“Would you like me to pour, sir?”
“Thank you, but no, no. I’m sure we can manage, yes?” As he reached for the coffeepot, he watched the prisoner take in his office. There was the mandatory portrait of Hitler over the marble fireplace, topped with a mounted Degen SS saber with an ebony grip. On the mantel was an antique Jean Gille unglazed bisque porcelain figure, with enamel and gilt, of a beautiful woman in repose—The Sleeping Beauty. Next to it stood a Sèvres vase of violet hyacinths. The blossoms gave off a sweet and almost narcotic scent.
A beechwood fire had been lit earlier in the day against the damp spring air, and although the logs had burned down considerably it still crackled. There were red Nazi flags on both sides of the hearth. On a rosewood table, a marble chessboard was set up with a game in progress.
“Would you prefer I call you by your code name?” he asked as he poured steaming coffee with graceful movements. “Or by your real name—Erica Calvert?”
He watched for her reaction. “And do you take sugar or cream? Or both?”
Erica shook her head; von Waltz dropped two sugar cubes and a generous pour of cream into a cup for himself. “Well then, I shall call you Mademoiselle Calvert.”
He blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “You are Erica Grace Calvert, one of Winston Churchill’s secret army of undercover agents, known as the SOE or Special Operations Executive, recruited to ‘set Europe ablaze.’ ”
Erica avoided his direct gaze.
“You were captured in Rouen and held for questioning.”
The agent remained silent.
“And you’re so tiny!” he exclaimed, studying her. “I had no idea when I read your file that you’d be such a tiny little thing—and so young, as well.” From his jacket pocket, he took out a silver case. “Cigarette?”
Erica made a sound halfway between a snort and a mew.
“My colleagues, unfortunately, were not able to obtain any satisfactory answers from you. And so you have been sent to Paris, to me.” He left the case open, placing it on the table between them. “I will ask the questions now, and, as you can see, we can make this a civilized exchange. It is up to you.” He set down his cup and saucer beside the cigarette case. “What were you doing in Rouen, Mademoiselle Calvert?”
“I can’t say,” she managed through bruised lips.
“Plans for sabotage?” von Waltz suggested.
Erica shook her head.
“To whom were you reporting?”
“I can’t say.”
“With whom were you working?”
“I can’t say.”
“Where are the secret stashes of arms and explosives you and your colleagues are bringing over here?”
“I can’t say.”
Von Waltz smiled as he leaned back in his chair and crossed one slim leg over the other. “And how did you enjoy your stay at Arisaig House? I hear the Scottish Highlands are quite beautiful, especially in the autumn.”
Erica’s breathing stilled. There was no way he could know that location—the location of the SOE’s paramilitary training—or that she had trained there in September and October.
“You did quite well with your parachute training at Ringway. And how did you enjoy your time at Beaulieu?” The Obersturmbannführer pronounced it correctly, the English way, bew-lee. Beaulieu was the SOE’s so-called finishing school, where chosen agents were sent for their final round of training. “I hear even in winter, the weather there in the south of England is surprisingly mild.”
“How—how—” Erica stammered.
“We know a lot about you, my darling girl. For instance, how you’ve been leaving off your security checks, hoping your London office will notice and realize you’ve been captured.” He smiled. “Meanwhile, the Baker Street agents have noted your lack of security checks—but scolded that in the future you must be more careful with your coding.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Von Waltz rose and crossed to his massive desk, flipping through pages of her file, picking one out. Walking back, he handed it to her. “ ‘Your 5735 security check acknowledged,’ ” he recited from memory, taking his seat. “ ‘You forgot your double security check. Next time be more careful.’ ”
He studied her face, relishing her expression of abject shock. “You, Mademoiselle Erica Calvert, are in the SOE, specifically in F-Section, prepared for work in France. Specifically, you are part of the Prosper Network, whose leader is Major Francis Alfred Suthill.”
She flinched.
“Ah yes, we have an eye on Major Suthill here in Paris. We haven’t picked him up yet—but we will.”
Not only had she been betrayed, Erika realized, but there was a mole somewhere in SOE. But who? In France? Or in London?
Von Waltz continued. “We have picked up any number of your fellow SOE agents, and we are using them, and their radios, in a little game we are playing with England. Das Englandspiel, as we say in German.” His voice still gentle, he added, “We know how scared you are, Mademoiselle Calvert. You’ve been confessing your fears in your letters home to your father.”
Erica gasped. “How can you know that? There’s no way you can know that!”
Von Waltz ignored her outburst. “Fear in wartime, Mademoiselle—well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But I must speak frankly. Your superior, Colonel Harry Gaskell, has sent you, a woman, here, in direct violation of the Geneva Convention and all the rules of gentlemanly warfare.”
Despite her shock and fear, Erica let out a snort at the Nazi’s hypocrisy.
“You have been sent here against all the rules of war,” the Obersturmbannführer continued. “A woman. In civilian clothes. As a secret agent. To commit acts of terrorism against us. You know what the penalty for that is, yes?”
Erica didn’t reply. Of course she knew. Execution. By firing squad or noose.
“But I am a gentleman. I don’t want you, a woman—a lady—to be sacrificed for the stupidity and rash decisions of your superiors. Your Colonel Gaskell dropped you into a trap—and then stupidly failed to recognize his own security checks, checks his own people had put into place to keep you safe, that were being left off as a warning you’d been captured.”
