Mission to Paris (25 page)

‘Kiki, hello! What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you. No, not really, I was invited, and it was such a boring afternoon …’

‘Well, it’s good to see you.’

That was true. Kiki looked her best – a black Chanel suit, chiffon blouse, a knotted rope of pearls, and tight black gloves. Her chestnut hair was cut short, with a swathe brushed across her forehead. She held a cigarette by her ear, her other hand cupping her elbow, and her eyes met his as she flirted with him. ‘I think you’re avoiding me, you know, you are
very
silent lately.’

‘Not on purpose,’ he said. ‘It’s just …’

‘Or maybe you think I’ve exhausted my, my, umm,
repertoire
. Well, don’t. I am the most
adventurous
girl.’

‘You are, and I know it.’

‘So where are you going after this?’

Stahl was severely tempted. Kiki held nothing back – unlike others he could name who held everything back. And he found himself wondering just what sort of wickedness she had in mind. Oh, what the hell, why not. As she took a puff on her cigarette and blew smoke from her nostrils, her eyes stayed fixed on his. With, now, pure enquiry.

‘I have to meet my producer,’ he said, and immediately regretted it. Why had he done this? He thought he knew – there was someone else he really wanted – but he’d surprised himself.
Not like me
, he thought.

‘I see,’ she said, an edge of anger in her voice. ‘Your producer. Well, don’t leave it too long, good things don’t last forever.’ She reached up and stroked his cheek with two gloved fingers.

‘I will telephone you, Kiki,’ he said. He kissed her lightly, left and right, inhaling the perfume in her hair.

19 November. The
Paris Herald
was brought to Stahl’s room every morning with his coffee and croissants. He had, like many Americans living in Paris, become addicted to it. The lead stories were, as usual since Stahl’s arrival, about political manoeuvres in European capitals. There was news of social goings-on, of sports – mostly football now – and the stock market. On the inside of the back page, a brief article caught Stahl’s attention. A certain Professor James Franklin, on sabbatical from the University of Illinois, and his wife, Dorothea, had left Paris on a trip to Berlin and there vanished. It had been three weeks since they were last seen. German police were investigating.

Stahl read the article twice, then again. Was this an instance of random violence? Had they encountered criminals? It was known in Paris that some Americans had been confronted in German cities by Brown Shirts and, refusing to return the Nazi salute, had been badly beaten up. Some had died. These events were rarely reported, but they were known to occur. Or was there a reason for their disappearance – had they been caught doing something clandestine? Stahl was to see J. J. Wilkinson late that afternoon and he considered raising the subject, then decided he shouldn’t. It would amount, implicitly, to an accusation: did you have something to do with this?

Stahl had his breakfast, then left the
Herald
on the tray for the room waiter to take away. Dressed for work at Joinville, on his way to the door, he read the article once again.

5.20 p.m. The Paris branch of the National City Bank, on the Champs-Elysées, had closed at five but Stahl, following directions, rang a bell by the door and was admitted, then escorted through the immense bronze doors to the vault and led to a private room reserved for safe-deposit box holders. Here Wilkinson awaited him.

After a very productive day on the movie set, Stahl was in a good mood – successful work almost always had this effect on him – and his narrative of the meeting with Wolf Lustig was lightened, here and there, by a touch of comedy. Traditionally, stories about god-awful movie producers were good for a laugh. But Wilkinson didn’t find it so funny. He made Stahl go back over details – ‘Are you sure he said that?’ and so on, as though the report he would write was an especially important one. ‘You’ve done well,’ Wilkinson said, when Stahl wound down.

‘Did I? I just stood there and let him talk. Do you suppose he really thought I was going to be in his wretched film?’

‘He had a try at it, he was likely
told
to try it. And then he went further, proposing that you go to live in Germany.’

Stahl shook his head. ‘How could anybody …’

‘Think you might? The Nazis believe they’re going to rule the world, and “believe” isn’t the right word – they
know
it. So maybe, with a little persuasion, with a little pressure, they might get you to join them. After all, you went to Berlin, you did what they wanted. And it would have been a real triumph if it had worked. Imagine the German newspapers.’

‘Well, he didn’t stop there. As I told you, he invited me to go scouting for locations in Poland.’

‘Yes, I’ll be spying on Poland, why not come along.’

Stahl looked incredulous.

