She wondered miserably if her relationship with Philippe — so tender, so precious — was destined to end in discord and pain, just like her marriage.
Ferdinand interrupted Grace’s unhappy deliberations. ‘I see that my little attempt at diversion has not met with success. It is quite clear that you are preoccupied and, if I am not very much mistaken, the subject is love. Ah, I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better,’ he remarked with a sympathetic smile. ‘L’amour is rarely easy, yet without it, what point is there to life?’
CHAPTER THIRTY
As soon as Grace returned to the cabine after the day’s final show, she quickly changed into a green cotton frock with a Chinese collar, reached for her straw hat and, with barely a farewell to the other mannequins, hurried away from the maison. Philippe had said he planned to ask her something of great significance. Whatever it was, Grace wanted to hear it as quickly as possible.
She’d had a largely sleepless night. Grieving for the loss of Reuben — not just the man, but the man she thought she’d known — she had curled up in her lonely bed and wept. It seemed that having abandoned Grace once, he had welcomed the opportunity to do so again. Only this time, his intention was that the separation would be lasting. It was the bitterest of blows.
Grace was worried about Philippe, too. She’d virtually accused him of making only a paltry attempt to find her father, when he’d gone out of his way to help her. There was absolutely no reason why he should expend any more effort.
On edge and fatigued, she stood waiting for him to arrive in front of the Jardin du Luxembourg’s elaborate wrought-iron gates. The long summer night meant a steady flow of Parisians from all walks of life passed her on their way to the famous fountains and gardens inside. She did her best to ignore the men among them who made muttered comments or cast overly appreciative glances in her direction.
Grace was thankful when at last Philippe appeared. He greeted her affectionately enough, but seemed unusually ill at ease.
‘Let’s go in and find a place to sit,’ he said. ‘Somewhere private.’
Philippe took her arm and for a few minutes they walked beneath the manicured rows of lime trees.
‘I think over there would be good,’ he said, pointing to a bench that stood in a secluded corner next to a white marble statue of a former Bourbon queen. As soon as they were seated he announced, ‘I know I have no right, but I want to ask you . . .’
Grace felt as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt. It sounded very much as if Philippe was intent on proposing. If circumstances had been different, she would have been overjoyed, but as it was, she was so unnerved that she clenched her hands with such force the nails bit into her palms. He must not ask her that. If he did, she would be forced to reveal she was married. Then Philippe would know that all the time they’d been together she’d been lying to him. True, he had never asked about her marital status, but it was only natural that he’d made assumptions. If omission was indeed a sin, then she was unquestionably guilty.
‘. . . to spy for France.’
‘To . . . What did you just say?’ Grace asked, dumbfounded.
‘I want to know if you will agree to spy for France.’
She felt simultaneously overwhelmed by enormous relief and crushing disappointment, although both emotions were rapidly replaced by shock. ‘For goodness sake, Philippe, I’m not exactly Mata Hari!’ she said. ‘It has struck you, I suppose, that I’m a fashion mannequin?’
‘I know, I know,’ Philippe held out his hands, ‘and I’ve dreaded asking this of you. I feel even worse now that I have utterly failed to find Reuben, the one thing you begged me to do.’ He put an arm around her shoulders and gently drew her to him. ‘Darling, what I just asked you . . . I have to be honest. If you agree, it could mean putting your life at risk.’
‘My . . . life?’ Grace choked on the word.
‘Yes. Believe me, I wish there was another way. Regrettably, there is not. Many lives — perhaps even the future of Europe — depend on your successful acquisition of a single piece of information.’
‘But why me?’ Grace pulled away. ‘Why would you ask me to do something for which I’m so obviously ill-equipped?’
‘Before I explain that, I’d better tell you the whole story.’
They were interrupted by the shouts of two small, fair-haired boys who’d begun energetically chasing each other around the marble statue.
