Göring and Abetz returned the salute.
In German, Abetz introduced Schiller to Göring. Then Abetz addressed Paul in French. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Aubrey. I am honored that you are here.”
“Not as honored as I am by your invitation.”
Abetz addressed Göring in German. Paul made out his name and Aubrey Automobiles.
Göring looked like every cartoon drawn of him—round, sharp eyed, and dressed in an elaborate pale blue uniform weighted down with ribbons and medals.
As Abetz spoke, Göring’s face brightened. Then he said something in German.
Abetz translated for Paul. “The Reichsmarschall remembersyour cars fondly, and he was pleased to see your trucks serving at his airfields.”
At his airfields? Paul sensed opportunity, and he feigned bewilderment. “At your airfields, Herr Reichsmarschall? That cannot be. Under contract, my trucks are for civilian use only. As an American, I’m not allowed to produce military equipment—nor am I required to.”
Before Abetz could translate, Schiller stepped closer and spoke to Göring, his voice emphatic and falsely light, his smile forced.
Paul didn’t understand a word, but he understood what was happening. Months ago, Schiller might have been unaware that Paul’s trucks were being converted for military use. But now he knew, and he was informing Göring of the lies Paul had been fed.
All three Germans looked at Paul with the same fake smile.
Göring spoke, and Abetz translated. “The Reichsmarschall apologizes. Of course, your trucks run on gazogène and could never be used by the military. He must have seen one of your civilian trucks making a delivery in a nearby town. As a man who appreciates fine automobiles, he recognized your logo.”
Paul returned the man’s smile. “Danke, Herr Reichsmarschall. I am honored that you remember my automobiles so fondly.”
Small talk followed about the cold weather and the excellent company, all spoken with more joviality than warranted.
Before long, Paul and Schiller stepped aside. When they reached the center of the room, Paul sobered and looked Schiller hard in the eye. “Our contract is specific, Colonel. I’d hate to hear Germany was in breach of contract.”
Schiller’s smile flickered. “I assure you, it was a simple misunderstanding. The Reichsmarschall knows airplanes, not trucks. The military has no use for gazogène vehicles.”
Paul took a pretend sip of champagne. “I’m sure it would be very difficult to convert from gazogène to gasoline.”
Schiller hesitated a telling second. “It would.”
“Good. I refuse to break the laws of my nation.”
“We would never ask you to.”
No, they would never ask. They did what they wanted. They stole and looted and destroyed.
But Paul would do everything in his power to fight back.
35
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER3, 1941
The majesty of thegrand escalierin the Palais Garnier stole Lucie’s breath, as it had every time she’d seen it.
Light from a profusion of wall sconces washed over the Belle Époque hall, filled with carvings and paintings and statues, all centered on a stairway that was beyond grand. White marble steps swept high, framed by red and green marble balustrades, then divided at the landing to rise to the right and left.
Lucie ascended along with dozens of men and women in evening dress. Her right hand held up the skirt of her floor-length gown, emerald chiffon layered over sapphire chiffon that created a shimmer of color with each step. Her left hand held her satin clutch with the precious ticket.
Above her on the landing stood Paul, and he stole whatever remaining breath she possessed. With one hand on the banister, he wore his black cutaway coat with elegant ease.
His gaze fell on her. His mouth softened, and his eyebrows lifted.
She allowed the slightest smile and climbed slowly to draw out the moment.
