“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.”
“I realize that it’s dangerous. But it’s a calculated risk.”
“Which you will not take.”
Who are you to give me orders? “Look, Gottlieb—I just came from London. Do you realize how horrible things are there? The Luftwaffe’s destroying the city. People have been buried alive. There are children without parents, parents without limbs, homes destroyed, invasion imminent. It’s absolutely desperate.”
“No.”
“Well,” Maggie said in clipped tones, picking up her sandals, “it’s not up to you, is it?”
He rose. “You will be at the pickup point tomorrow night, as planned, for your flight back to London. We will not deviate from the plan.” He stared at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His pale face was mottled red with anger.
Maggie yawned, a big yawn, and stretched. “I’m exhausted—I’m going to go to sleep,” she said, closing the bedroom door.
“And you are leaving tomorrow!”
Maggie called through the closed door, “Good night, Schatzi.”
Later that night, at the party, more and more champagne was consumed from crystal coupes. The orchestra played a Strauss waltz, and the guests’ voices rose louder and louder, and the dancing grew wilder as the violins sounded their high notes verging on hysteria.
“Where’s your husband, Clara?” Goebbels asked the blonde as they sat out the dance; his clubfoot made it hard to waltz.
“He went to bed, I think. He’ll be off to Zürich soon, to conduct Lohengrin.”
“Lohengrin—one of my favorites.”
Clara rested one arm on the back of the settee and leaned closer. “Joseph, what do you know about that girl? The one with the red hair?”
“Oh, Margareta something-or-other? She came with Gottlieb Lehrer.”
“Have they known each other long?”
“I don’t know about that, but they certainly seemed quite infatuated. I believe they met in Rome.” He looked at her quizzically. “Why do you ask, darling?”
Clara smiled and patted his knee. “Let’s just say I’m curious is all. Please have your people run a thorough background check.”
Goebbels looked around. “I think she and young Lehrer left an hour or so ago. If you’d like, I can have my men follow them …”
“No, no—not tonight.” Clara shook her head. “But soon. Monday morning. I just want to make certain everything’s in order. Now come,” she urged, standing and extending her hand, “dance with me. Let’s not waste this gorgeous music.”
Chapter Eleven
Maggie had a restless night, full of half-realized nightmares and memories from the evening before, of spiders with teeth, and sticky webs tangled in her hair. However, the next morning, she woke early, dressed, and put on her hat and gloves. It was Sunday morning, and Gottlieb had left her a note that he had gone to Mass. She grabbed her knitting and hurried down to the square.