He stood, crossing the plush Persian carpet. “They think on Baker Street and Orchard Court that we’re bungling, ham-handed Nazi fools.” At his desk, he picked up another file and pulled out another piece of paper.
It was a chart of the SOE hierarchy in London, every name correct. When he handed it to Erica and she realized what it was and how much sensitive information it contained, she felt tears sting her eyes.
“I know you told your little cover story ad nauseam to the SS officers in Rouen, but let’s dispense with it here, shall we, Mademoiselle? I can’t promise you everything, but I can tell you I can save your life. Instead of being executed, you’ll stay here. You will share all the information you know, then work with us on our English radio games. And when the war is over, you will find out who betrayed you—and get your revenge.”
Erica was struggling to process everything von Waltz was throwing at her. His men had captured her in Rouen, but they still didn’t know she’d come ashore on the west coast of France. He didn’t know she had been trained in geology and that she’d been sent to the beaches of Normandy to obtain sand and soil samples.
If he learned the truth, the Nazis would know Normandy was being a considered a possible invasion site. And while the Germans would of course consider Normandy a possible landing point, Calais was the more obvious choice. A soil sample, which would help the engineers know what sort of equipment and tanks to send on whenever the Allies invaded, would be a red flag to the possibility of the Allies using Normandy, shattering the advantage of surprise. They didn’t know and they couldn’t know—not because of her. As long as I can keep that from him….
Von Waltz sat and regarded her smugly. “A terrorist, against the Geneva Conventions—out of uniform, behind enemy lines, seeking to sow seeds of fear
and unrest. A girl terrorist at that. How badly things must be going in England for them to send little girls! They should not have made you come.”
She blinked up at him. “I wanted to come.”
“They should not have let you.”
Like all other SOE agents, Erica had been issued a cyanide capsule, in case of situations such as this. But hers was concealed in a fountain pen in her handbag, which had been confiscated.
“You know there is nothing you won’t tell me when we’re through, Mademoiselle. Save some time—and your beautiful face—and tell us everything you know.”
Erica stared at him in despair, then slumped over in submission.
His smile was cryptic. “Yes, we know everything. Look—give us the location of the British arms and explosives and we’ll forget the rest. Those arrested as a result will be interred until the end of the war. This is an agreement we will make—you and I.”
Erica was silent, broken.
“If this does not happen, the villages around where we think the depots are will be burned. And all of the inhabitants, including your fellow agents, will be killed.
“We are all afraid in this war, Mademoiselle. But now you can free yourself of fears. There’s nothing dishonorable in it. Help us! Give us the location of your agents, weapons, explosives, safe houses. And no one will be hurt. I give you my word, as an officer of the Third Reich.”
Erica peered up at him. “I think I’ll have that drink now,” she whispered.
He clapped his hands together with delight. “Good, good!” he exclaimed, rising and going to the bar cart. He poured two fingers of scotch into a glass, then handed her the heavy tumbler.
She downed it in one gulp, then shuddered. “I will talk to you,” she told him. “I will tell you everything I know. But I’m exhausted. I need to wash. Change my clothes. To eat.”
“Of course.”
“And I’d like my handbag—I have a compact in there. And some lipstick.”
“I’m afraid that’s not permitted. But we can show you to a place where you can freshen up. And I will have a plate prepared for you, for when you are ready, and some good French wine. And after that, we will chat.”
“Yes,” she said, struggling to her feet.
“You’ve made the right decision.” He opened the door and gestured to the two guards outside. “Please take Mademoiselle Calvert to the prisoners’ lavatory and allow her to freshen up. When she is finished, bring her back here.”
The fifth-floor servants’ quarters had a shared bath. The guards admitted her, then stationed themselves outside the closed door. Erica looked around. There was a dirty tub and a ragged towel on a hook. Over the chipped enamel sink was a mirrored medicine chest. She looked inside—nothing but rust on the shelves.
Grimly, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her bruised face grimaced back.
She could break the glass and try to slit her carotid artery—but the guards would hear the crash, and they would stop her before she could achieve her goal. She had already been through days of torture and deprivation. No, she couldn’t take much more. She would break, she knew it. Slowly, she went to the window, opened the curtains, and looked out. From the fifth floor, it was a long drop to the pavement below. No one could survive such a fall.
Striking while her courage still held, she opened the window and crawled out, finding footing on a rain gutter. If she killed herself, the secret of the Normandy sands and soil would die with her. The planned invasion would have a chance. She had confronted death back in Rouen and made her peace with it. She knew what she had to do. Only one thing tormented her: Who was the mole in the SOE? Who’d betrayed her?
The sound she made as her body struck the pavement was swallowed by von Waltz’s bellow of frustrated rage.
BY SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL
Mr. Churchill’s Secretary
Princess Elizabeth’s Spy
His Majesty’s Hope
The Prime Minister’s Secret Agent
Mrs. Roosevelt’s Confidante
The Queen’s Accomplice
PHOTO: © LESLEY SEMMELHACK
SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Maggie Hope mystery series. She is the winner of the Barry Award and was shortlisted for the Edgar, Macavity, Agatha, Dilys, Bruce Alexander Memorial Historical Mystery, and Sue Feder Historical Memorial awards. She lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn, with her husband and son.
susaneliamacneal.com
Facebook.com/MrChurchillsSecretary
@susanmacneal
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