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“I don’t suppose you would care to dance with me while Captain Schmidt speaks with Captain von Kubizek?” He gives Johann a look that says neither Johann nor I have a choice in the matter.
I take Müller’s proffered hand and let him lead me around the dance floor in a waltz. My back is stiff, letting him believe I fear him. I do fear them all, for what they can do to me, for what they have done to the agents who’ve been captured and disappeared. But this—the fear he wants me to feel—is part of his game.
“This must be quite thrilling for you,” he says in a tone sharpened to a fine point. “A huge step up from the quaint country dances you are used to.”
“It has been enjoyable.” It would be more enjoyable if they would discuss something useful to my role in France.
“You have ambitions, is that not true?”
I smile sweetly at him. “I do not know what you mean. Are you referring to my father’s vineyard? That will pass on to my brother.”
“And what about your ambitions with Captain Schmidt?”
I fashion my expression into that of surprise. “Captain Schmidt? I have no ambitions when it comes to the man. I am here because he asked me to attend with him.” And he did that because one of the other officers during the dinner he hosted at Jacques’s farmhouse had been vying to bring me, more out of amusement than for any other reason.
Müller eyes me thoughtfully as we glide along the dance floor. “Captain Schmidt has the ability to rise further in the ranks. Do you see yourself by his side when he does?”
“It’s not something I have thought about.” I glance to where Johann is talking to several officers of higher rank. More than anything, I want to be by his side, but not for the reasons Müller thinks. I have no ambitions, even within the SOE organisation. I’m just trying to survive the war like everyone else and to bring it to a swift end, with England on the winning side. And to see my sister again.
“You’re an intriguing woman, Madame D’Aboville.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.”
The dance thankfully comes to an end, and I make my way over to Johann. He smiles at me and introduces me to the group. When I am asked if I speak German, I tell them I do not, and they resume their conversation in the language.
And I go back to resembling a bouquet of flowers on the side table—beautiful but barely noticed when one walks past them.
“We need to get more French citizens to turn on these rebels,” a tall officer with grey hair says. “Make it clear that if they remain silent about individuals they suspect are members of the group, that is a form of collaboration and will not be tolerated. Anyone suspected of collaborating with the enemy will be sentenced to death. Anyone who turns in a suspected rebel will be rewarded.”
“We’ve been doing that,” another officer replies curtly.
“Apparently, you have not been doing it enough. And you need to find ways to infiltrate their networks. Their leaders are arrogant and foolish. Use that to your advantage.” The grey-haired man looks around the room, perhaps checking no waitstaff is nearby before he lowers his voice. “I’ve received word from intelligence that one of the Gestapo agents has convinced a member of the rebels that he’s on their side.”
“Madam D’Aboville, would you like to join us for a stroll in Le Grand Jardin?” one of the wives asks in French.
I do my best to keep one ear on the other conversation while responding, “Thank you for the offer, but I think I will stay here with Captain Schmidt.”
“…don’t realise the agent is Gestapo,” the grey-haired man continues. “He has convinced Monsieur Baudelaire to deliver to the agent for safe keeping the weapons and explosives that England sent them. But instead of a safe handoff like the rebels will be expecting, the Gestapo will make arrests and confiscate the enemy’s stash of weapons.”
My pulse thunders. This—this is exactly the sort of tipoff we need. It could save so many lives.
The two wives murmur to their husbands. The men nod, but their attention seems to be less on the women and more on the conversation at hand.
The women walk off towards the French doors, laughing between themselves, while the men ask the grey-haired man questions. And I remain the bouquet on the side table, long forgotten and deemed insignificant by the men, absorbing everything they say.
Johann is quiet through the discussion, almost stiff.
The conversation shifts to something trivial about European architecture. “Would you care to dance, Angelique?” Johann asks me.
“I would like that very much.” I flash him a soft smile, relieved to escape these men for a few minutes, and we step onto the dance floor.
Johann takes me into his arms, his hand on my upper back, my hand on his shoulder, and we dance the waltz. For a moment, everything else around us disappears, and it feels as though Johann and I are the only two people on the floor. I have to remind myself not to look like a woman who is in love with her dance partner, especially after my conversation with Müller. But that doesn’t stop my body tingling from Johann’s touch.
The evening eventually comes to an end, and he and I return to the hotel where we are staying. We don’t talk in the vehicle. I just stare out the window at the barren streets. Everyone else in Paris has to respect curfew, which began several hours ago.
Johann walks me to my room, which is connected to his. “Did you want to…?”