Philippe frowned. ‘Let’s find somewhere we can talk in peace.’ As he led Grace towards the park’s famous baroque gardens, he asked, ‘Remember that day, by the Seine, when I revealed I was a double agent?’
‘It would be hard to forget, chéri,’ Grace said drily. ‘Not every girl is told something like that by her sweetheart while she’s enjoying a romantic Sunday stroll.’
‘I suppose not.’ Philippe gave her a bashful smile. ‘Anyway, since then things have moved on rapidly. I promised the communist cell I infiltrated that I’d swing the newspaper’s support behind them, and as a result, its members have disclosed their plans.’
‘So now you know what they’re up to?’
‘Exactly. Following his failure to bring Berlin to heel, Stalin has made up his mind that a major, very public act of terror is required here in France. Only in this way can he create the chaotic conditions he needs in order to assert Soviet power over Europe.’ Philippe stopped in front of a tumbling fountain. ‘The local cell is to carry out a political assassination that will make the greatest possible impact.’
Grace stared at him. ‘You mean, General de Gaulle?’
‘Fortunately, the general is safe — at least for now. The Soviets have chosen a target who will better serve their current objectives.’ Philippe lowered his voice. ‘They intend to murder the United States Ambassador David Bruce at the Bastille Day parade.’
‘No!’ Grace’s thoughts flew to his wife, Evangeline. The poor woman would be terrified if she knew.
‘Ambassador Bruce is not only very close to President Truman, he is also one of the key architects of the despised Marshall Plan. But more important to Comrade Stalin is his desire to spark severe American reprisals against France.’ Although Philippe spoke in an even, almost expressionless manner, his set jaw betrayed his inner tension.
‘The communists will use these measures as an excuse to incite the French people to rise up against the current pro-American regime,’ he continued. ‘They are already training cell members in the art of terror and mass agitation.’
Grace was stunned. ‘But what exactly is their aim?’ she asked.
‘To install a communist government in France — one that will do Moscow’s bidding.’
Lost for words, Grace clutched Philippe’s arm.
‘If they succeed, Stalin will grasp Europe in a pincer. He already controls the east; it is trapped behind what Mr Churchill so aptly calls the Iron Curtain. If France falls into Stalin’s hands, he will have a vital stronghold in the west.’
‘What happens then?’
‘The very worst outcome imaginable.’ Philippe frowned. ‘The only way to contain the Soviet Union’s ambitions would be for the United States to unleash its formidable military. The Soviets would be certain to retaliate so . . . Let me put this as simply as possible. If the plot to kill Ambassador Bruce is not stopped, it could very well lead to another world war.’ Philippe placed his hands into his coat pockets and fell silent.
As they walked on, Grace became conscious of the clang made by pétanque balls, the happy cries of children running past with toy sailing boats tucked under their arms, the crunch of gravel beneath the feet of promenading Parisians. These were the sounds made by ordinary people enjoying a way of life that had only recently been restored, yet once more was in peril.
She followed Philippe past cascading jets of sparkling water and the palatial Senate building, until they reached a small stand of trees. Hidden behind was a stone bench from where it was impossible to be seen.
‘The F
rench Interior Minister, Giscard Orly, is the key,’ Philippe said, sitting down.
Grace raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? I’m surprised. Isn’t he rather a bon vivant? I’ve seen his photograph in the odd magazine. He’s quite attractive in a reptilian sort of way.’
‘Our Minister Orly does not only enjoy the high life, he is also secretly in the pay of the Soviet state. As minister for the interior, he is well aware of David Bruce’s security arrangements. Orly has been passing on all the information he has about the ambassador’s schedule to Moscow.’
Philippe’s expression was bleak. ‘We know the attempt on Bruce’s life is to take place on Bastille Day, but only the minister and a Soviet Embassy attaché — in reality, a KGB agent — have the precise details of where and when the hit will be made. Orly keeps the details of the plot in a small safe in his office. If disaster is to be avoided, it is vital the French secret service acquires this information — which is where you come in.’
