The Paris Model

by Alexandra Joel

  ‘Let your hair down.’

  Grace removed the jewelled pin and shook her dark curls free.

  Orly kept his glittering, cobra eyes fixed on her. ‘Now take that off,’ he said, pointing to her brassiere.

  Grace slowly unfastened the scrap of black silk and let it fall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Giscard Orly sat slumped in his over-large Napoleonic chair. His eyes were shut, his head with its swept-back, brilliantined black hair hung limply to one side and a small trail of drool spilled from the corner of his lower lip. Grace bent over the slumbering man. She would have to search him.

  Stealthily, she inserted one hand into Orly’s right trouser pocket. Then, to her horror, she heard a faint scraping sound. It was a key turning in a lock.

  ‘Security!’ a harsh voice announced.

  Grace had just enough time to adopt an orgasmic expression and, despite her revulsion, to press Orly’s face against her bare breasts. Beams of light bounced off the gold and white panelled walls. A moment later, a uniformed guard appeared, wielding a torch. In the flickering half-light his features were grotesque; he might have been one of Notre-Dame’s gargoyles.

  Despite her hammering heart, Grace forced herself to continue her masquerade. As a consequence, it was not a shocked and embarrassed Grace Woods but Mademoiselle Dubois, near-naked courtesan, who produced an impudent wink.

  Thank God, she thought, the minister’s penchant for nubile young women was widely known.

  ‘Excusez-moi,’ the guard muttered with a barely suppressed smirk. He hurriedly retraced his steps and left, closing the door behind him.

  Grace released Orly, whose head flopped back against the chair. She remained where she was, though, listening intently until she heard the footsteps fade away. Only when she was certain of the silence did she return to her search. She gingerly felt around the pocket. It was empty. Willing herself to remain calm, she turned her attention to another pocket.

  As Grace felt the folded piece of paper, she knew this time fortune had smiled. Grasping it between her thumb and forefinger, she cautiously eased it out. Orly coughed and she jumped, almost dropping the paper. Again she waited, tense and motionless. When his even, sonorous breathing resumed, Grace triumphantly held the piece of paper up to the light.

  The code was — no! She couldn’t believe it. The only thing written down was her own name and the telephone number of Maxim’s. Her elation faded as quickly as it had arrived. She had no choice but to keep searching.

  Her frustration mounted as, methodically, she continued to explore Orly’s coat. She located his wallet, a small silver pen, a tortoiseshell comb, an initialled handkerchief and a slim leather diary. There was nothing else. Then her hand closed over a piece of card tucked behind a loose corner of lining. Grace drew it out slowly. Here, at last, was the safe’s combination.

  As Philippe had promised, having memorised the diagrams and practised with an identical safe, she could perform her next task in the dark — which was just as well, as, save for the illumination provided by a single desk lamp, the room was dim. She couldn’t turn on any more lights for fear of waking Orly. Instead, she reached up and cautiously removed the Corot landscape. There, flush against the wall, was the safe.

  Grace tucked her loose hair out of the way, behind her ears. Focus, she told herself. She tried to steady her breathing, to keep her hand perfectly still. All the same, her fingers quivered as she spun the black dial once to the left, stopping at the number four. Two rotations to the right and then a stop at seven came next, followed by a final three spins to the left, until the dial rested on a nine. She heard a gratifying click. The door swung open.

  ‘Dammit,’ she whispered under her breath as one of her diamond earrings fell to the floor. After a quick look at Orly, she swiftly picked up the sparkling clip and reattached it. There was no time to lose. She had to examine the safe.

  Inside were several leather boxes, two passports, various documents and a thick pile of cash. But there was just one unsealed envelope. A glance at the single sheet of paper it contained was enough to confirm that here were the assassin’s instructions, written in the minister’s own hand.

  She turned towards the Coromandel screen and slipped the envelope into her handbag. Only then did it occur to Grace that she was still wearing nothing but her briefs, corset and stockings. Her brassiere was resting where it had dropped on the ministerial desk. Grace snatched it up and put it on, rapidly followed by her dress.