‘Scouting locations?’ Wilkinson said. ‘That would perhaps include railways? Bridges? Ports? With a camera no doubt. What would you call it?’

‘
That
never occurred to me. I’m afraid I’m not so smart about this … kind of thing.’

‘Movie producers are catnip to spy services – they turn up everywhere, they spend a lot of money, they can reach important people, it’s one of those useful professions.’ Wilkinson put his notepad back in his briefcase. ‘Anyhow, you’ve helped us. Roosevelt is about to go to Congress with a proposal for millions of dollars to be spent on rearmament. Five hundred million dollars, to be precise, which ain’t chicken feed. And the only thing that will persuade Congress to spend this kind of money is some strong indication that there
will
be war in Europe. Hitler has been screaming about Poland lately, and suddenly it’s in the French press. I don’t know if you saw it, probably you didn’t, but that fascist bastard Marcel Déat just published an opinion piece called ‘
Mourir pour Danzig?
’ To die for Danzig? Who would want to die in some quarrel over a faraway city? So French public opinion is once again being, as they say, “harmonized”.

‘Now newspaper stories won’t convince the honourable senator from Ohio, but what may convince him is being invited to lunch at the White House and told, not for publication, of course, that the Germans are making propaganda films about Poland. They’re going down the same road they took in Czechoslovakia, but the Poles only just got their country back, twenty years ago, and they’ll fight to keep it. And when they fight, Britain and France will have to declare war – they wriggled out of their treaties with the Czechs at Munich but they can’t do that again.’

‘I assume there’s more than
Harvest of Destiny
.’

‘There is. All sorts of things that add up, Orlova’s notes included, and intelligence from here and there. The German administration in Danzig just threw all the Jews out of the city, for instance, and Danzig isn’t
in
Germany, it’s in Poland, supposedly administered by the League of Nations, so it will be a long lunch at the White House.’

‘Mr Wilkinson, you aren’t suggesting I go to Poland, are you?’

‘No. That’s potentially a trap.’

‘A trap?’

‘Maybe, could be, you never know. Talk about headlines! “Poles arrest American actor spying for Germany.” I doubt you’d be going back to Hollywood after that. And you really might wind up working for UFA.’

‘Good God.’

‘Yes, kindly old Dr Lawton joins up with the Nazis.’ The idea was horrifying but the way Wilkinson had put it amused them both. ‘Better stay here in Paris,’ Wilkinson said. ‘And, even here, watch out for yourself. These people may seem absurd, like Wolf Lustig and Moppi and his pals, but absurdity can shield the truth, which is that these people are dangerous.’

Adolf Hitler was a man who needed an audience. When he spoke in public, the shrieking crowd drove him to his most passionate moments. In private, he required a circle of admirers, sitting rapt and silent as he delivered his monologues. Of course the people around him had to be the right people: senior military officers, old comrades from the early Nazi days, a few blonde women, maybe an actress or two, a sprinkling of diplomats. One such was a cousin of Propaganda Minister Goebbels, a young man called Manfred Mueller. Freddi, Hitler called him, and he was something of a court favourite. He wore owlish round glasses in tortoiseshell frames, stood – and sat – straight as a stick, laughed at Hitler’s snide remarks, and carefully deferred to Hitler’s powerful friends but not in a way that got on their nerves. He was just a very nice young man, easy to have around.

Sometimes the whole gang went off to one of Hitler’s country retreats, the Berghof, say, in the mountain town of Berchtesgaden in the Austrian Alps. There wasn’t room for everybody at the Berghof – Hitler liked his numerous bodyguards close by – so his guests would stay at the Berchtesgadener Hof, the local hotel. Since these were social events, couples were welcome, and Freddi Mueller was often accompanied by his wife, Gertrud, called Trudi.

Trudi Mueller was also easy to have around, always following the expected protocol: women were there to listen to what the men said and to appreciate their brilliance, laugh at their wit, look serious when important subjects were being discussed. In her thirties, she was pretty in a careful way, with smooth brown hair and fine skin. She dressed conservatively and, like her husband, had excellent posture. A perfect couple, the Muellers: attentive, unassuming, and perfectly correct in everything they did, in everything they thought.

