Exner was speechless. Everything had been turned against him. Sofia, in the midst of German controlled Europe, was a dangerous assignment in a backwater that lacked even the Latin alphabet. He knew nothing of the Bulgars, except the stories told him by the eighth lord’s friends. Those friends battled the Bulgars in Salonika during the Great War. It was punishment camouflaged as a colonial duty.
“Someone in the foreign ministry will visit to provide you with information on the country, the leaders, and everything you will need to know.”
“And Maria?”
“She must remain here. Junior adjutants are not allowed to bring their families.”
“Junior Adjutant,” Exner sputtered. He pushed out his chest. “That is below me, the future ninth lord of -.”
Two taps ended his huffing. “There will be no further discussion. You will sail for Bulgaria in ten days. Your arrival will not be noticed; your resignation letter to the House states your acceptance of high office in service to the empire. It will be several weeks after that the party will purge their antiwar wing. Your departure will not be connected with the purge. While the others will see their careers desiccate, yours will continue in service.”
Exner caught his breath. His father had already composed his resignation letter. The weight of what he had done in challenging the Tory leadership had begun to weigh on him. He was a novice; a boy who did not understand that power was never surrendered easily by those who held it.
From the interior of the house came a familiar and unwanted sound: the arrival of Maria from her ride. Her voice rang out, causing the eighth lord to cringe. The Russian princess bride had outraged Exner’s father. While royal blood was always welcome in the British nobility, the blood in this case offered little power. Maria had alienated broad swathes of the British aristocracy with her anti-Bolshevik tirades. The eighth lord, always keen on connections, made clear Maria was not welcome at his gatherings. In response Exner rarely visited his father and the eighth lord abandoned his favorite estate, so as to avoid the “Russian fanatic.”
The eighth lord stiffened as Maria entered, boots clacking on the stone floor. The princess’ eyes focused hard on Exner’s father. “Oh,” surprised as her husband at his presence. “Your father is here.” She stepped to him, grabbed his arm and planted a quick kiss on each cheek. The eighth lord reddened as he struggled to escape.
“Has our guest left?” She pulled off her gloves and began unbuttoning her jacket. She stopped when catching sight of Exner’s pained express and slumped posture, both suggesting defeat at the hands of the eighth lord. She tilted her head, “You are upset.”
Exner looked at his father, drawing Maria’s gaze back to the eighth lord. “Is this more talk about the Okhrana?” Maria was bemused by MI5, and compared them unfavorably with the czarist era secret police. She reminded her husband the Russian versions were more effective at stamping out resistance.
“I am leaving,” Exner murmured.
Maria’s head jerked as if slapped. “Leaving?” She squinted at her husband, who silently nodded. The princess walked behind him, dropping her hands on his shoulders. “Where are you going, London?” She squeezed, a signal lying was unacceptable.
“Sofia,” shoulder muscles tightening.
The princess released him. “Sofia? Bulgaria?”
Exner glanced at his father, preferring he take the inevitable abuse. The eighth lord drew himself up, forced once again to protect his son. “Exner will be working for the foreign ministry, he will serve in the British consulate in Sofia.”
Maria turned on her husband. “You are leaving me?”
Exner wet his lips and bowed his head.
The princess swiveled back to her father-in-law. “You did this.”
The eighth lord was impassive. Women’s opinions were of little concern, and protecting the family seat took precedence over the hysterical princess. Exner interrupted. “It is best for all of us.”
Maria returned to her husband. “I will go with you.”
Exner closed his eyes. He knew the conversation about her presence would occur sometime but not in his father’s presence. It had been decided Maria could not accompany him, but convincing her of the reality would require hours and much compromise, something his father did not understand. Men were to dictate, and women were to compromise. Before the future ninth lord could respond, though, the eighth lord interrupted.