‘Darling, have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Perhaps I have.’ He looked uncertain as to how to continue. ‘How can I put this? During the war it was common practice for civilians from Allied nations to carry out specialist secret missions on behalf of France. Even today, if the appropriate skills cannot be found among our own ranks, it still happens.’
‘Go on.’
‘Orly has one weakness, and that is for extremely beautiful women of a particular type: tall, glamorous brunettes. In this regard you are, objectively speaking, abundantly well qualified. What is more, you have already come to his attention.’
‘How? Where?’
‘We have been following Orly for some time,’ Philippe said. ‘One evening at the Tour d’Argent, an agent overheard him remark to his male companion that he would do anything to meet, and I quote, “the ravishing woman at the next table”. Our man made inquiries. It turned out the woman was you.’
It was difficult for Grace to comprehend that while she had been blithely dining on foie gras and sipping champagne with the baron, an undercover operation had been taking place in the same exclusive room.
‘I swear I knew none of this when we began seeing each other; the information has only recently been passed on to me,’ Philippe said earnestly.
‘But what is it you actually want me to do?’
‘God knows, I’m sorry to put you in this position.’ He placed his head in his hands. ‘We need you to befriend Orly. The reason he has a duplicate of the assassin’s instructions is so that, in the remote chance anything does go wrong at the Soviet end, he can take over. If this occurrs, they will send him a coded message. If no message is received, there should be no need for him to open the safe. You, however, must. It’s the only way we can discover where, when and by whom the assassination will be carried out.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Grace’s eyes widened. ‘How would I even know where to start?’
‘The combination is changed frequently,’ Philippe continued, ‘and Orly always carries the code somewhere on him.’
‘But I suppose if you arrest him now, the Soviets will be tipped off,’ Grace said.
‘Exactly — the timing is vital. If the security service moves against the minister any sooner than the eve of Bastille Day, or gives any indication that we are aware of what is going on, the plan will simply be altered and the new details left with someone unknown to us — the KGB is never without a fallback.’ Philippe’s voice took on a new urgency. ‘If that happens, we will have no idea which of their operatives has the duplicate information. Any chance of recovering it will be lost.’
Grace slowly nodded. ‘So it’s all down to me. That’s quite a responsibility.’
‘It is also a very great risk. It would be best to consider your answer overnight.’
She watched as two pigeons landed near her feet. Finding no food, they soon fluttered their wings and flew off in search of more promising territory. How fortunate these birds were, she reflected. For them, borders, power and politics meant nothing.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said.
‘Grace, you’re being impetuous! This is a big decision. Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ She felt very calm. Throughout the long years of war she had yearned to do something that mattered, to be like the men risking their lives on the frontline. Here, at last, was her call to action.
‘There is just one problem, though,’ she said, frowning. ‘I don’t know Giscard Orly. How will I meet him?’
‘Actually, that is the easiest aspect of the entire operation.’ Philippe’s face broke into a sly grin. ‘I happen to know where he will be in ten days time.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Minister Orly will be attending Count Étienne de Beaumont’s first post-war folie — the grand masked Ball of the Kings and Queens. And so will we.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘Ma chère, I am delighted to hear you are off to the good count’s grande fête,’ Ferdinand said while visiting the cabine during that brief desertion of the maison’s front door that sufficed for his lunch break. ‘I can assure you,’ he added, carefully unwrapping some thinly sliced ham, an oozing piece of camembert and a hunk of bread, ‘it will be an unforgettable experience.’
Madame de Turckheim wrinkled her nose. ‘Mon Dieu, that cheese certainly has a presence,’ she remarked before turning away from Ferdinand’s pungent repast. ‘Grace, you should be aware that the Count de Beaumont is a close friend of Monsieur Dior — he even designs some of our jewellery — so naturally le patron will be attending. Indeed, I believe he has already paid a visit to Cardin’s atelier. Pierre used to work with us, you know, before he became a theatrical costumier.’
