By now SOE would know that her mission was in play. The knock at the door came again. Few knew where she lived, so she couldn’t imagine who could be calling at three in the afternoon. Maybe Walter had sent something for her birthday?
Lisette opened the door and instantly felt cold tendrils of fear reaching down from her chest and squeezing themselves around her gut. But she betrayed nothing other than an enquiring smile. Snapping to attention before her was a man in the familiar green uniform of the Wehrmacht. He was young, his boots polished, his freckled face rosy and scrubbed to a gleam.
‘Yes?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Corporal Otto Freyberg from the ministry. I work for Colonel Kilian.’
‘Markus,’ she whispered in a gust of relief.
He blinked at her use of his superior’s first name. ‘Are you Mademoiselle Lisette Forestier?’
‘I am. Is something wrong?’
‘The colonel asked me to deliver this to you, mademoiselle,’ he replied.
It was only then she noticed the box in his hands and the bag beneath it.
‘Oh … What’s this?’
‘I am simply the courier,’ he replied with a grave expression.
She nodded, bemused. ‘Thank you, Corporal Freyberg.’
Lisette could hear his boots clomping all the way down to the front door. Her neighbour below stepped out and looked up the narrow staircase. ‘Are you all right, Lisette?’
‘Yes, Sylvie. Sorry to disturb you.’ She assumed her new neighbour must work shifts; she’d once mentioned going for an interview at the telephone exchange. She was beautiful with a wide mouth that gave generous smiles, while her dark eyes held a hint of mystery. They were on cordial terms, but Lisette had found Sylvie to be a little too curious for her liking.
‘It’s lucky you did,’ Sylvie said with a yawn. ‘I had to get up anyway.’
Lisette waved her farewell and eagerly carried her parcels inside. Something clunked heavily in the bag and she couldn’t resist checking it first. She gasped softly. It was the unmistakable white box of Chanel No. 5 perfume. In fact, there were two Chanel boxes. She dared not touch either but just stood, staring at the gift that prompted a score of thoughts at once and a dozen sensations, ranging from terror at the expense of this gift, to joy at understanding they were for her.
Finally, she lifted the boxes out of the plain brown bag as though carrying treasure. The first contained the square bottle of perfume, reminiscent of a whisky decanter that she remembered from her childhood. Once, while in a perfumery together, her mother had pointed out the Chanel brand and told her daughter it was the one to look forward to when she grew up; even dabbed some on her tiny wrist. As if in a dream, Lisette opened the black lid and inhaled the amber liquid. The fragrance instantly transported her back to childhood, to happier, more plentiful times, when her mother’s infectious laugh rang through the house.
The extrait was intoxicating. A helpless grin claimed her. The second box contained something even harder to believe. Soap! Not just the real thing but waxy white and exquisitely perfumed to give her a moment of pure rapture. She couldn’t imagine what Kilian had paid for it, and dared not try.
Her gaze drifted treacherously to the plain white box. She could guess what it contained. It took her a full five minutes of internal battle to find the courage to lift the lid. Finally she decided that if Kilian was choosing to shower her with gifts … so be it. London wanted her to become his companion, and to do so meant to accept his favours, no matter how corrupt it was when people in Paris were starving.
It was no ordinary dress, of course – it was a gown. And it was so beautiful to behold that she backed away from it initially, too overcome to touch it straightaway. But she did eventually reach for the fabric, a black silk chiffon, and lifted the dress from the confines of the box. The silk lining rustled deliciously as the gown loosened from its billowy folds. She stared at the gorgeously unfussy design – even Coco Chanel would have approved: a thick halter neck to flatter her shoulders, slightly ruched around the bust but with a fitted bodice that would hold her in figure-hugging style. Achingly simple, black as night, exquisitely stylish and undoubtedly breathtakingly expensive. Lisette realised it would also reveal plenty of skin. It was the sort of dress that movie stars would wear with a fur coat to a premiere. She barely spared a glance for the sheer stole that accompanied the dress and which had probably cost another small fortune.