  Then, with her heart racing, she returned to the safe, quietly closed the door, spun the dial and rehung the Corot. Finally, she inserted the card bearing the safe’s combination back into its hiding place behind the loose lining in Orly’s jacket.

  Grace gave a sigh of relief. Hopefully, it would not be until many hours later that the traitorous minister would wake up from his drug-induced sleep, confident that the Soviets’ plan was secure. He’d feel confused and unwell, but would simply assume he had overindulged. Just in case he became concerned by gaps in his memory, she scribbled a hasty note and left it on his desk: Giscard, what a man you are! The evening was unforgettable. Mademoiselle D.

  Warily, she poked her head out into the corridor. All was still and quiet. With her shoes in one hand and her handbag in the other, she walked noiselessly towards the front door. She had nearly reached the entrance hall with its dour ministerial portraits when she stopped. She’d seen a flash of light.

  It must be that vile security man doing another circuit of the floor. Grace looked around. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to seek shelter. Then she saw a door — painted the same colour as the wall. Hoping desperately that it would not lead towards danger, she hurriedly stepped inside.

  Grace shut the door behind her. She was in darkness. Suddenly, there was a crash as something hit her leg. Groping about in the dark, she realised she had collided with a tin bucket. She ran her hand up one wall and then another as she searched for a light switch, finding a row of small levers. Praying the one she selected was not a master switch that would suddenly illuminate the entire building — and bring the guard straight to her hiding place — she pressed down the first of the line. The single bulb above flickered weakly into life. Listening intently, she waited for the sound of running feet. She heard nothing.

  Grace was standing in what appeared to be a large cleaners’ closet. Overalls hung from hooks along one side; a mop and broom were propped in the corner; the shelf opposite contained various soaps, brushes and cloths.

  Grace turned off the light. Then, very slowly, she opened the cupboard door by the smallest of margins.

  ‘It’s two o’clock,’ she heard the security guard say. ‘So you’re on until ten.’

  Then another man. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m on a double shift,’ the guard grumbled. ‘Still, the money’s good. The boss is in a bit of a panic over Bastille Day. Wants one of us at the front door from now on. We can take it in turns till the cleaners get here at nine. No one else is expected. The minister is in, by the way, but I wouldn’t go disturbing Romeo if you know what’s good for you.’ The man sniggered. ‘He’s fully occupied.’

  Grace heard the screech of a chair being pulled over to the front door. Peeping out, she could see that the same security guard who had burst into Orly’s office had settled himself by the entrance with several newspapers and a thermos flask.

  She was trapped. Grace shut the door and sank to the floor. I should have known it wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed, she berated herself. How on earth could I have thought that managing to pass myself off as a fashion mannequin was going to equip me to steal enemy secrets?

  She hugged her knees to her chest while she considered her options. If she left her cramped sanctuary and tried to find an alternative way out of the building, she risked running into the second man. But she couldn’t leave by the front door without passing the security guard stationed there.

  Grace’s mind raced. She considered, and rejected, hal
f a dozen increasingly desperate, far-fetched plans. Then she went through them again. There was one idea that had a slim possibility of success. All she had to do was to assume yet another persona.

  Grace removed her dress. It was for the second time that night, she thought wryly — at least being a mannequin had prepared her for slipping in and out of her clothes at a moment’s notice. She turned on the light again and pulled on a pair of the overalls, followed by the smallest plastic shoe covers she could find among the row on the floor.

  Grace put the official French credential into the overalls’ only pocket. She squashed her jewellery, shoes, dress and handbag into the metal bucket, then rubbed off as much make-up from her face as she could with one of the cleaning cloths. She placed another, larger cloth over her hair and tied it under her chin. It wasn’t exactly an Hermès headscarf, but at least it suited her purpose. Finally, she turned off the light. There was nothing else to do — except wait.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Thursday 14 July

  It felt as if she had been in the cupboard all night, yet when she checked the time on her wristwatch, it was still only half-past three in the morning. Four came and went, then five. Grace tried to ignore the occasional noise she heard outside. If only she could remain undiscovered, perhaps she could still save the American ambassador’s life. She was terribly tired, couldn’t remember ever feeling so weary. No matter how hard she willed herself to stay awake, her eyelids kept fluttering shut.