‘The count has been entertaining the beau monde in his mansion at 11 rue Masseran for decades,’ Ferdinand explained. ‘And, not only does he host the crème de la crème of international society, almost alone among his fellow aristocrats, he also invites avant garde artists, writers, painters and performers.’
Ferdinand sipped from a glass of Perrier while he continued Grace’s instruction. ‘Between the wars, de Beaumont became renowned for his masked balls. Let me see if I can remember . . . ah, yes. There was the spectacular Louis XIV Ball, the Fairytale Ball and the Ball of Famous Paintings, although my personal favourite was the Ball of the Sea — who could forget the delicious Maharani of Kapurthala’s remarkable entrance disguised as caviar while being borne aloft on a tray by four men dressed as waiters from the famous fish restaurant Prunier? Or, for that matter, the host’s own appearance in the guise of a horned manta ray? Monsieur le Compte has been described as many things — eccentric, even bizarre — but one cannot fault his dedication.’
Saturday 21 May
At the appointed hour, Grace and Philippe waited in Count de Beaumont’s white and gold entrance hall, as a servant — wearing a pale blue satin tailcoat and breeches, a ruffled shirt, buckled shoes and a grey powdered wig — formally announced his employer’s masked guests, using only the names of the characters whose likenesses they had assumed for the night.
‘Mesdames et messieurs, the Empress Josephine,’ he boomed, as a woman in a filmy, high-waisted pink gown, long white gloves and a magnificent antique diamond tiara floated down the marble staircase.
‘If I’m not mistaken,’ Grace whispered to Philippe, ‘that is the Countess de Ganay. Le patron engaged her only recently to oversee his boutique. It seems that these days it has become fashionable for French aristocrats to earn a living.’
The ‘King of the Roses’ was announced next.
‘Zut! It’s Count Sforza,’ Philippe said, stifling a laugh. ‘Imagine — the man is Rome’s foreign minister and yet he has the appearance of a flower bed. But then, he is Italian . . .’
‘Shhh,’ Grace chided. ‘We’re next.’
‘King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.’
When Grace arrived at the top of the stairs the waiting throng below fell momentarily silent, then burst into applause. She
conducted her descent with the majestic bearing befitting a biblical queen, although she was attired in a manner that, as she overheard a man dressed as Pope Julius II remark, ‘would have successfully tempted Saint Augustine’.
She had elected to wear nothing but a long gold brocade skirt that sat very low on her slim hips, a skimpy jewelled brassiere that barely covered her breasts, heavy gold necklaces, gold earrings and a pair of matching gold cuffs. Encircling her hair, which flowed in dark waves around her shoulders, was the pièce de résistance: a glittering, emerald-studded diadem that served to keep a brace of long white ostrich plumes in place. In contrast to her revealing ensemble, a golden mask concealed her face.
Arm in arm with Grace, Philippe wore black silk robes and a large turquoise turban. Dusky make-up, a full beard and a black mask completed his disguise.
‘You look gorgeous, darling,’ he murmured.
Grace replied with a smile, ‘You don’t look entirely unattractive yourself, considering you’re three thousand years old.’
As soon as the pair entered the glittering salon, they were offered a glass of Cristal champagne by a bare-chested waiter sporting the elaborate headdress of an Aztec princeling. As Grace sipped her drink, she took in the opulent scene: over by the bar, an exotic King of the Gypsies with a bandolier slung across his chest was deep in conversation with Alexander the Great and a redheaded Virgin Queen; in a corner, three Napoleons were laughing at their own lack of originality; and at one of the windows, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was attempting to disentangle his cloak from the wings of a spangled Fairy Queen.
Philippe observed wryly, ‘It is all very well to celebrate the end of austerity, but just look at these people — they seem entirely oblivious to the world around them. Here they are, dancing on the edge of a precipice. It is not difficult to understand why the communists despise the ancien régime.’
The Paris Model Page 17