Well, almost everything. Because Trudi Mueller had fallen in love with Olga Orlova. Did Trudi admit this, even to herself? Possibly she didn’t, and buried certain desires so deeply that she could ignore their existence. But, whatever her dreams or reveries, and some of her dreams were unsettling, Trudi openly worshipped the Russian actress; thought her terribly glamorous, loved her beautiful clothes, loved the way she spoke – that Slavic undertone in her German, loved the way she held herself, loved the way her well-exercised body looked in a bathing suit. She saw Orlova, who was in her forties, as the successful older woman; sophisticated, confident, comfortable with her life. Trudi wouldn’t have dared to think she could ever be
like
her, it was more than enough to be near her.

Now Trudi may not have known what she felt but Orlova surely did. She’d been in this position before, she knew the signs, and didn’t mind – being desired was a daily commonplace for a film star and it was inevitable that sometimes women did the desiring. So Orlova knew. Trudi often touched her, her eyes had a certain light in them when the two of them talked, and she was responsive to Orlova’s moods and fell in with them. Was something funny? They laughed together. Was something sad? They mourned together. Would it ever go beyond that? Here Orlova was uncertain. Trudi was from a certain social class, strict, conventional, and rigidly proper, where such feelings between women were not discussed, and, supposedly, never acted upon. Even in the 1920s, when open and fervent sexuality flourished in German cities, the Trudi Muellers of the world sniffed and pretended not to notice. As for Orlova, a life in the theatre and then in film had room for pretty much anything, as long as it was discreet, as long as, the saying went, it didn’t frighten the cat.

Meanwhile, Orlova the professional spy sensed opportunity in Trudi’s affections. She couldn’t have said precisely what that was but felt its presence – something useful, a secret to be stolen, so she kept at it, and she and Trudi were often in each other’s company. On days when the men up at the Berghof had private matters to discuss and the women didn’t appear until dinnertime, the two of them would go walking in the mountains, take tea together in the hotel parlour – crackling fire on the hearth, bear and chamois trophy heads on the walls – and now and then visit in one of their rooms if the weather was bad.

And there came an afternoon in November when the weather was very bad indeed. It didn’t start that way, was chilly and calm all morning. Freddi was in a meeting up at the Berghof. Orlova, having the sort of day when boredom becomes intolerable, knocked at the door of Trudi’s room and suggested they take one of the trails up the mountain. She was already dressed for it: a ski parka, wool trousers – plus fours, buttoned over heavy socks below the knee – and a knit stocking cap, snug on her head, that hung down to her shoulder and ended in a fluffy pompom. The red cap made her look like a child, an elfin child, and Trudi said it was adorable.

Trudi was eager to go for a walk but she had to change into outdoor clothes. Orlova made as if to leave, so Trudi could dress in private, but Trudi insisted she stay, it wouldn’t take too long. Orlova sat in a chair, Trudi took off her dress and hung it up, tossed her slip on the bed, and walked around in her underwear, gathering up a cold-weather outfit and chattering away. Something of a display, really, a show, and Orlova wondered idly if she knew what she was doing. Perhaps she did – turning to Orlova and saying, ‘You don’t mind, do you, if I go about like this?’

‘Of course not.’

‘After all, we’re both girls.’

Trudi put on a heavy sweater and slacks, then lace-up boots. All the while she talked; they had the painters in their apartment in Berlin and the inconvenience, and the smell of fresh paint, was frankly testing her patience. Should they stay at a hotel? That seemed to her extravagant, didn’t Olga think so? No? No doubt Olga was used to luxurious hotels but Trudi was so much more comfortable at home. On and on she went, talking to Orlova through the open bathroom door as she fixed her make-up. Watching her apply fresh lipstick, Orlova thought,
Must look good in case we meet a bear
.

At that moment, Orlova’s eye happened to fall on a briefcase, leaning on the leg of a chair set before a small desk. Freddi’s briefcase. Forgotten? Left on purpose? She wondered what might be in there, then Trudi came out of the bathroom and said, reaching for her coat, ‘Ready at last!’

Outside, the clouds above the mountain had lowered while Trudi changed her clothes, and a white mist had blanked out the summit, which meant alpine weather on the way, but they were dressed for it. They walked through the town, past the little shops and the statue of Goethe, then started up one of the trails. About twenty minutes later a few flakes of snow came drifting down – big, soft flakes that spun through the still air. Trudi wiped her face with her mitten, Orlova’s cap turned from red to white. A wind stirred, then grew stronger and sighed through the forest, while the branches of the pine trees bowed with the weight of the new snow.