Peach (12 page)

But Karl was clever, his sharp eyes missed none of her changes in mood. When he made love to her he searched her face looking for clues to her true emotions. Every time he made her beg him he would lift her face to his, watching her with that icy smile. And one night she knew he would go too far, past the point of enjoyment into cruelty. Lais felt the rush of fear up her spine.
It was herself she was afraid of
. She didn’t know what she might do—or what she was capable of. “If I could just leave him,” her eyes begged Enrique, “I could work somewhere else. I’d do
anything
, Enrique, anything!”

“It’s too late,” Enrique pulled the pack of Gauloises from his pocket. “You’ll just have to put up with him until he tires of you, Lais. Meanwhile, you’ve got work to do.” Lighting up the cigarette from the stub of the previous one he tossed the butt into the brimming blue ashtray. “So, who are these important visitors, Lais?”

She stared at the meagre display of bottles behind the bar. “General Guderian—the man who occupied and practically destroyed Reims, and Otto Klebbich, the man he appointed to control the champagne industry.”

“Not such big fish,” shrugged Enrique.

“There’s to be a party tonight at the house. Goebbels is coming with his wife Magda, and Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler and someone called Speer, who is Hitler’s Minister of Armaments and War Production. Along with their entourages and hangers on, of course.” She took the cigarette from Enrique’s fingers and dragged on it deeply.

Enrique’s lips formed a silent whistle. “Do you have any idea why they are here?”

Lais shrugged. “There’s a meeting tomorrow to discuss the movement of French workers into the armaments factories
in Germany. I think Himmler and Speer are at loggerheads. Goebbels is here to show the pretty Magda the sights of Paris. I have been delegated to take her to the couturiers, the furriers, the hat shops, the perfumers, the jewellers … apparently she’s a nice woman …” Her voice trailed off and tears coursed down her face. “I can’t do it, Enrique, don’t make me go on …”

“Just this once, Lais,” he gripped her hand fiercely, “you
must
. You’ve done so well before, the information you have given us has been invaluable. You’ve saved many French lives through your work. Just do what you’ve done before, Lais. Listen to all the conversations—particularly those
after
dinner when they’ve been drinking and are likely to open up and discuss matters among themselves that should be kept for meetings behind closed doors. Observe everything, read any documents or papers left lying around before or after that meeting. We need
any
information we can get, Lais. And then I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of this situation.”

“You mean that?” she asked shakily. “Really Enrique?”

“I mean it,” he promised. Damn that bastard von Bruhel! He’d broken her. And Lais had been one of their best sources of information, ensconced snugly among the ranks of Nazi power.

“Lais, you must promise me that tonight you’ll be your old self. Karl von Bruhel’s beautiful Frenchwoman, his charming hostess. Make the others envious of him, Lais, so that Karl will preen himself in his glory. And later, after you’ve ‘made love’ to him, drop this in his champagne.” He held up a familiar little packet. “He’ll sleep soundly and you can take the opportunity of inspecting his papers for tomorrow’s meeting.”

She managed a grin. “Lais de Courmont, super-spy.”

“Lais de Courmont, a brave woman.” He leaned forward
and kissed her on the lips. “Take care, Lais. I’ll be thinking of you.”

He watched as she walked to the door, pausing to tighten the scarf over her hair, checking the street before she stepped out. He hoped she would be all right.

The great crystal chandeliers of the de Courmont mansion glittered a welcome as long gleaming limousines swung into the courtyard, disgorging elegant passengers. Karl von Bruhel, waiting impatiently at the foot of the curving marble staircase to greet his guests, glanced angrily upwards.
Where
was Lais? His guests were arriving, and he would have to receive them alone.
Ah! At last!
Lais floated down the stairs towards him, a vision in sea-green silk crěpe de Chine. The long gown left one gleaming shoulder bare, clinging to the curves of her slender, high breasted body, and affording a tantalising glimpse of her long silk-stockinged legs where the straight skirt wrapped around at the front. Enormous emerald drops hung from her small ears and the matching necklace, threaded with diamonds, circled her neck. The hairdresser had swept her blonde hair into two glossy wings that framed her lovely face—the face, dammit, that she had just spent an hour making-up when she should have been here by his side!

“It’s good of you to come down, Lais, in time to meet our guests,” Karl said acidly.

