“Actually…” Laycock began. “Your agent, a Miss Margaret Hope, is in Paris now, looking for her sister—with your personal blessing?”
The P.M. looked to David. “Gimme scotch.” David took Churchill’s glass, then went to the bar cart at the end of the room and did as he was bidden.
“She’s a bit…undisciplined…from what I hear, sir,” Laycock remarked. “Colonel Gaskell has mentioned his doubts. Miss Hope’s flight to Paris was certainly, shall we say, impetuous.” He arched an eyebrow. “If I may suggest—”
“Yet another female?” Menzies’s phlegmatic face finally showed expression. “One of the most important pieces of information we need to plan the invasion, and you’re sending a woman—?”
“Miss Hope is one of the best agents we have!” the P.M. growled. “Used to work for me, you know! Damn fine girl. Patriot. Amazonian warrior!”
At this, David permitted himself a small smile. He’d been friends with Maggie Hope and was the one who had brought her on as the P.M.’s secretary, back in the summer of 1940. She’d saved his life during a kidnapping plot. He and Maggie had become even closer as she’d risen through the ranks of SOE, and as they both fought their own demons. If he hadn’t been “like that” he probably would have married her, but, as things were, David thought of her as a sister.
“All right then, let’s say we’re theoretically going to make Normandy our invasion landing point”—at the Prime Minister’s words, the assembled men stilled; history was being made—“but we first need those sand samples—we need to customize our tanks depending on the ratio of sand to clay. I’m making that a priority.” A twitch began beneath Churchill’s left eye. “And I won’t have MI-Six and SOE squabbling—we’re all on the same side, damn it!”
David had seldom seen “the Boss” so frustrated. When battling Nazis, the P.M. was pugnacious. But today he looked as if SOE and MI-6’s internal strife was taking a toll.
“Make a note, Mr. Greene—we need someone to coordinate the clandestine services—to supervise the invasion and all of the counterinformation coming into and going out from SOE, MI-Six, and MI-Five. We need someone who can maintain absolute secrecy, has a certain fanatical enthusiasm, and complete reliability. ‘Appointed Controlling Officer for Deception’—yes,” the P.M. decided with a self-satisfied nod, as if picturing the title in his head. “That’s what we’ll call him.”
Laycock looked to David. “Ring Colonel Henrik Martens, he’s exactly the chap for it. Just back from clandestine SOE work in Norway. Injured in Operation Archery in the raid against German positions on the island of V?gs?y.” He turned to Menzies. “All right with you?”
As the clock on the mantel chimed, Menzies nodded.
“Splendid!” The Prime Minister rose with effort; the other men scrambled to their feet. “Our highest purpose is to deceive the enemy about our intentions. We’ll need to perpetrate the most important lie in history—where the Allied attack will not be.”
Churchill looked to Menzies and Laycock. “SOE and MI-Six will work with our Controlling Officer for Deception to prepare ruses and shams, causing our enemy to waste military resources. You’re not limited to strategic deception only but will need to mislead and mystify the enemy at every turn.
“In other words,” the Prime Minister continued, making his way back to his private office in his inimitable rolling gait, “we need to use every dirty trick in the book to bugger those Hun bastards!”
—
Outside the Charcots’, the slate pavement was a glossy silver from the rain; Maggie’s and Jacques’s silhouettes reflected up from a puddle. Maggie’s heart was in her throat, excitement and fear fizzing together. She held out a palm, looking up to the sky—half shimmering blue, half covered in dark clouds.
Jacques stood by Maggie’s pile of luggage, panting. “Do you really need all of this?”
“Yes, I do,” she assured him. “Some of us have guns and grenades—others, haute couture.” Looking around, Maggie absorbed the beauty that was Paris after a rain shower. There was a warm, fragrant breeze, with only the slightest hint of a chill. She took a deep breath to compose herself, as church bells tolled the hour in the distance. “Après l’ondée,” she said over the deep-toned gongs, surprised to find herself so affected by the sound.
“What?”
Her lips twitched in a nervous smile. “Après l’ondée. It’s a perfume—Guerlain—I used to wear. It smells like violets, cold rain, and warm sunshine. I never thought about the name before, not really, but Paris truly does smell wonderful after a shower.”
“Paris smells good these days because there aren’t any cars anymore. No petrol, so no more pollution. If you have a bicycle or decent shoes, it’s not so bad—but forget getting anywhere in a hurry.”
Maggie realized he was right—there were no automobiles in sight and there were no sounds of traffic, even in the distance. The only noises were the coos of pigeons and the swish of a broom as a man in denim coveralls swept water and bits of trash and yellow pollen from the gutters to the sewer grille.
No time to be afraid. “Wait,” she said, eyeing her pile of luggage. “If there aren’t any taxis, how am I going to move my things?”
Jacques gave her a sly grin, and, at that moment, what looked like a wheeled rickshaw turned the corner. He whistled and stuck out one hand to wave the driver down. “Vélo-taxi,” he explained as the man, small but wiry, with yellowish white, greasy hair topped by a Basque beret, pulled up. He grimaced, revealing a steel tooth.
As the driver wrestled Maggie’s trunk into the back, Jacques offered his hand to help her step up into the contraption. “Look, I know you’ve done this type of thing before, this work, but never in France. Never in Paris.”
Jacques gave her a sudden, intense look, as if taking a mental picture to recall someday. Maggie adjusted her hat and smoothed her gloves, determined to look calm. “Any advice?”
He leaned in close. “It’s the only rule you’ll need while you’re here,” he whispered, mirth gone from his eyes. “Easy to remember: Trust no one. Nothing is clear here. Everything is shadows.” He straightened and slapped one hand on the side of the vélo-taxi, letting the driver know she was in and ready. “Never forget that.”
He brushed Maggie’s cheek with his fingers. “Merde alors,” he said, the phrase agents used instead of good luck. Then, as the vélo-taxi pulled away from the curb, Maggie turned to watch as Jacques stuck his hands into his leather jacket pockets, tucked his head down, and stalked away with a long, loping stride. When he turned a corner and disappeared, she felt an unexpected jab of disappointment.
“Where to, mademoiselle?” the driver asked, as he strained at the pedals. With the extra heft of all the luggage, in addition to the weight of a passenger, he was already beginning to pant.
Maggie forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Why, the H?tel Ritz, of course!”
—
The man stood at a microphone, veins in his forehead bulging, perspiration glistening on his face, working himself into a fevered rage.
“…the hidden forces which incited England already in 1914 were Jews! The force which paralyzed us at that time and finally forced us to surrender with the slogan that Germany was no longer able to bear homeward a victorious flag, came from the Jews! It was the Jews who fomented the revolution among our people and thus robbed us of every possibility at further resistance!”