  Grace blinked. I’ll just have one more look, she thought, dragging open her eyes. She started in horror. It was nearly nine o’clock. Springing to her feet, her heart beating rapidly, she opened the door by a couple of centimetres, and listened.

  Nothing. Now she craved noise, action, people. She needed bustle and she needed workers to arrive. Then, at five past nine, she heard the chair by the entrance screech as it was dragged back to its proper place. This was followed by the sound of the front door being unlocked and pushed open. At last, there was a laugh, an exchange of greetings — ‘Joyeux quatorze juillet’ and ‘Bonne fête nationale’ — then the clatter of several pairs of feet walking down the hall.

  Grace slipped out of the closet, carrying the bucket and a mop, her collar turned up, head down, the cloth scarf pulled forward.

  ‘You’re keen,’ a woman with a guttural accent said.

  ‘Got in early,’ Grace muttered. ‘They’ve asked me to mop the footpath outside, it being the national holiday. All right for some,’ she added gruffly.

  Still hanging her head and with a forbidding scowl on her face, she passed unhindered by the lecherous security guard and shuffled through the door.

  She was very nearly free. But would she be too late? Pushing the mop in front of her, Grace walked as fast as she could without arousing suspicion. It was midsummer and the day was already hot. She felt the sun on her neck, a trickle of perspiration run down her back.

  At the corner, Grace peered around furtively. Nobody paid her any attention. She was used to being gazed at, admired, even ogled — now she was grateful that thanks to her disguise, she was close to invisible. After one last look, she swiftly escaped down the side street. She was out of sight at last, and there, chained to a railing, was Philippe’s motorcycle.

  Fumbling inside the bucket, she located her handbag and grabbed the keys. Yet, when she tried to unlock the bike, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Grace forced herself to concentrate. She thought about the men and women who had fought with Philippe in the Resistance. They had faced perilous situations over and over again. She had just this one task to complete.

  Grace undid the lock. She flipped open one of the bike’s panniers and threw in the contents of the bucket before hoisting herself onto the powerful machine. She revved the engine, pulled away from the kerb. As she roared down the street, she felt her nerves subside. Her sole remaining fear was that she would not reach David Bruce in time.

  Grace accelerated hard as she drove into avenue d’Iéna, then came to an abrupt stop in front of the ambassador’s grand residence. She hurled herself off the bike, pushed it against a wall and ran to the front door, where a massively built US marine blocked her way.

  ‘I have to see Ambassador Bruce.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, no one gets in without the proper authority.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have it right here.’ She plunged her hand inside her overalls’ single side pocket only to find it empty. She groaned. The rush of wind during her reckless motorcycle ride must have blown the desperately needed credential away. ‘I’m sorry, it’s gone,’ she said. ‘But you must understand. I have a top-secret, urgent message for the ambassador. It’s a matter of life and death!’

  The marine began to laugh. ‘Pardon me, ma’am, but from the look of you I’d say you’re most likely in charge of a broom, not top-secret material. I guess this must be a fourteenth of July joke, sort of like our April Fools’ Day.’

  He was still chuckling as the front door swung open. When two officials wearing pinstripe suits strolled out, Grace saw her chance. She sprinted inside, with the now furious guard in close pursuit.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ he called, hurling himself in her direction. Grace was no match for the enormous man. He clamped one hand on her arm and blew a whistle with the other.

  While Grace struggled to free herself, she saw several hard-faced men wearing dark suits rapidly approaching. Boiling with frustration, she could see no hope of escape when, from the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a tall elegant woman with hooded eyes.

  ‘Mrs Bruce!’ she cried.

  For a moment, the woman paused, before an escort began hurrying her towards the front door.

  ‘These agents are going to question you,’ the marine growled at Grace.

