Louise's War (18 page)

‘Can you help us?’ Remembering Rachel’s plea summoned up the awful, terrible pictures I’d seen in
Life
magazine. Anxiety clutched at my bowels and stomach. I felt tears forming, but crying would ruin my face, so I squeezed back my tears and forced myself to focus on the evening ahead.

It was blazing hot outside, and the Wardman Hotel was many blocks north on Connecticut Avenue on the other side of the Taft Bridge. I hoped to God I’d find a bus or a taxi, or I’d arrive late and in a state.

Downstairs I ran into Phoebe in the hall. She drifted up to me, eyes dilated from the laudanum she took for her headaches.

‘Going out, dearie?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m meeting a friend for a drink at the Wardham.’ Never lie more than you absolutely must, was one cardinal rule I’d absorbed at OSS.

‘Your beau?’

‘I don’t have a beau, Phoebe,’ I said. ‘This is just a friend.’

‘It’s a long way to the Wardham.’

‘I know. It makes me hot to think about it. I hope I can find a cab.’

‘Why don’t you take my car?’

I caught my breath. Drive, actually drive, myself? I longed to.

‘I couldn’t,’ I said.

‘Don’t be silly. It’s got a full tank of gas, and just sits in the garage. It needs to be driven, or I’ll lose my ration.’

I carefully backed Phoebe’s stubby two-door coupe out of the narrow garage, engaged the clutch, shifted gears, and headed west on ‘K’ Street. I drove twice around Washington Circle for the fun of it, admiring the vast George Washington University Hospital, pitying the poor souls queuing at bus stops and slug lines. I drove north on New Hampshire, circled Dupont, and north again on Connecticut, passing a score of handsome buildings, most of them foreign embassies. Just before I crossed the Taft Bridge I saw the Vichy French embassy, a stone mansion shrouded in ivy surrounded by a vast lawn.

I motored slowly over the bridge to take in the view. Houseboats with laundry draped over deck chairs to dry lined both banks of the Potomac. Colorful sailboats, with their masts lowered, drifted gently at anchor in the soft breeze. I wanted to keep driving for ever. Out into the green, shady countryside, where waging this war was simple and uncomplicated, only a matter of buying war bonds and eschewing sugar.

The Wardman Hotel in all its Beaux Arts splendor rose before me. Red-brick edged with bright-white painted trim and balconies, the Wardman was the best temporary wartime address in Washington. Diplomats, movie stars and businessmen leased more permanent residences at the Wardham Apartments, which spread out behind the hotel.

After parking the car I walked past manicured gardens to the front door of the hotel. I passed the huge swimming pool, surrounded by umbrellas, lounge chairs and men and women in revealing bathing suits. Phoebe often complained that once the war started people began going about half naked.

The cool water looked so inviting I would have loved to jump right in.

The Wardman lobby was two stories high, the ornate ceiling supported by thick marble columns. Lionel waved to me from a table in the lobby bar. I slid into a chair next to him.

‘I took the liberty of ordering us some champagne,’ Lionel said. ‘I hope you approve?’

‘Absolutely,’ I answered. A bartender appeared with a bar towel draped over one arm and, with a flourish, showed the bottle to Lionel, who nodded, uncorked it with a pop and a fizz and poured bubbly liquid into flutes. Then he plunged the bottle into a silver champagne bucket full of ice next to the table.

‘Caviar?’ Lionel asked.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t acquired that taste.’

‘Canapés, then,’ Lionel said to the waiter, who nodded and slipped away.

‘You look
charmante
,’ Lionel said.

‘And you are very handsome.’ He was, too, elegant in his expensive gray lounge suit in a way that American men rarely managed.

I suffered a minute of self-doubt. Who was I, where was I, and what in God’s name was I doing? Dressed in a chic suit, flirting with a French diplomat, in an exclusive hotel bar? A day after meeting Clark Gable at Friendship House, and a day before going out on a date with a Czech refugee?

I’d arrived in this town a widow who’d never left North Carolina and had been with the same man since we were children until he died, and now I was about to ask Lionel to help me steal files from the French embassy.

