,” Exner said, eyes focused on the silver cigarette case. “The eighth lord would be pleased. “

  Kingsley grimaced, knowing full well little pleased Exner’s father. Exiling his only child to an isolated backwater in wartime was the ultimate insult. The two friends parted, Kingsley back to his paperwork that dominated the lives of embassy staff and Exner to his hotel suite in preparation for his evening.

  Tempted to ask questions of others in the embassy to explain the Yugoslav situation, Exner settled on a closer source, Nikac, his valet and chauffer who originated from the Montenegran wild lands. Sleek with a hawk nose, Nikac’s eyes glistened when the lights were extinguished. He escaped his homeland during the Great War as the Serb army retreated to the island of Corfu after their defeat by the Germans and Bulgars. He joined General Sarrail’s Salonika Army and after three malarial years – which had permanently carved excess weight from his frame – then settled in Bulgaria, his old enemy. If anyone could untangle the region’s Byzantine politics, it was Exner’s valet, far more reliable than the Oxford trained experts. Before Nikac could brief him, Exner was confronted with an unwelcome guest.

  News traveled fast in Sofia’s exiled noble community. Word of Exner’s invitation enabling them to fill part of any empty day amidst so many empty days, weeks, months and years. There were the woman ranging from an elderly Polish countess to the lithe Ottoman princess whose dark eyes begged for Exner’s attention, reminding him of the first meeting with Maria. Then came the men, some Russians, Count Federov knowing Maria during his exile years, their lives taking different paths.

  “Maria is our final hope.” The count was younger in years but far ahead in sophistication having run through two dowagers and their fortunes before he was twenty five. At the time he sat in Exner’s receiving room, the count was enjoying the hospitality of a Rumanian woman who was chased from Bucharest by the Iron Guard.

  Exner was enjoying a cigarette and brandy which he had brought with him from England. Talk of Maria was unwelcome, the gossip track among Russian emigres rapid if not entirely accurate. The last thing he wanted was the eighth lord to hear rumors of his son plotting with Maria’s friends.

  “When her father died, it seemed our hope died.” The count’s sallow skin and tightened features added twenty years to him. Most of the former nobility lost their years in the bottle, an early death preferable to a rootless existence with no hope of returning home.

  Exner tried to downplay whatever hope continued. “Maria enjoys England, the riding.” It was the most benign mention he could make of his wife.

  The count had consumed half a bottle in his twenty minutes in the suite and reached for the remainder. “Why are you in Bulgaria.” He swirled the dark liquid in his glass then hissed. “Is it part of her plan?” The alcohol fumes floated from him to Exner.


  “For King and country,” Exner offered. He motioned for Nikac to bring another bottle to distract the count. He succeeded, Maria never to be mentioned while mysterious plots were forgotten. More visitors would follow and Exner would have to wait until Nikac was setting out his clothes that he talked about Yugoslavia.

  “The king is the puppet of the Serbian bastards.”

  Exner made a note, his valet did not like the Yugoslav monarch. A question about the trouble for the king brought a torrent of words that included a familiar one – Ustashe.

  “The Ustashe will kill all the Serbs, it hates all people.”

  The Ustashe were bad, killers. Exner asked the obvious, who would support the Ustashe taking power?

  “The Nazis.” The word was spat out without fear, only loathing. Exner understood the Ustashi were Balkan Nazis.

  The remainder of the conversation explained more about Yugoslavia, much of it sliding over the Englishman’s head. Donning his ceremonial jacket, the family crest situated on the breast, a red sash and black pants with patent leather shoes offered a view that would impress the most jaded woman.

  The countess’ mansion was a tight affair, baroque in its exterior, inside was a Grecian monstrosity, Doric columns surrounded by marble, outsized statues serving as supporting pillars, high ceilinged rooms that made conversation difficult. The entire structure lacked the quiet dignity of the English country manor which was hospitable and understated. Maria hated it, her view of architecture that of the czarist splendor, intended to intimidate their serfs.

  The crowd at the baroness’ represented the fringes of European society. Exner recognizing none of them, even some who had visited earlier. Overall the atmosphere was decrepit, a small orchestra offering waltzes without any takers, brittle bones and addled minds certain to be exposed on the dance floor.

  “Lord Braxtonshire.” The greeting poked at his eardrum and Exner found himself facing a massive woman in height and girth. The countess was in her fifties, dark skin and flashing eyes suggesting gypsy blood. The decollatage, a fiery set of rubies plunging to a bust enhanced by eight births, had Exner catching his breath.