“Your interference has led to this.” The cane was tapped on the floor; Fergus misinterpreted it as a summons and appeared in the doorway. “I told you to silence her,” the eighth lord said to his son. “A man controls his wife and a true English woman,” he fairly spit out the words. “A true English woman stays within her proper realm.”
Maria’s eyes flashed. “I am not an English woman.”
“That is apparent.”
Maria drew herself up, chest out, chin up. “I am a member of the Romanov family, and we are not dictated to by mere nobility. If you were in Russia today I would have you arrested.”
The eighth lord ignored the threat and pointed his cane. “Take control of your household,” he ordered. “Updegrove women have always understood their place.” He nodded at Fergus, ignored the seething Maria and strode from the room. Maria turned on her husband, hands on her hips. “Sofia?”
II
February 28, 1940
Monte Carlo, destination of spies, businessmen, former European nobility, petty criminals and the odd movie star, all looking for something they could find nowhere else. Diplomats were known to occasionally visit, though on official rather than personal business. Etienne had visited the tiny island on two occasions as a younger man determined to clean out the casinos. With a pair of friends he attacked the craps tables, only to be forced to scuttle back to France with a debt his angry father had to settle. The second visit, three decades later, was a diplomatic trip to speak with a deputy Italian foreign minister to gauge whether his government was willing to forget old complaints for a new relationship. Laval had been pleased with the result even if Etienne was disappointed.
His third visit was a welcome respite. By the end of February he had survived a surprise engagement, a hurried wedding, and a bride craving his attention. Bonded together in nuptials for all eternity, or until Fiorenza tired of him, he and his new bride boarded the short flight to the Riviera. Fiorenza sat, hand on his leg, face pressed against the window. The plane was a third full, the result of continued economic depression and the war curbing tourism.
For Etienne the empty seats and whistling air in the plane a welcome distraction. After the Poles surrendered with a whimper, Paris became the world’s diplomatic center. Daily meetings with Lord Bainbridge and the German ambassador yielded little. Laval delegated the meetings to Etienne, trusting in his ability to protect France even if Germany and England clashed and war swept across the remainder of the continent. Laval was trying to arrange a concerted diplomacy with the Italians and the Spanish.
A squeal from his new wife drew Etienne to the window. The approach to Monte Carlo spectacular. The mountains, sea, hotels guaranteed to impress even the most cynical sophisticate such as Fiorenza. As an interpreter her every phrase could change the course of history. Her travels across Europe meant there was little she had not witnessed. The plane heaved with turbulence as Fiorenza glanced at her new husband, the curl of her lips and flash of her eyes pushed world events aside. Etienne had spent his adult life seeking power and upon achieving it, he discovered real happiness in domestic living.
It was not all bliss. The Monte Carlo trip extended beyond mere pleasure. In his various constitutionals about central Paris to avoid diplomatic burdens and Francois’s incessant questioning, Etienne found himself standing beside a man of uncertain nationality. His clothes, face and accent only revealed he was not French.
“Monsieur Descoteaux,” the man nodded while casually blowing smoke in the air.
Etienne took notice, the rarity of a foreigner correctly pronouncing
his name sparking his interest. “Sir.”
“You have attracted attention,” the man said. “The papers, your new bride.” He offered a cigarette to Etienne, who took it, beguiled by the man’s knowledge of him.
“A beautiful girl,” the man flicked a match and lit the cigarette. “You are a lucky man.”
Etienne took a deep drag, interest becoming concern. “Do I know you?”
The man smiled, revealing yellowed teeth and cracked lips. “This is our first and only meeting,” He tipped the ash then glanced about the concrete path as the occasional shopper strolled past them.
“You know so much about me, but I know nothing of you,” Etienne had squinted, and struggled to place the face he had never seen.
“It does not matter who I am,” he declared. “You are the important man, the one who has the power, who can change history.”
Etienne set the cigarette on the stone wall overlooking the Seine to gather himself. “I?”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur Descoteaux. You have the position, the authority to prevent a worldwide war.”