Kilian wanted her to wear it for him, she kept telling herself. Even so, her mind was in turmoil. She laid the dress down on her bed and sat beside it, feeling numb. What was she to do? What would Buckmaster say? What would Vera say? She nodded, already knowing. She was playing a role now. People were counting on her to give the performance of her life because maybe something she did could help to save lives.
So she would wear Kilian’s dress, and she would wear his perfume – neither was a hardship – and she would permit him to become her lover, because that was what was required of her. Others risked their lives daily to tap out Morse messages or pick up arms and fight with the Maquis – and some, like her, were required to use other attributes.
Lisette picked up her soap with a fresh resolve and walked into the cubby that served as her bathroom.
Kilian had been unsettled through Monday; he knew why but was determined not to acknowledge it; seven p.m. would come soon enough. In the meantime he had a meeting with senior clerics about their ceremonies for Pentecost. He tried not to dwell on the frustrating pointlessness of his role. He’d brought it on himself, after all. Perhaps within the priesthood he might find some answers to his own doubts about the war.
He knew that among the clergy were many troubled men whose consciences kept them awake at night. Like him, they searched for ways to wage their own private war against the atrocities foisted on innocents. But for every man who resisted, there were nine others who acquiesced to the regime, and a surprising number who privately supported the extermination of the Jewish people, the Roma, homosexuals, the disabled and the mentally ill.
He shook his head clear of his burdens and reached for a piece of writing paper. Without thinking, he began to pen a letter to Ilse, the woman he’d left behind in Germany almost six years ago. They had communicated only once in that time, during the first year of the war. Her letter had been hesitant, and revealed little. All the same, he had been glad to hear from her. He sensed an undercurrent of sadness in her words as she wished him only safety; she had quietly suggested that when he finally returned after the war, he might look her up.
It felt cathartic to write to Ilse; he told her everything that weighed heavily on his mind, and in doing so wondered whether it would ever reach her, certain that mail was read and confiscated. He thought it would be a short letter but it turned into one that was several pages long in his neat, small handwriting. He wasn’t surprised when Lisette Forestier crept into the letter; he told Ilse that he thought he had found the perfect translator and hoped that with her arrival in his life he could communicate far better and with greater subtlety with the French. By the end he realised he was simply pouring out his stream of consciousness, and wondered whether he’d ever send it. Nevertheless, he addressed the envelope and put the letter inside his pocket with the resolve to add more to it and send it some time. His mind wandered again to the young woman who had blown into his life two evenings earlier.
It might have been Lisette’s youth. Or the fact that she was strangely aloof. She hadn’t latched onto him as so many other women had, trying too hard to win his attention. Lisette had paid far more attention to her godfather.
He’d not slept well that night, nor last, thinking about the cool young woman with the dark hair and secretive dark-blue eyes. He could see certain traits that reflected her German heritage, in her slightly reticent manner, but these were softened by what were more classically French traits – a certain tendency to romance and flirtation. He was intrigued by her. It had been too long si
nce Markus Kilian had kissed a woman or felt the security of a genuine embrace – one without an ulterior motive.
Now that his gifts had been dispatched, he began to wonder whether his spontaneity was premature. Would it scare her off? Offend? Had he misread her taste … or was he imposing his own too soon? Agitated, he moved through his day speaking to as few people as possible, eating nothing, sipping from a tumbler of water. He remembered little of his meeting with the clerics; but then something both alarming and exciting occurred that shook him from his stupor. Waiting for him on his return from the meeting was a lieutenant colonel, who said he was passing through Paris and brought news from the Front. Kilian decided the impromptu visit meant the man must have presumed he’d be missing the action and his men.
‘I’m sorry. Have I kept you waiting?’ Kilian asked. Without an assistant he had no way of knowing.
‘Not at all, Colonel. I arrived unannounced; I’m pleased I caught you,’ the man called Meister said amiably.
‘And you are on von Tresckow’s staff?’