“And here they are.” Ignoring the barb in his words Lais swept forward with outstretched arms and a wide smile to welcome Magda and Joseph Goebbels. Magda was older, sophisticated, blonde and attractive. Her husband was thin with a large, elongated head and a small man’s strutting arrogance. His protuberant grey eyes swept over Lais in a way that made her blush. Joseph Goebbels was a notorious womaniser and he and Magda had separated several times,
though the rumour was that Hitler had forbidden their divorce because it would set a bad example to the Reich. Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, his chest a blaze of ribbons, high boots glittering, bowed over her hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, Fräulein de Courmont,” he said, “especially since I also had the recent pleasure of meeting your stepfather.”

Lais felt the colour drain from her face. Himmler’s position as head of the SS gave him control of concentration camps. If he’d met Gerard could it mean that he had been moved from the “political” camp near the Belgian border into one of the concentration camps in Germany?

Taking her arm Himmler walked with her into the beautiful salon. She had filled the room with sweet-scented jasmine and tall aromatic lilies. Garlands of fresh bay were looped around a table containing a silver platter with a two-foot-high mound of Beluga caviare. White-gloved waiters offered champagne as Himmler helped himself to the shiny black granules, licking his fingers greedily. “A good man, your stepfather,” he said to Lais, “a straightforward man.
Honourable
.”

“Yes, Gerard is an honourable man.”

The caviare glistened between Himmler’s teeth. “You should have a talk with him, my dear. Perhaps
you
could convince him that working for the de Courmont armaments production could only help to bring a quicker end to this war. The foolish man is quite adamant.”

“My stepfather never had any interest in the business,” said Lais. “He’s an architect. What use would he be to you?”

“A de Courmont at the head of the de Courmont industries would be quite a coup for the Fatherland. Many other industrialists are already working with us—why not the Duc de Courmont’s son? His name is known around the
world—its prestige would be great propaganda against our enemies. Of course you are aware of the importance of propaganda?”

“My stepfather and I feel differently about this matter,” Lais answered stiffly. “I’m sure I would not be able to change his mind.”

Himmler sighed, wiping his mouth with a white damask napkin. “A pity. Life would be so much more comfortable for him if he would only see things our way.”

“Please,” Lais’s hand rested softly on his arm. “Where is my stepfather?”

“Gerard de Courmont is in a labour camp, Fräulein, where I am afraid he must stay until he sees reason.”

His thin lips smiled but his eyes had the same fanatic iciness she saw so often in Karl’s. Lais looked around the salon of Gerard’s family home, at the beautiful yellow silk curtains outlining the long windows, at the sparkling chandeliers, and the Nazis treading the lovely Aubusson rugs, at the silver and crystal and the obscene mound of caviare, symbol of luxury and power. She felt sick. Enrique had told her only that morning that there were other women who could never forget the reason they worked for the Resistance, they had lost husbands and sons—and fathers. Now Lais knew that she too would never forget. She must do what she could to help.

Lifting her chin she smiled sweetly at Magda Goebbels. “I hope you are ready to take Paris by storm, Frau Goebbels,” she said, taking her arm, “I have made an appointment with the couturiers for Wednesday morning, and then I thought we might go to the fur salons. It’ll be such fun. Now I have someone
very
charming sitting next to you at dinner.” Her eyes were full of female conspiracy as she escorted Magda across the room to meet Ferdi von Schönberg.

*  *  *

Señor Goncalvez-Herrera drove his Hispano Suiza with its diplomatic licence plates that allowed him to ignore the curfew, slowly across the Pont Marie. Even from across the river he had noticed the lights and the activity on the Quai de Bourbon and as he turned into the Quai d’Orléans he pulled the car to the kerb and parked.

“Madame Jamieson, won’t you please re-think this situation?” He gestured to the row of Mercedes and the waiting chauffeurs gossiping, the red tips of their cigarettes glowing in the dark, and at the armed guards patrolling in front of the house.

A snatch of music carried down the street and light spilled suddenly on to the courtyard as the door was flung open to admit more guests. Leonie boiled over with anger. How dare Lais give parties for the Nazis when Frenchmen were risking their lives for their country’s freedom! “There is no need to wait for me,” she said, stepping from the car and closing the door firmly behind her.

