His Majesty's Hope (19 page)

“Father, Mother, allow me to present—”

“Margareta Hoffman,” Maggie interrupted, willing her paralyzed legs to move, walking toward them. The microphone would have to wait, at least for the moment. She could only hope that someone didn’t accidentally step on it. “I truly enjoyed your performance,
gnädige
Frau Hess. And it’s an honor to meet you, Herr Hess.”

Herr Hess kissed Maggie’s hand. “Likewise, Fräulein Hoffman.”

“Thank you,” Clara said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it … while you could. Although, I suppose, a fainting spell can’t be helped.”

She glared at Elise. “Unlike tardiness.” Then she asked, “What are you two doing in here? Why aren’t you at the party?”

“Fräulein Hoffman wasn’t feeling well,” Elise interposed hastily, “so we brought her to my room to recover. When she was feeling better, I took her on a tour of the house.”

“This room is off-limits. In fact, it should have been locked.”

“Clara—” Miles said.

“It
was
locked. We used the door from the conservatory,” Elise said.

“I see.” Clara looked Maggie up and down; then her beautiful eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”

Oh, the things I could say
. “No, no—I don’t think so.”

“Hoffman … I don’t remember your name on the guest list,” Clara continued, taking a step closer, head tilted to one side in contemplation.

“Mother!” Elise exclaimed.

“I’m Gottlieb Lehrer’s girlfriend,” Maggie said evenly, although her heart was racing. Her hands were starting to shake; she clasped them behind her back. “He also works at the Abwehr.”

“Gottlieb Lehrer? Oh, yes, one of Canaris’s men,” Clara said absently. She kept staring at Maggie. “Red hair—it’s rather unusual, isn’t it?”

Yes, I inherited it from my father—the man you betrayed
, Maggie thought. “Oh, it’s darker now, but when I was younger it was bright red—almost orange. I was teased horribly.”

Clara reached out a hand to touch one of Maggie’s locks. Maggie fought the urge to slap the beringed fingers away. But Clara dropped her hand before it made contact, shaking it as though she’d received an electric shock. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

she asked again. “You look so familiar. But I can’t quite place your face.”

Maggie felt her cheeks flush. “No, no, I don’t think so, Frau Hess.”

Clara gave a dazzling smile. “Well, let’s all get back to the party then, shall we? I still need to cut the cake.”

“Cake!” enthused Miles. He winked at Elise. “Guess I came just in time.” He offered his arms, and Elise and Maggie each took one. The three walked out of the study together. Clara used her key to lock the conservatory door, then returned to the hall door and locked that, too.

Conversation drifted past Maggie’s ears: “
After all, our segregation of the Jews is inspired by the United States and her segregation of Negroes …” “Racial hygiene, you know—social Darwinism …” “It all started in Cold Spring Harbor—that’s near New York City…”

A general, apparently drunk, was shouting, “Blood must flow! Blood must flow!” as he was escorted out to his waiting car by two of the liveried servants. Behind him, a woman in diamonds patted him on the back, saying in soothing tones, “Of course, darling. Of course it must.”

“Elise, come with me—there are some people I want you to meet,” Clara said, sweeping her daughter in her wake.

“Let’s talk more later,” Elise whispered back to Maggie.

“Ah, Fräulein Hoffman,” Goebbels said, walking over to her. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Yes, Herr Goebbels,” Maggie managed. “Thank you.”

“Excellent! Let me introduce you to a few people.”

Maggie smiled her brightest, fakest smile, and walked with him. She spotted Gottlieb, but he was in an animated conversation with two men. One was the bloated Hermann Göring, Hitler’s
Reichsmarschall
and successor, his uniform straining at ostentatious golden buttons. The other was a distinguished-looking white-haired man with bushy eyebrows—Admiral Wilhelm Canaris from the Abwehr, Gottlieb’s superior officer. Maggie recognized them both from pictures she’d studied at Beaulieu. Gottlieb didn’t see her; she was on her own.

Goebbels led her to a cluster of people sipping champagne and chatting. A thirty-something man with golden hair was at the beginning of a story, blue eyes dancing with mirth. “I saw Wolff Gondrell, the cabaret performer, in the
That Speaks Volumes
revue last week.”

“Tell us!” insisted one of the tipsy ladies. Maggie forced herself to continue to smile.