Etienne’s squint deepened, suddenly worried he had been latched onto by a derange. Many of them wandered the city, speaking to the voices in their head. He retreated a step, eyeing the man’s dress: an overcoat, a fedora, expertly shined shoes, pants creased beneath the coat; not the typical derange.
“Monte Carlo is a beautiful city for a honeymoon,” the man continued. “It is also a place for diplomacy,” he pushed his finger against his lips. “Quiet diplomacy.”
Etienne blinked, a new fear seized him, derange replaced by espionne. “I do not have time,” he mumbled, tossing away his cigarette.
The man snatched Etienne’s coat and pulled him against the stone wall. “The Casino Café de Marseille,” he hissed Etienne’s honeymoon hotel. “A man will greet you, explain what is needed, the private rooms, they will know you.” He jammed his hand into Etienne’s pocket, treleased him and rushed away.
Shaken, Etienne returned to the Quai d’Orsai. When discarding his overcoat he felt the paper in his pocket. It was his instructions: the private room, the time and day, all of it arranged at the time he would be arriving with Fiorenza. Etienne kept the paper and several times over the next weeks stared at the scribbled writing. The man’s written French proved more difficult to decipher than his spoken French.
Etienne had little time to consider the meeting as his free time was enveloped by wedding planning and Fiorenza’s growing frenzy over the big day. Laval was in Madrid while Francois could offer no advice on anything, leaving Etienne to brood. Only when arriving in the south of France, a married man, the previous weeks’ whirlwind finally passed, had he decided to follow the note’s directions and head to a private casino room where large sums were gambled.
They were greeted at the aerodrome by a limousine and personal concierge. Pleasing the French foreign ministry was an all but certain way to attract a conference or at least a meeting. A large entourage always filled the rooms and their presence created a stir.
Etienne basked in his new popularity. The possibility of a wider war made him a significant figure: someone who could provide a document, a stamp, an escape, and some the last link to civilization. They arrived at the Casino Café De Marseille, the manager awaiting them. Etienne eyed the dark, heavy man with the barely visible mustache, the manager shifting on his feet, tugging at the tuxedo, cuffs sliding up his arms and legs. His walk was stiff as he struggled to make his way to the stairs, pants resisting his every step.
The manager grabbed Fiorenza’s hands between his, complimenting her then going in for a kiss that she deflected with a quick but unhurried turn of her head. Etienne watched, body growing warm. He reveled in his marriage to a girl half his age. Fiorenza could, with a toss of her head or a glance, make men submit to her whim. Fiorenza was his; she had announced the engagement and he had concurred. His young wife could no more escape him than Etienne could break from her.
Their suite overlooked the bay, a balcony welcoming the Mediterranean breezes, though Etienne could not shake his despair. Fiorenza planned their two weeks, a shocking vacation for the French deputy foreign minister; but Laval suggested three weeks with a smile and a puff of smoke. Etienne worried he could not function after such a time with his new bride and bargained down to two weeks. The honeymoon began the moment the porter left the room, francs clutched in his calloused hand, casting an eye toward Fiorenza, who was struggling with the zipper on her dress. Etienne was quick to help, and from then remembered little than the all-encompassing feeling of bliss. The sun had set when they finished. While Fiorenza was resting, sore, on the edge of consciousness, a woman in a man’s world, Etienne dressed for his meeting. A short ride down the elevator and he was in the casino.
The bustle of the hotel melded into the schizophrenia of the casino, delirious winners dancing at the tears of despondent losers. Etienne was more familiar with the latter, barely escaping with his clothes during his youthful visit. He knew of men who ended their lives after a bad casino run, an act he could not comprehend. Loss of money was never a suicidal event. Loss of reputation, an achievement tarnished, an ambition squashed might send a man to his personal gallows but not money.
