The Ambassador's Daughter (23 page)

“Is something wrong? You look so sad.”

“I’m fine,” I say, searching for a plausible explanation. “I just get a bit lost sometimes.”

He reaches over and I freeze. Will he try to kiss me again? But he just brushes a smudge of dirt from beneath my right eye, the edge of his finger grazing the lashes before pulling away.

I carry my dress into Georg’s room and loosen the robe. I pause, standing unclothed in the center of his room, seized with the urge to lie down in his bed, just inches away. “Margot?” he calls from the sitting room. Hurriedly, I put on the dress. The material is a bit scratchy from the quick drying and a faint pond smell lingers.

I step back out into the sitting room. “I should get home before Papa begins to worry.” His brow furrows.

“Does he mind your being out with me?” His question asks something deeper: Does Papa know of the feelings that have transpired between us?

“I don’t know.” A frown flickers across Georg’s face, disappointment, perhaps, that I have not been more forthright with Papa about what is transpiring between us. But how could I have possibly? It’s been mere days and whatever has grown between us is too fledgling and strange to understand myself, much less explain. Even without Stefan and the other complications, I could not have told him. “That is, he’s been so busy. I haven’t had the chance to speak with him about things.” It is a lie, I think, remembering our fight about Georg and our conversation just hours ago.

But Georg holds up his arm, warding off my excuses. “Of course not. No explanation needed. How silly of me to have thought... Your father would want someone Jewish, and a learned man to be sure.”

“It’s not that,” I protest quickly. “I would never care about such matters, if things were right.”

“If things were right,” he repeated slowly, eyes meeting mine with more hope than I have ever seen. Guilt rises. I am leading him on and I cannot stop myself. His face brightens. “I never should have expected you to tell him. You go home now. I should not have had you come here like this. First thing tomorrow I will see your father and ask his permission to call on you formally.”

Panic floods my brain. If Georg goes to Papa, he will learn the truth about everything. “Georg, no.” He blanches with apprehension that all of his original concerns of not being good enough to be accepted are in fact true. “Papa’s just so preoccupied with the conference work right now. It is taxing his health, which is already in a dreadful state.” I curse myself for using Papa’s heart condition as an alibi. “If we just wait until after the plenary session next week, we can have you around for dinner and then you can ask.” I cringe inwardly at the lie. It will never be okay for Georg to ask Papa to court me. But at least this will buy me some time.

“Fine,” he says, somewhat mollified.

“I should go,” I say again, picking up the documents.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“Really, that isn’t necessary.” I am not keen to be seen with him at this hour and my excuses will be so much easier to make if I can be caught alone.

He raises his hand, unwilling to be dissuaded. Neither of us speaks on the short walk down the street to our apartment building. He stops a few meters from the doorway, a concession to the secret I’ve asked him to keep for now. There is a moment of silence that seems eternal. Our eyes meet uncertainly. Will he try to kiss me again?

But he nods and tips his hat formally, grasping the present limitations—a tactical retreat. There is a moment of awkward hesitation as we watch one another uncertainly. “We’ll resume work tomorrow, then?” For everything that has transpired between us, there is still the work.

“Good night,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. Everything has changed between us in a way that cannot be undone. I turn and walk into the apartment building without looking back, feeling his eyes on me.

Chapter 12

The next night when I walk into the hotel library, it is dark and empty, with a stale smell that suggests Georg has not yet been there this evening.

Carrying the documents I’ve brought back with me, I walk down the hall and knock on the door to his room. “Hello?” There is no answer. I turn the handle and push open the door. But his rooms are still, as well. Six forty-five, the clock on the wall reads. He must be in meetings with the delegation. I had not planned to come early, but since I have...my eyes travel across the room to the desk and the pile of papers I’d searched the night he was ill. Perhaps if I look again, I can find another report that details the information Ignatz wants. Of course, it is risky—Georg could return at any second. But time is running out and there’s no reason to believe I will have another chance to search the apartment alone. I have to try.

