The bartender had moved away and was now pouring for a loud group of patrons.
Estelle leaned closer to the colonel as if hanging on his every word. Which, she supposed, she was. Just not for the reasons he thought.
Estelle wasn’t sure if any of the information she collected in this hotel was at all useful to the network to which she reported or what, if anything, they were able to do with such knowledge. It had been the field medic whom she had worked with for months, Jerome de Colbert, who had set up the initial meetings—his cousin Vivienne being the resistance operative Estelle met with most often. Half the time, Estelle felt ridiculous passing on details like the number and identities of the Luftwaffe officers who had taken up residence in the hotel, the names of the women who warmed their beds, or the fragments of conversations she overheard at the bars and in the salons. But all of it was absorbed with grave intensity. And solemn encouragement to keep watching and listening.
Like she was doing now.
“We’ve destroyed Britain’s air force.” Meyer clenched his fist and then opened it like he was mimicking a bomb detonating. “Utterly routed them. There is nothing left.”
“Nothing?” Estelle remarked, attempting to sound impressed. Inside she was shaking. With anger or despair, she wasn’t sure.
“We pulverized them,” he said with relish.
Estelle only nodded.
“The Reichsmarschall has now ordered the annihilation of London. Without a challenge, we will all be able to celebrate Göring’s brilliance and Churchill’s surrender right here in this beautiful city. This war will be over quickly, of this I am sure. Days, perhaps, weeks at worst.” He picked up his glass, raised it in a silent toast, drained it with gusto, and signalled the barman for another. “And I’m also sure we would all like to hear you sing to mark the occasion.”
I’d rather die, Estelle thought but, as always, she kept her smile firmly upon her lips. She managed another nod, already trying to determine if there was any logical way that she might get this information to Vivienne before tomorrow morning. Though for all Estelle knew, the Luftwaffe was already dropping explosives on London as the RAF sat in ruins and she sat sipping fine champagne at a Paris bar.
Estelle knew that Vivienne or the others in her network were in contact with London sporadically because they brought news of what was happening beyond the borders of France. Perhaps, at the very least, Estelle might be assured that Meyer’s comments were nothing more than a cog in the machine that was Nazi propaganda. Perhaps the Germans had underestimated the air force on the other side of the channel. Perhaps the RAF was merely biding its time.
Or perhaps the horrific red-and-black flags shrouding every building and monument in Paris would soon similarly hang from London’s edifices.
The barkeep had set a drink down in front of the colonel and nodded in Estelle’s direction. The lenses of his pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose reflected the light from above and hid his eyes and his thoughts. Another reminder of things she didn’t know.
She drew her own glass across the smooth wood surface of the bar. “Shall I—”
“Colonel.” A harried officer who looked as if he’d just run a Roman mile approached Meyer, speaking in rapid German. “I was told I could find you in here.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I’ve come from Saint-Germain-en-Laye. I have a message for the Reichsmarschall.”
Meyer waved his hand in exasperation. “Then give it to him.”
“I can’t find him, sir. Do you know where he is?” He held a folded paper in his hand.
“I do not.” Meyer looked mildly annoyed. “If not in the dining room or one of the salons or one of the bars, he will most likely be in his suite. If that is the case, he will not appreciate disturbances.”
Estelle kept her face perfectly blank and put her handbag beside her drink, releasing the clasp.
The man shifted from foot to foot. “But it is imperative I speak with him.”
“Whatever the meddling field marshal wants, I’m sure it can wait.”
“But the message is from the Führer himself.”
The colonel stilled. “From the Führer?”
“Sent directly from Berlin. And the Führer demands an immediate answer from the Reichsmarschall. I’m to wait for a response and return with a reply for encryption.”
“It’s ridiculous that we are running messages back and forth across this damn country like rats scurrying about,” Meyer growled at the hapless officer. “Not only is the inefficiency of this process an affront to the entire Luftwaffe, it’s dangerous.”
“The mobile unit in Saint-Germain is well secured, Colonel. The location is changed regularly.”
“They are trucks,” Meyer snarled. “Vulnerable to anyone who can drive one.”
“I can assure you that we—”
The colonel banged his fist on the surface of the bar. “The field marshal has been promising the Luftwaffe its own communication equipment that has thus far failed to materialize. Can you explain that?”
The beleaguered officer cleared his throat. “I’m quite sure that everything possible is being done—”
“The Kriegsmarine does not seem to suffer such delays receiving their encryption devices.” The colonel still sounded furious.
“Those devices are not nearly as secure and sophisticated as the ones at Saint-Germain. The one that is being delivered here.”
Meyer didn’t seem impressed. “I have a teleprinter already installed that is sitting idle and useless, waiting to be connected, and the men who are supposed to be operating the system sitting just as idle and useless. Did von Rundstedt at least tell you when we might expect delivery of this sophisticated encryption unit?” He practically spat the word sophisticated back at the officer.
“I-I’m not sure, sir. Days, I think. They are waiting for a part of the machine from Berlin. It’s shipped in pieces, as I understand. For security purposes.”
Meyer cursed under his breath.
“Is something wrong?” Estelle looked up from her handbag with wide eyes.
“No, no,” he assured her in French. “Just a small matter.” He turned to the officer and switched back to German, visibly composing himself. “Give the message to me. I will take it to the Reichsmarschall.”
“Very good, sir.” The younger officer sounded relieved. “I will wait for a response.”
The colonel held out his hand, and the officer placed the paper in his waiting palm.
“You can also tell von Rundstedt that he is trying my patience. And that of the Reichsmarschall.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind.” Meyer waved the officer away impatiently.
“Is that important?” Estelle asked, gesturing at the paper.
“A message from Berlin,” Meyer told her. “And something I must deal with, I’m afraid.” He picked up the emeralds still lying on the polished bar and weighed them in his palm. “On second thought, perhaps you may reconsider your offer?”
“My offer?”
“To sing tonight, of course.”
“Of course.” This man had a way of twisting words.
“Come with me to the Reichsmarschall’s suite. If I must disturb him, he will take such an inconvenience more gracefully if it is accompanied by a welcome distraction such as yourself. He would enjoy a private audience with his favourite songbird, I think, and even more so should she come bearing gifts.”