“Well,” he said, “a young man applies for a job as a salesman. The bookseller shows the young man his sales methods and explains, ‘The most important thing in the bookshop is the window display, yes? You must
never
pile up books of the same kind there. No, the customer likes to see relationships among the books.’ ”

He gestured to one of the servants for another glass of champagne, then drained it. “And he says, ‘Well, here I have
Maid of Orleans
, next to
Casanova
. And here is Martitt’s
The Frigid Woman
, next to the
Guide to Hot Food
!’ That’s brilliant, isn’t it? Having the subject next to the instructions …”

“My, my,” Emmy Göring said, pressing a gloved hand to her heart.

The man waited, eyes twinkling, teasing his audience. Then, the punch line. “
The Eternal Jew
next to
Gone With the Wind
. Understand? Gone with the wind!”

The group laughed heartily. Maggie tried to join in, but her jaws and face felt frozen.

“Gone with the wind to Poland,” Göring said. “And from there …”

“I hear they’re going to live on reservations—like the U.S. government did with the American Indians.”

“I hear they’re going to be shipped to Madagascar.”

“Just as soon as we take Russia, and then Britain falls in line.” Goebbels turned to Maggie. “Fräulein Hoffman, do you think Churchill will ever surrender?”

Oh, my
. “Unfortunately, I don’t think so, Dr. Goebbels.”

“And why is that?” His eyes glittered.

Were they somehow on to her? She had to be more careful. As a German, even one who’d been in Rome, she wouldn’t be privy to much information about Churchill or the British, and what there was would be propaganda. “From what I’ve read in the papers, Herr Churchill seems to be a stubborn man.” She took a sip of the icy champagne. “And I also hear he’s rarely sober.”

“A stubborn man and a drunken fool!” The golden-haired man chortled. “Exactly!” He eyed Maggie appraisingly. Inside, she shuddered.

“Fräulein Hoffman, you said you worked as a typist, yes?” asked Goebbels.

For Winston Churchill
, Maggie thought. “Yes, sir. I worked for Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome, for the Abwehr’s conference with the Vatican.”

“Lucky Herr Lehrer,” the golden-haired man said, with a grin. “Herr Goebbels was just telling us that Göring there is looking for a new girl—a new typist, that is.” He gestured to the overweight man talking with Gottlieb.

“Oh, really?” Maggie managed. She just wanted to meet up with Gottlieb and get out. Surely he knew what danger they were in …

“What are you doing now, Fräulein Hoffman?” Goebbels’s dark eyes bored into hers.

“N-now?” Maggie managed.

“What are your future plans? Are things serious with this young Lehrer?” He leaned closer. “Do you want an excuse to stay in Berlin? This job with Göring would kill two birds with one stone.”

“Not to mention serve the Führer and the Reich,” the golden-haired man added with another wink.

“Ah, and that, too,” Goebbels agreed with a thin smile.

Frau Goebbels cut in. “Although you realize that there will be any number of young women interviewing for the position.”

Maggie thought desperately. She was supposed to go back to England the next day. But working for Göring—it could be an amazing opportunity. The secrets she might uncover … And Gottlieb could transmit them back to SOE. She at least had to try.

“And there’s no guarantee you’ll get it,” Frau Goebbels continued. “You’ll have to take a typing test.”

“Of course,” Maggie said. Her thoughts were racing.

“Here’s my card,” said Goebbels, ignoring the disapproving stare of his wife. “Come on Monday, eight
A.M
. sharp. The Reich Chancellery.”

Maggie smiled. “
Danke schön
, Dr. Goebbels.” She slipped the card into her handbag. “I’ll be there.”

Elise and her father sat together on a bench on the perimeter of the room, away from the guests. “I missed you, Papa,” Elise said as they shared a slice of cake decorated with fondant roses and silver dragées.

“And I missed you, too,
Engelchen
.”

“How long will you be home this time?”

“Not long. We’re rehearsing for a new production of
Lohengrin
. We’ll be performing it here, then taking it to Zürich next week, leaving on Sunday.” He kissed her forehead. “Want to get away with your old papa?”

Elise loved traveling with her father and the opera company. But now she had work. Not to mention her houseguest upstairs. Then she had an inspiration. “A trip to Zürich sounds perfect, Papa.” She smiled. “Absolutely perfect.”

Gottlieb and Maggie were conferring in a corner. The party had gone on long into the night. They’d taken cautious sips from their champagne, careful not to drink too much, smiling broadly and fatuously at each other as they did so. “I’ll do it,” he said.