‘Yes, indeed. Have you met him?’
‘Twice. He seemed a good sort.’
‘He is a good man,’ Meister replied.
‘Are you on your way to Berlin?’ Kilian asked. ‘Or stopping a few days in Paris?’
‘Actually, I’ve come from Berlin, on some business here for my superiors. I’m heading back east tomorrow.’
‘I pity you,’ Kilian said.
‘And still you say those words with longing, Colonel Kilian. I’m sure you miss your men.’
‘No doubt. Can I offer you something?’ Kilian looked at his watch. Too early for a snifter. ‘A coffee, perhaps?’
Meister smiled. ‘Thank you. Perhaps we can walk out together, Colonel? It’s a beautiful afternoon for a stroll.’ Kilian frowned, curious about this visit from a man with no reason to be visiting. Perhaps Meister was a spy from Berlin, sent to assess whether Kilian should be given a more challenging role.
Meister stood. ‘Shall we?’
Now Kilian was sure that Meister wanted to speak somewhere they could not be overheard, for nothing in their conversation thus far gave any reason for his presence. Once outside of the ministry building, Meister’s demeanour changed.
‘Forgive me, sir. I’m sure you realise that I wanted to speak privately.’
‘Indeed.’
Meister pointed and Kilian followed him towards the Tuileries. It was another sparkling day. Kilian hoped its mildness would hold for this evening. Meister led him to an isolated bench, and after taking a surreptitious look around, he dropped his voice. ‘I was sanctioned to pay this visit by General Friedrich Olbricht and Colonel von Tresckow in Berlin.’
Of a hundred different explanations that Meister could have given, this would have not have made the list in Kilian’s mind. His shock showed.
‘I think you should laugh as though I just made a joke, sir. Gestapo are everywhere.’
Kilian feigned a chuckle and sat back, trying to adopt a natural pose.
Meister smiled. ‘Here, Colonel.’ He put the newspaper down that he held under his arm. ‘Inside this is proof that what I have to say is the truth. It is written by General Olbricht. He said you would know his signature.’ Kilian took the newspaper casually and opened it. Meister pointed, so that to anyone watching it would appear they were talking about an article, but Kilian quickly scanned the handwritten note inside. Meister smiled and took the newspaper back, folding it quickly and neatly. He took a breath. ‘Forgive me, but we can’t be too careful. You have highly placed supporters, sir, and we are assured you are a kindred spirit, wanting change.’
Kilian gave a mirthless grin.
‘Was that a yes, Colonel?’
‘It was.’ Kilian took out a packet of cigarettes. He didn’t smoke much, did it more to keep his men company, or whenever he felt rattled. He offered one and Meister took it. Kilian lit both.
‘The general has asked you to trust me. I have come directly from him in Berlin.’
‘Go on,’ Kilian said, taking his first joyless puff. He listened with a mixed feeling of dread and elation as Meister briefly outlined a plan to assassinate Hitler. Once Meister was done, Kilian stared at him, trying to hide his shock. ‘You’re serious about this?’
‘We are well advanced in the plan.’
It was as daring as it was dangerous. Kilian almost wished he was the one planting the bomb in the wolf’s lair.
‘Why am I being told? I’m not in a position to do anything helpful,’ he said.
‘Because we know you, like us, believe the Führer’s actions to be immoral, illegal, abhorrent.’ Meister dropped his voice still further, and hid his mouth behind an open-handed drag on his cigarette.
Kilian nodded, saying nothing.
‘To arrest him is not enough; he must be assassinated for any change to occur, for any truce to be negotiated with the Allies.’
A thrill passed through Kilian but he kept his features even. ‘And?’
‘Are you with us, Colonel?’
‘You wouldn’t be having this conversation with me if you didn’t already know it.’
It was Meister’s turn to nod. ‘We know what you have given up.’
‘But with me stuck in Paris, what use am I to the generals?’