“I’ll wait,” he said with a sigh. He watched as she strode purposefully towards the de Courmont house, her back straight, head up. She looked indomitable. He hoped, for her sake and her granddaughter’s, that she was.

“Halt!” A pair of bayonets barred Leonie’s way as she turned into the courtyard. “Who are you? What do you want?” The sergeant pushed her roughly against the stone gatepost. “Where are your papers?” he demanded. “At once!”

Leonie had them ready. “I think you will find them in order,” she answered calmly. “I am Mademoiselle de Courmont’s grandmother.”

The sergeant peered at her with small suspicious eyes. “Her
grandmother?
”

“That is what I said. Now kindly let me through. I wish to talk to my granddaughter.”

“What is it? What’s going on?” A young blond officer shouldered his way through the knot of guards that surrounded her, staring at Leonie in surprise.

“I am Leonie Jamieson,” she said evenly. “I am here to see my granddaughter.”

“Of course,” Ferdi von Schönberg said quietly. “I know who you are.”

Leonie stared at him puzzled. There was something familiar about him, but the soldiers all seemed to her to look alike, young, blond, strong.

“It’s all right,” said Ferdi, “this lady is who she says she is. Let her pass.” He took Leonie’s arm but she shook him away angrily.

Embarrassed, he led the way up the steps into the house. “If you will wait here, Madame, I will find Lais for you.”

Leonie glared at his departing back. So, he called her Lais, did he? Was this the one then? No, he wasn’t of high enough rank. Lais had gone for the top.

Inside the double front doors armed sentries stood at attention and in the lofty hall guards were positioned at the entry to every room. This was surely no ordinary party they were guarding.

“Grand-mère!”

Lais, beautifully dressed and laden with emeralds, stood at the top of the staircase staring at her with an expression of horror. Or was it fear? Leonie felt a momentary pang of compassion for her wayward granddaughter. But this was no girlish madness. This time Lais had gone too far.

“Grand-mère,
what are you doing here?
” Lais ran down the stairs and flung her arms around Leonie, kissing her.

“Get your coat, Lais,” Leonie said quietly, “I’m taking you home with me.”

“Grand-mère! Don’t be ridiculous. You know I can’t do that. I can’t leave now, we—I—have guests. Important guests,” her blue eyes searched Leonie’s face desperately. “Can’t we meet tomorrow? We can talk about coming home then.”

“Pardon me, Fräulein,” Magda Goebbels interrupted, smiling at Leonie. “I am a great admirer of yours for years, Madame Leonie. I first saw you on stage in Munich years ago and I have remained your devoted admirer ever since. I never missed your concerts when you came to Germany.”

“Grand-mère, this is Frau Magda Goebbels.” Lais introduced them nervously.

Leonie ignored the woman’s outstretched hand. “Thank you for your compliments, Frau Goebbels,” she said coldly, “but that was a long time ago. Before the war.”

Magda’s blue eyes regarded her sadly. “I understand,” she replied quietly, “these are difficult times. But I’m very happy to have met you, Madame.”

As she walked towards the double doors that led to the salon an attendant sprang to open them for her. Leonie took in the white-gloved German servants, the elegant women, both German and French, the gaudy parade of Nazi hierarchy. And the great mound of caviare—ignored on its melting bed of ice. A pianist tinkled away at the grand piano and vermeil candelabra painted the scene with a soft unreal amber light. “My God, Lais,” she whispered, “what are you playing at?”

“Grand-mère, it’s all right,” whispered Lais urgently, “Please believe me. It’s not what it seems.”

“What is not what it seems,
Liebchen?
” Karl’s arm snaked around her waist, gripping her tightly just beneath her breast. “You have a visitor,” he said jovially. “Magda told me. We are honoured, Madame Leonie, although this is a strange hour to pay an unexpected visit. Still, we shall be
happy to have you join our little party, won’t we
Liebchen?
” Leonie pretended not to notice his hand squeezing Lais’s waist. “Some of us are lucky enough to be familiar with your stage performances,” his cold eyes inspected her carefully. “And of course you are still as beautiful as ever.”

“Grand-mère, this is General Karl von Bruhel,” faltered Lais.

Karl offered Leonie his arm. “Come, Madame, my guests will be thrilled to meet ‘Leonie’.”