Etienne halted at a velvet rope line; a man in a crushed velvet jacket stood nearby with a cigarette poking from his mouth as he made marks on a book planted on a podium. Behind him were a pair of military types, faces scarred, noses crooked, clothes bulging in frightening ways and giving the other man’s words importance. Etienne opened his mouth but the man in the velvet jacket interrupted. “Minister,” he said, a smile revealing a pair of gold incisors. “We are expecting you.”
A surge of adrenaline rushed through him. One of the scarred assistants opened the door and allowed him inside. The manager led Etienne down a purple carpet, and slowed at different doors marked with numbers. Etienne glanced at each as he passed, noticing tables inside each room. Some of the tables were full, while others were barely occupied. Etienne’s destination was a smaller room, smoky after several large hands held by nervous gamblers. A semicircular table was half filled, three seats, three unfamiliar faces, three levels of concentration on cards. He was greeted by the VIP room manager: a man also in his fifties, bearing a widow’s peak and a smile that left one uncomfortable.
“Monsieur Descoteaux,” he grasped Etienne’s hands. “It is good you have arrived.”
Etienne nodded as he eyed the table, memories of past failures curdling his desire. “I have no chips,” he murmured, partly embarrassed, partly hopeful poverty would be his means of escape.
The manager tightened his grip. “It does not matter,” he said. “We have arranged a table for you.”
“I don’t believe you understand,” Etienne said more forcefully. “I have no money to play, no chips in which to bet, I cannot play.” He smiled weakly, importuning the manager to release him from his “secret” mission and return him to his waiting bride.
The manager, though, held him with a death grip. “It does not matter,” he declared. “You are expected. Arrangements have been made. Your position is prepared.”
Etienne opened his mouth to protest again, but the manager’s eyes, intense and bearing droved the Frenchman to the table. “Of course,” Etienne murmured with perfect understanding, which he did not have. His agreement freed him and he shuffled to the table, complete with chips and players.
Etienne took a seat; the empty one on the left, while on his right was a thin nosed, wan looking man with an even thinner cigarette smoldering at his elbow. His light blue eyes adjusted for a moment; glancing at the new player, gauging the danger of his presence, and then flipping a couple of mauve chips onto the table.
Once settled, Etienne received his chips, all off color, all representing amounts several times his monthly salary packet, the total well above his salary and savings combined. Fortunately none of the money was his, chips had value only when cashed in or cashed out and Etienne knew at least one of the
players was a plant, scooping chips for the casino, saving them money from players like Etienne who could bet and lose with little concern.
Etienne piled his chips, values a mystery. He guessed the pale green enjoyed the largest values, having been allotted only a dozen while the mauve chips were the least, two stacks of fifty at his elbow.
“Hello, there.” From across the semi-circle came the greeting, Etienne blinking, startled by the red fleshy face and oversized grin. “Freddy Banton.” A ringed hand was extended across the table, halting play until Etienne took it and winced as his fingers were mashed in a death grip.
Etienne mumbled his name, pain shooting through him. This drew a laugh from Freddy Banton, who released him.
“You are one of them French fellows.”
Etienne flexed his hand and nodded.
“I know lots of you fellas. I’ve done some work down there in Loose e anna.”
Etienne blinked. He knew little of America and had little interest in the country. Its people were too moralistic, too boisterous, a type who always complained when things did not go as they planned.
Freddy Banton had seized the position of table host. “Over there,” he pointed to Etienne’s right. “Is I-van Romanosky or something, think he’s Russian or something.” Freddy then reached over and delivered a blow to the back of the last member of the foursome. “And this here is Barry Barringson or something.” He leaned over and locked eyes with “Barry.” “You are English or something, aren’t ya?”
Etienne saw “Barry” stiffen, chin rising as if a simple expression of disdain would free him of Freddie Banton. “I am Rhodesian,” he murmured.
Freddie’s beefy face went blank for a moment: there was no oil in Rhodesia, the country excited little interest for him. “That’s one of them English countries isn’t it?”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 19