I move toward the desk, peering over my shoulder. Then I lift the stack to the midpoint, separating it close to where I found the original map. There are cables, but they reference other matters, seemingly unrelated to military installations in the east. I page deeper.

The door creaks suddenly. I jump back and the documents scatter like falling leaves. “Georg,” I manage, as I kneel hurriedly to pick them up. “You startled me. I was early,” I add. I’m babbling now. “I came in here looking for the rest of the Leimer file.”

He bends and takes the documents I’ve collected from me in one fell swoop, then sets them back on the desk. “It’s in the library.” I follow him down the hall. He does not sound suspicious or annoyed. But when we reach the library, his brow is furrowed, bottom lip drawn in consternation. He looks tired and there are dark circles under his eyes. Perhaps the strain of our walk the previous night was too much.

“What is it?” I ask, putting my hand on his forearm instinctively.

“A document is missing.” My breath catches. Easy, I think. There are thousands of documents. It could be something else. “A map of weapons depots to the east.” Now I cease breathing entirely. “I received a call from the delegation saying that they needed that document and when I went to fetch it from the file, it was gone.”

My pulse quickens. The very paper I had stolen was the one that they sought. What are the odds? It is almost as if someone knew. But how is that possible? “Don’t worry,” he soothes, seeing my distress. “It wasn’t in the binder you took, or even the ones you’ve reviewed here.” No, it is from the pile I riffled while you were semiconscious with fever. “But it’s terribly disturbing.”

“Perhaps it was a mistake and it was missing before you came to Paris?”

“I’m afraid not. All of the documents were meticulously catalogued.” Georg was far too orderly to leave such things to chance. “And I’ve seen this particular one since coming here. It is definitely missing.” He drops into a chair. “And that is disastrous.”

“Surely they won’t think you lost it intentionally.”

He jumps up again. “Perhaps not. But it could cause problems. You see, there are deep factions within the delegation.” I nod. Papa had alluded to as much. “As with any political group, there are different views. The hardliners—mostly the older members—feel that there is no reconciliation with the West, that even in defeat we should hold our ground and remain an island.” He is pacing now, one hand at the back of his neck. “They regard my views of possible collaboration on future military endeavors as too liberal. The only reason they tolerate me at all is because of my military service record. And if they think I’ve lost a document, perhaps even on purpose, it will seriously undermine the credibility of my position and my work will be jeopardized.”

Suddenly my violation of his trust seems more egregious than ever. “There has to be something that we can do to mitigate the damage.”

“It’s more than that, actually. The document did not just contain the German information. I have an ally, you see.” I cock my head. “In the ministry is a young French lieutenant, partially of Russian descent. I had the opportunity to make acquaintance with the officer several years ago before the war on a joint training exercise and we stayed in touch. Lieutenant Bouvier believes, as I do, in the future of joint cooperation. So we’ve been,
ahem,
sharing information where it could be beneficial to that cause.”

“I see.” Georg has a contact inside the French foreign ministry. I had no idea. All of this time I’ve been so preoccupied with my own secrets, it never occurred to me that he might have one or two of his own.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Margot. At first, I didn’t know you all that well. It’s one thing to tell you about my work, but to jeopardize someone else is another matter. And then it didn’t seem to matter as much.”

“It’s fine.” I am hardly in a position to be holding grudges over secrets.

“I need to get word to Lieutenant Bouvier that our information has been compromised. But it hasn’t been safe for us to talk for months, and I don’t dare call the ministry or go there for fear of attracting attention.”

“I can do it,” I blurt without thinking. “That is, I can deliver a message to Lieutenant Bouvier for you.”

“Margot, no. I couldn’t ask.” But I can see his mind working, the solution forming even as he protests it.

“I’m familiar with the ministry.” It is perhaps an overstatement, but I was inside a handful of times with Papa when we stayed in Paris. And no one is likely to question a young woman such as myself who might easily be a courier. “Write the note,” I instruct, with more force than I thought I would have dared.