“No, I’ll do it!”

“You’re not up for it.”

“I am! And I’ll be less conspicuous than you.”

“I can’t wait to get you on that plane and away from here!” Gottlieb whispered, furious.

“Believe me, I can’t wait to leave this hell, either.”

Maggie headed back to Clara’s study, and this time—using a hairpin to pick the door’s lock—she planted the bug without incident behind the gold-framed portrait of Hitler.
There you have it, Gottlieb
, Maggie thought triumphantly as she slipped out of the room.

After another glass of champagne, they threaded their way through the room to thank their hosts. Now that the bug had been planted, Maggie wanted desperately to go. The last thing she wanted to do was have another interaction with Clara.

“Ah, leaving so soon, Herr Lehrer?”

“I’m afraid so. As you saw, Frau Hess, Fräulein Hoffman is not feeling well.”

Clara appraised Maggie’s face. “Well, you look much better now,” she said. Her eyes didn’t waver, and Maggie felt them burning into hers. She realized that, although beautiful, one of Clara’s eyes wandered slightly.

Clara smiled, a cold smile. “Good night, then.”

Maggie sought out Elise, on the periphery of the party, an onlooker as the others danced. “Thank you again—for all your help.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Elise responded cheerfully. “I’m a nurse. It’s what I do. And I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

“Well, I appreciate the care.”

“Of course.” The girls stared at each other. Maggie braced herself. She was certain that Elise would notice their resemblance.

And maybe she did, at least on a subconscious level, for she grasped Maggie’s hand. “I know you’re new to Berlin, so if you ever need anything—and I mean
anything
—just let me know.”

She took a pen and piece of paper from the drawer of an ornate end table and scribbled down some numbers. “This is how to reach me, here at home and also at the hospital.”

“Thank you.” Maggie accepted the slip of paper, surprisingly touched. “Thank you so much, Fräulein Hess.”

Elise embraced her and whispered in her ear, “You’re not one of
them
, I can tell, Fräulein Hoffman.”

“No, I’m not,” Maggie whispered back.

“Good for you. Neither am I.”

The two new friends kissed goodbye.

On the ride back to Charlottenburg, Maggie and Gottlieb remained silent, but once they entered his apartment and closed and locked the door behind them, Maggie spoke. “The microphone was planted successfully.”

“Congratulations,” Gottlieb said scathingly. “Although you
might have warned me about your plan to faint like a Victorian maiden.”

Maggie realized that was the closest she was going to get to an apology, so she took it and moved on. “And I wasn’t idle the rest of the night, either. I’m in! Or, at least, I have a typing test.”

“In? In where?” Gottlieb, his eyes shadowed from exhaustion, was slumped on the sofa.

Maggie sat next to him and kicked off her evening sandals. “Ouch,” she said. “High heels are brutal.” She pointed and flexed her blistered feet.

“And what exactly were you talking about with Goebbels?”

“I told them we met when I worked as your temporary secretary in Rome,” she replied. “And then Goebbels said that Göring is looking for a new typist. The interview’s on Monday. Göring’s the
Reichsmarschall
! Just think of the memos and papers I could get my hands on …”

“Who cares?” Gottlieb interrupted, tugging at one end of his bow tie so that it loosened. “By then you’ll be long gone.”

“But—what if I’m not?” Maggie countered. “Can you imagine what would happen if I were assigned the job? The information I could get my hands on? Pass on? To you!”

Gottlieb looked shocked that she’d even raise the possibility of changing her itinerary. “That is not part of your assignment.”

Maggie tried not to grind her teeth in frustration. “Gottlieb, an amazing opportunity has presented itself. I’d be a fool not to follow up on it.”

“You’d be an even bigger fool not to leave precisely as scheduled.” He turned to her, green eyes serious. “Spies in the field don’t have a long life. The only way to keep you alive is to get you in and then get you out as quickly as possible. A long-term situation—”

“Would provide invaluable information. People always underestimate
their secretaries—believe me, I know. They say and do things in front of us that they’d never do in public. I used to hate that part of the job—but now I see that it can work to our advantage.”

“And I say
nein,
” Gottlieb insisted. “You’d be in one of the most dangerous spots in all of Germany. If you somehow betrayed yourself, if you were discovered, you would be shot at once. Or hanged—a bullet would be considered too good for you. And perhaps the group I’m working with would be exposed.” He shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous.”