I calmed my nerves by swallowing the rest of my champagne. Lionel poured me another flute. My tolerance for alcohol was remarkable, too, considering I’d arrived in Washington having never partaken of anything except the occasional sherry glass of blackberry wine.

‘So, my dear,’ Lionel said, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘A bit. When we parted I got the distinct feeling that you were not interested in seeing me again, then I receive your phone call, and here you are, radiating purpose.’ He smiled. ‘I do not mind,’ he said. ‘This is the reason one socializes in Washington, to meet people who might be useful to one, is it not?’

‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘but this is the first time for me.’

‘Always the nerves with one’s first time.’

He was flirting with me again. I guessed that no matter how useful we might be to each other, the romantic possibilities would never be far from Lionel’s mind.

‘You know where I work; where do you?’ Lionel asked.

‘I work for the government. I’m a file clerk.’

‘Where?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Is this official business?’

‘No.’

‘Why don’t you tell me what you want from me,
chérie
.’

I lowered my voice and leaned forward.

‘I need you to steal a file from your embassy for me.’

Lionel laughed. ‘My dear, you are, what is your word, loony.’

‘So you won’t do it?’

‘Not alone. For me to agree, you must take the same risks as I do. And I could not cooperate with any plan which, say, endangered French nationals.’

‘No.’ I gained some time by munching on a smoked-salmon canapé. Lionel waited patiently.

‘Where I work,’ I ventured, ‘I came upon a file.’

‘As a file clerk must often do.’

‘Yes. Well, it concerned a French family, Jewish, who need help escaping from Marseille.’

Lionel frowned. ‘Marseille is about to become a very dangerous place for
les juifs
.’

‘I know. The Gestapo. . . .’

Lionel placed his hand over my mouth.

‘Do not say that word. Curse them all, they will rot in hell. Our job is to speed them on their way.’

‘This family, the husband is an expert in a subject that could be helpful to the Allies.’

‘I see. He wishes to trade his knowledge for his family’s safety.’

‘My agency was scheduled to consider his offer. But the file vanished during a . . . disruptive event. Everyone believes it was lost. I am sure it was stolen.’

‘Someone does not want this man to assist the Allies?’

‘I don’t know. This is difficult to explain –’ and I took a gulp of champagne – ‘but I want to help his family. His wife is a dear friend of mine. We went to school together. I can’t bear the thought of what might happen to them.’ My voice broke, and I swallowed another gulp of champagne.

Lionel shook his head. ‘Women,’ he said, ‘you think with your hearts.’

‘If you, we, can get into the French embassy files, I might be able to find documents on this man, reconstruct a file and continue the process . . .’

‘To free him and your friend’s family.’

‘Yes.’

‘You do this on your own, because you have no idea who in your office might be involved in the theft of the file?’

‘Yes. Of course, I do think this man has valuable knowledge.’

‘Otherwise there would be no chance that your, ah, agency would accept his offer.’

‘Exactly.’

Lionel leaned back in his seat and pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket. He extracted a cigarette and offered it to me.

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘It makes my throat sore.’

Lionel put the cigarette into his mouth and lit it with an embossed lighter. He focused on smoking it while contemplating a tall potted palm across the lobby.

‘I don’t buy your story, my dear,’ he said.

I was taken aback.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There is more than friendship here, I think. To undertake such a difficult task, such a dangerous mission, on your own, for a school friend you haven’t seen in years?’

I didn’t answer him for a long time.

‘Rachel was, is, the best friend I’ve ever had,’ I said. ‘But you’re right, there is more. I am deeply indebted to her for more than her friendship.’

‘How?’

‘I’d rather not say. It embarrasses me. And we promised each other never to mention it.’

He stubbed the cigarette out into the ashtray. ‘I loathe Vichy,’ he said. ‘If Pétain and Laval were here with us I would strangle them both with my bare hands and happily hang for it. I detest the Nazis even more. They have seized my family home for officers’ quarters. My mother is living in the maid’s room off the scullery. She is forced to cook their meals.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘We are all sorry. But sorrow without action is worthless. I will help you, government girl, but what can you do for me in return?’