The next morning at nine, I step out of the taxi in front of the foreign ministry. I cross the street quickly, fighting the urge to run and attract attention as I make my way to the entrance at the side of the massive building. Time is of the essence, Georg had said the previous evening, and I would have gone then and there, had the late hour not made it impossible. Instead, I had lain awake most of the night, plotting how I could get to Lieutenant Bouvier. At the gate, I stop, steeling myself. The arched entranceway is a swirl of bodies, diplomats arriving, couriers setting out on errands, visitors claiming appointments and waiting to be seen. I weave through the horde authoritatively. I do not stop at the gate, but wave airily the visitor badge I’d found in our apartment, hoping that the guard will not notice from this distance that it expired months ago.

Inside, the West Entrance Hall is quiet by contrast, just a few groups of suited men clustered on the red velvet couches talking. My heels echo conspicuously as I cross the marble floor.

“Mademoiselle?”
a voice says behind me as I reach the base of the wide staircase.

I freeze and turn back, certain that I have been caught.
“Oui?”

Standing before me is a uniformed guard who cannot be more than eighteen or so himself. “You look lost. Can I help?”

“I’m trying to find my father, Professor Rosenthal, who is an advisor to the conference.”

“I believe they’re presently in the salon on the second floor.” I continue two flights up the staircase. When I reach the landing, I start down the high-ceilinged corridor, which is lined with framed tapestries. Thick velvet curtains, held back with gold brocade, frame the windows.

At the end of the hall, I find a narrower, back stairway. Looking over my shoulder, I walk down to the floor below. Away from the ceremonial halls, the decor is less ornate: there is a row of simple oak doors with brass nameplates beside them, modest lighting instead of chandeliers. Following the instructions Georg had given me, I reach a door marked
“E. Bouvier” and knock.

“Oui?”
a female voice calls. I push the door open. Inside, a woman in a navy skirt and blouse sits behind a desk.

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Bouvier.”

“That’s me.”

I falter. I had never considered that Lieutenant Bouvier might be a woman. She is beautiful with a short tight cap of black curls and bright blue eyes. “I’m sorry, I had not expected...”

“A woman?” She smiles wearily. “I was in the nursing corps. Lieutenant was my military title.” Taking in her button nose and perfect lips, which form a pout without the help of makeup, I am flooded with jealousy. How well does she know Georg? Had they been involved? “Can I help?” she prompts.

“Captain Richwalder sent me,” I say.

“Georg?” A flash of intimacy crosses her face, confirming everything I feared about the two of them. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

“He wanted me to give you this.” I hold out the note. She unfolds it and as she reads, her eyes widen with alarm. Then she crumples the note in her fist. “Thank you.”

“He wanted you to know so that he could offset any damage from the loss,” I say, eager to show her that I am not just a messenger but a partner in Georg’s work. An idea begins to form. “Georg mentioned that you might have a copy of the map that was lost.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did he want it?”

I nod. “A mimeograph, yes.” I hold my breath, waiting for her to ask why he had not requested the copy in his note. But she turns and disappears through another door. My heart begins to pound. If I can get her to give me a copy of the map, I can pass it on to Ignatz as I had originally intended.

Several minutes later, she returns carrying a piece of paper and starts to hand it to me. Then she hesitates, leaving my hand outstretched midair. “Be careful with this. Many—including Georg—could be hurt if it falls into the wrong hands.”

I swallow as she seems to see right through me. “I shall.” Outside the office, I pause, shaking. Then I walk down the hallway to the wide marble staircase, folding the paper as I walk.

As I round the bend, Papa appears several steps below. “There you are.” Hurriedly, I jam the paper into my bag. “The guard rang that you were here and asking for me, but you never appeared. Margot, what is it? Are you ill?”

“Not at all.” I search for an explanation. “I was in the city and I wanted to check if you were free for coffee.”

He studies me, not quite believing the lie. I meet his eyes, willing him not to look down and notice the paper sticking out of my half-open bag. The realization that I had come on an errand for Georg and had become so involved in his work would surely be the final straw. “I’m afraid I can’t,” Papa says. “Do you mind?”