‘When it is done, we will need all loyalists to be in place. Soldiers will rally to you and we need a man who understands the language of the Wehrmacht. We need Paris secured.’ Kilian nodded, excitement turning somersaults in his chest.
‘Who else can I count on?’
‘You will find out soon enough. For now all I need is your agreement.’
‘You have it … in blood if necessary.’
‘I hope it will not come to that,’ Meister said and stood.
They shook hands like two old friends saying farewell. ‘When?’
‘Soon. Summer probably, after attempts last winter failed. Word will be sent to you. Trust only those I have mentioned. No one else.’ Meister laughed as though Kilian had said something amusing. ‘Next time perhaps, Colonel Kilian, I would be delighted to have that drink in celebration,’ he said, turning to leave.
‘Good luck, Meister,’ Kilian replied, and then walked with a far lighter step back to the Hotel Raphaël to bath and shave for his dinner appointment at the Ritz.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The car was embarrassingly large and Lisette couldn’t wait for it to be out of her neighbourhood. It was hardly inconspicuous and plenty of her fellow Montmartre villagers, including a frowning Sylvie, saw her climbing into the big black car with its ugly swastika flag flying at the front. She was grateful she wore her everyday coat in the dash to the car to cover up the beautiful dress.
This is not a date. This is a mission, she repeated in her mind, her cheeks on fire as the car rolled down the hill to the first arrondissement in the very centre of the city. Here sat the Louvre with its gardens, the Tuileries, in a neat line that led the eye up the Champs Elysées towards the Arc de Triomphe. Lisette’s destination, the famed Ritz Hotel, was in the city’s largest, most magnificent square – the grandly historic Place Vendôme.
It was a minute past seven when the car drew up quietly outside number fifteen, and the driver stepped out of his door to open Lisette’s.
‘Here we go,’ she whispered as the door swept open and Lisette emerged, stepping out carefully in her new black heels from Walter. She pulled the sheer stole around her shoulders as she approached the hotel’s doors, the concierge already swinging them back for her.
‘Your coat, mademoiselle?’ the driver enquired.
She turned. ‘May I leave it in the car?’
‘Of course. It may be a different driver but the car will be the same.’
‘Thank you,’ she breathed, reminding herself not to get used to such treatment. She did her best to glide into the palatial foyer, where awaiting her was Markus Kilian, standing on a plush rug of royal blue. Furniture around him, which she took in with a gl
ance, was heavily gilded. Lamps cast light that glittered off massive mirrors, and huge vases were filled with striking greenery in the absence of flowers. It was warm inside, but the colonel’s smile radiated a heat all of its own.
She took in a breath. If he had looked handsome in Les Deux Magots, tonight he was taller, broader somehow, with an even more determined chin, even more sparkling eyes. There was no other way to describe him than golden and dashing. In a few heartbeats she took in everything, from the soft grey-green of his dress uniform to the huge gilt clock on the mantelpiece behind him. His eyes seemed to have changed from the pale blue she remembered to be a steel grey, reflecting his outfit.
He was still smiling. Too handsome, she thought. And he looked flushed, excited. Was this because of her? No, she was convinced he was used to sweeping women off their feet. This would be second nature to him. Something else was pleasing him.
‘Lisette …’ He didn’t finish.
‘Good evening, Markus.’ His hesitation unnerved her and her bright expression faltered. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Wrong? No, pardon me, please.’ His smile broadened. ‘You are dazzling.’
She gave him a demure half-smile and there was nothing contrived about it. Her heart was beating hard. Everything about tonight mattered. If this evening went as she hoped it might, then she had achieved arguably the most important stage of her mission.
‘I feel honoured that you wore the dress; I bought it on such a whim.’ He looked her up and down, clearly impressed.
‘I have never owned anything so beautiful. I don’t know how to thank you. How could I not wear it?’
‘You more than do it justice. Come, I hope you are hungry?’ he asked, offering her an arm.
‘Am I hungry?’ she whispered. ‘The whole of Paris, except perhaps those here, is famished.’
The Lavender Keeper Page 24
