“But of course it does. I heard something about the little incident this afternoon. Did you have a cognac? So good for steadying the nerves.” Margot shook her head. “But they took care of your poor hand?” She saw the bandage. “So uncivilised of them. I’ll tell Spatzi—I mean Herr Dinkslager, when I talk to him next. That is not the way he behaves with my protégées, not if he wants a new frock for his wife.”
She came across and picked up Margot’s bandaged finger. “You must do what they say, ma chérie. We have to play along with them if we want to survive. I gather they want to send you home. Please don’t be noble. Do what they ask, and you’ll be safe and with your family.”
Margot nodded. She had a horrible feeling that she might break down and cry if she opened her mouth to speak. Madame Armande being kind to her was a last straw when she had been at the breaking point for hours.
Armande picked up the phone and calmly ordered smoked salmon, a bottle of Chablis, and a large cognac. Then she replaced the receiver and smiled at Margot. “All will be well,” she said.
“How can it?” Margot said bleakly.
Armande came over and put an arm around Margot’s shoulder. “He is very noble, that Gaston of yours. A credit to France.”
“What do you mean?” Margot looked up sharply. “He let them torture me. Do you call that noble?”
Armande smiled. “He will not betray the Resistance, whatever happens. I heard what he said about you. That you were nothing to him. I know men, ma chérie. I have been with a great many men. He was making sure they left you alone.”
“Making sure?” Margot said angrily. “He said they could chop me into little pieces for all he cared.”
“But, naturally.” Armande gave that very Gallic shrug. “Don’t you see? That was the only way to let you go. If he did not care one iota about you, then torturing you could have no effect on him. And it also had an added benefit in that it made you agree to do what the German schemers wanted. Now you will be their puppet.”
Margot looked up at her suspiciously. “You seem to know an awful lot. You’re working secretly with them, I suppose?”
“Darling, I don’t work with anybody,” Armande said. “But I am Spatzi’s mistress, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. How else do you think I live at the Ritz and come and go as I please? And yes, I confess I was part of that little drama when you were first brought in. But only because I cared about you and wanted you to stay alive.”
“Then you’ll know what they want me to do in England?”
Gigi Armande shrugged. “Not exactly. I don’t expect you will be told until you have contacted the right person over there.”
“But they will want to use my position in society to kill somebody, don’t you think? Somebody important. A member of the royal family, maybe?”
Armande shrugged again. “I tell you in all honesty that I do not know. But I do say that you must pretend to go along with them, until the very last.”
“I never could have saved Gaston, could I?” Margot asked in a small voice.
“Highly unlikely, I admit,” Armande answered.
Margot’s suspicions were confirmed when she was taken to a shooting range the next day. She had been on pheasant shoots and was actually a good shot, but she tried to appear awkward and clumsy with a gun. Anything to give her time.
“You must do better, fräulein,” the German officer in charge of her said.
“I’m afraid it still hurts me to hold a gun,” she said. “You’ll have to wait for my finger to heal.”
“There is no time to wait,” he said. “You are needed over there for an immediate assignment. Now try again. We are not leaving until you have hit the centre of the mark five times in a row.”
More intense days had followed. More things to be memorised. Code words to be understood. And veiled threats made. She would be watched at all times. Her family would be watched. She had no idea how many agents were now working in Britain, but she would be doing a good thing for her countrymen. The conclusion was inevitable. The invasion would happen. But she could speed it along and save Britain from more misery.
Then, on the third day, she had just returned from her training and Gigi was still out at her salon when there was a hammering on the door. She opened it, and two strange German officers strode in.
“Fräulein, you will come with us immediately,” one said in clipped English. “We have a car waiting.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You do not ask questions.” The man shouted at her, grabbed her arm, and shoved her forward. She walked between them along the hall and down the stairs. Other German officers passed them and saluted or nodded politely. Outside was a waiting black Mercedes. One of them opened the back door for her. “Get in.”
She climbed into the backseat. The two officers got into the front, and they drove off. Margot swallowed down her fear. Were they going back to Gestapo headquarters on Avenue Foch? Or had they decided she was no use to them after all, and she was being taken to be executed? She tried to stop her knees from trembling.
They were driving away from the centre of Paris. Light was fading as they passed through suburbs. So far, nobody had said a word. Then one of the men turned to the other.
“That went rather well, don’t you think?” he asked in upper-class English.
The other man turned back to Margot and smiled. “It’s all right. You can relax now. We’ve passed the first hurdle.”
“You’re not Germans?” she asked.
“Actually, we’re special ops, sent to get you out,” he said.
“But the car, the uniforms?” she asked.
“Belong to two poor chaps who had been drinking at a bar late last night.”
“Where are they now?”
“Buried under a log pile.”
“Dead?”
“I’m afraid so. It is war. And they wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you. Now there’s a dark rug in the back. If we get stopped at a checkpoint, you duck down on the floor with the rug over you, and for God’s sake, don’t move.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the Channel, where we hope a speedboat will be waiting. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m all right,” she said.
“I should think so, living at the Ritz,” the other man said. He had a trace of northern accent, not quite as posh as the one who had first spoken to her. “Why did they take you there?”
“Gigi Armande was watching over me.”
“You’re damned lucky you didn’t wind up at Gestapo headquarters.”
“I’ve been there a couple of times,” she said, and gave an involuntary shudder.
“And came out again. Not many people can say that. You must be worth more to them alive than dead.”
“They wanted to use me to get Gaston de Varennes to talk,” she said carefully.
“And did he?”
“No.”
“Of course not. So it’s lucky we came to get you now. Your time was distinctly limited.”
They drove on.
“Might I know your names?” Margot asked.
“No names. Safer that way.”
Night fell, and they drove through darkness, passing through small towns where there was little sign of life. Then after about an hour, there was the checkpoint they had feared.
“Get down,” one of the men hissed. Margot curled as small as she could with the blanket over her. The car came to a halt.
“Your papers, please, Herr lieutenant,” a sharp voice demanded.
Margot heard the rustle of paper. Then: “What is your mission here?”
One of the men responded in perfect German. “A message direct from Berlin to be delivered only to General von Heidenheim in Calais.”