  ‘No bloody way!’ she exploded.

  Mirage-like, Mrs Bruce’s face appeared before her eyes. ‘Please, gentlemen, you can release this woman. I know her,’ she said, turning towards Grace. ‘Miss Dubois, I didn’t recognise you at first in that . . . what is it, fancy dress? But when I heard you call out — well, I couldn’t mistake the accent. What on earth is going on?’

  Grace quickly explained the problem.

  ‘My God!’ Mrs Bruce’s eyes filled with horror. ‘David has already left.’

  ‘He’s gone?’

  ‘Why yes, some time ago. He should be with the French President on the podium at the Place de la Concorde by now. In fact, the parade will reach them in less than twenty minutes. I was planning to join David later, when the aerobatic display began.’

  ‘Look, I have a motorbike outside,’ Grace said. ‘I’d better leave straight away.’

  Mrs Bruce shook her head. ‘You don’t have a hope of making it through. There’s security everywhere and they’ll never let you past the barricades. If only we could make contact!’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The entire phone exchange has gone down. Since the war, it’s been held together by Scotch tape and blind faith. Hell, why did it have to happen today of all days?’

  ‘Sounds more like sabotage to me,’ Grace said with alarm, acutely aware that as every minute passed, the threat to the ambassador’s life grew closer. ‘There must be something I can do!’

  ‘I have a diplomatic pass with photo ID that will at least get me through any checkpoints,’ said Mrs Bruce. ‘But with the traffic the way it is, if we go in an embassy car, it will take far too long.’

  ‘Looks like the bike is the best bet, after all,’ Grace said.

  Mrs Bruce nodded. ‘As long as I come with you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Grace regarded the ambassadress with a dubious expression. She was patriotically attired in the colours of France — which also happened to be those of the United States — in a blue Dior dress with a wide white collar and double cuffs. On her head was a pert blue pillbox hat trimmed with long scarlet ribbons.

  ‘Don’t worry about the outfit,’ Mrs Bruce said. ‘I know how to handl
e myself on a motorbike.’

  Grace grinned. ‘In that case, let’s go!’

  Like a film running at double speed, everything that happened next seemed to acquire a faster pace. Grace bolted out of the residence and flung herself on the motorcycle. After a quick word with her protesting security detail, Mrs Bruce followed close behind. The two women sped out of avenue d’Iéna; Grace gripped the handlebars as Mrs Bruce clutched Grace, her hat’s scarlet ribbons streaming behind her.

  Pont de l’Alma, Pont des Invalides . . . one ornate bridge after another flew by. As Grace raced down avenue de New York, the sparkling river, the poplar trees and the urns filled with bright summer flowers became one indistinguishable blaze.

  Thanks to Mrs Bruce’s official pass, the pair were waved through each new section of road — Cours Albert 1er, then Cours de la Reine. But as they passed the steel and glass domes of the elaborate Grand Palais, Grace felt a tap on her shoulder.

  ‘Only twelve minutes left!’ Mrs Bruce yelled.

  They were approaching another road block. There was no time to stop. Ignoring the gesticulating officials, Grace swerved to the right. The bike began to lose traction: if she didn’t act quickly, they were sure to crash. She leant over to one side and Mrs Bruce did the same. Instead of slowing down, Grace opened the throttle and accelerated hard. There was the smell of rubber burning. The two women braced themselves. They felt the bike shudder, heard its tyres scream. Then, a split-second later, it was upright and they were speeding forward again, albeit chased by a car filled with several angry policemen.

  ‘Are you okay, Mrs Bruce?’ Grace yelled over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, but I think under the circumstances you should call me Evangeline.’

  ‘Where’d you learn about bikes?’

  ‘London, in the war. I was with the OSS.’

  ‘What?’ Grace shouted.

  ‘It’s got a new name — CIA.’

  As they skidded to a stop beside l’Orangerie, Evangeline leapt off and grasped Grace’s hand. ‘It’s over to you now,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain everything to those gendarmes.’