Seeing the shock on my face, he laughed. ‘I am not talking about
relations sexuelles
. I am not that vulgar. Not in public, at any rate. What I must know is, do you have any useful information you can give me in return for my help?’

‘No.’ And I didn’t. What could I do for Lionel that wouldn’t compromise me at OSS?

‘I do not wish to endanger you,’ he said, ‘but one day you might come across some tidbit of information, perhaps even outside your office, during your daily life, that might seem inconsequential, but could be very useful to me. You could share it with me.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘perhaps I could do that.’ In your dreams, I thought.

‘Let me think about the details. May I call you about nine on Saturday morning, with my plan?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be waiting.’ I gave him my phone number.

I’d just agreed to penetrate a foreign embassy without cover or back-up. The spooks called that going naked, and I felt exposed, all right.

‘So you do think you can get me into the embassy?’

‘
Ma chérie
,’ he said, ‘it will be simple. I will arrange the details. Saturday is your July Fourth. The embassy staff, including the ambassador, the pig, will be gone for the weekend, leaving only the watchman and his dog. The dog, by the way, is fond of me. I have given him many treats. You have seen the Vichy embassy? It’s
un
grand
château
, what you would call a mansion. You and I will simply walk in, I will explain to the guard that you are my mistress and we require
un endroit tranquille
. The French are always susceptible to the entreaties of lovers.’

‘Does that make sense? Why couldn’t we go to your apartment?’

‘That would be most insensitive of us. My wife lives there.’

‘We have company,’ Joe said.

He stood on the porch, his morning cup of coffee in hand, staring across the street. I looked, and felt my heart jerk. Two FBI agents leaned on a lamppost, scanning our street. They were unmistakable. And one had a yellow feather in his hatband.

‘What have you done?’ Joe asked, lightly.

‘Me? Nothing. You?’ I said.

‘I’m pure as the driven snow. Maybe Dellaphine’s been selling her hooch on the black market.’

‘Dellaphine makes hooch?’

‘Didn’t you know? Small batches, in the laundry room. Peach brandy mostly. It’s not bad.’

Despite our banter, I was worried. If the agents were watching Joe I might find him packed and gone when I got back from work today. I might never see him again, much less know what he did with himself behind that black door.

‘They’re moving down the street now,’ Joe said, ‘taking up position at another street lamp.’

‘Maybe it’s not Dellaphine they’re after,’ I said.

‘Hope not, for their sake. I expect she’d put up a fight.’

‘You know you’re not anybody in Washington unless you’ve got a file at the FBI.’ I’d heard that General Donovan’s was two inches thick and that Hoover kept it on his desk.

Ada came onto the porch, still wearing her dressing gown.

‘Hey, Ada,’ I said. ‘Come look. There are two FBI agents across the street.’

Every drop of blood drained from Ada’s face, her eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she slumped to the ground.

SIXTEEN

N
either Joe nor I moved fast enough to break Ada’s fall. She landed hard on the carpet but missed hitting any furniture.

‘Help me sit her up,’ Joe said. ‘Put her head between her knees.’

I did. Joe pressed one hand on the back of Ada’s neck. She slowly gained consciousness.

‘Dearie, what’s wrong?’ I slid an arm around her to support her. Joe fetched one of the fans that lay around the house and waved it vigorously. Color slowly came back into Ada’s face.

‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Really, I am.’

‘I’m sorry we startled you like that,’ I said.

‘Those agents,’ Joe said, ‘they’re wandering up and down this whole block. Who knows what they’re doing here.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t that,’ Ada said, too quickly. ‘I didn’t feel well anyway. I don’t think I had enough supper last night before I went out, and I drank one too many Martinis.’ Her voice trembled as she spoke, and she gripped my hand so tightly it hurt.

Joe and I glanced at each other. I could tell he didn’t believe her either.

‘Let me get you upstairs,’ I said.

‘Can I help?’ Joe asked.

‘We’ll manage,’ I said.

I guided Ada up the staircase. She dragged herself along, clinging to the banister like an old woman.