The Lavender Keeper (24 page)

Now she had to quickly ingratiate herself into his life. He’d
given her the opening. It was her intention to make that offer of a job a reality in the near future.

‘I enjoyed my calvados, thank you,’ she said. ‘It was a lovely evening.’ Lisette was careful to keep her distance even though they walked arm in arm.

‘I like Walter,’ he said. ‘Too many of us are caught up in Hitler’s madness, believing ourselves invincible. Walter isn’t one of them. But I think I am the one who should be thanking you for a delightful evening.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I’m just very glad that Pierre never turned up.’

He turned. ‘Really?’ The question was loaded with meaning.

She hesitated slightly. ‘Yes, Colonel, I am.’

‘Call me Markus, would you? It’s been a long time since a beautiful woman said my name.’

His gaze was so intent she faltered momentarily. Even in her dreams the mission hadn’t proceeded as quickly as this. The reality was unnerving.

He watched her struggle with the compliment and stopped walking. They’d reached the gate at the end of the Tuileries. ‘Don’t be frightened of me, Lisette. And don’t worry about your godfather.’

She tried to shrug and genuinely had to look away from his eyes, which seemed to turn her into a statue like those in the gardens behind her. ‘I feel it would be disrespectful not to use your title.’

He gently gripped her arms. ‘I understand. In fact, your reluctance is charming. But you have my permission. And if you’re referring to our age difference …’ He shrugged. ‘It is not my fault you were born fifteen years too late.’

Her laughter was genuine and spontaneous. They continued walking.

‘Ah, I enjoy amusing you. How old are you, anyway?’

‘Twenty-four,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be twenty-five in a few days, actually. My birthday is on the eighth.’ She’d almost forgotten.

‘On Monday, really? Have you something planned?’

‘No. I’m on rations, remember.’

‘What about Walter? Your friends?’

‘I don’t think Walter would recall. And Pierre is my only friend.’

‘Is he your lover?’

She smirked. ‘No. But he’s been a good companion to me since I arrived.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘On the platform at Gare de l’Est. He tripped over my bag and knocked me down. We became instant friends as he helped me up.’

‘It sounds romantic.’

‘It wasn’t. My elbow was bleeding,’ she said, embellishing her fabricated tale as she went.

‘I would have kissed it better.’

This was the moment, she felt it; he was vulnerable now. ‘Unfortunately you weren’t there, Markus … or I’m sure I would have let you.’ Even though she couldn’t see well in the darkness, she felt the full intensity of Kilian’s ice-blue eyes fall on her.

‘I would never stand you up. Along with being clumsy, this Pierre is an idiot. I would never let another man be alone with you as we are now.’

Lisette swallowed. ‘That sounds very possessive.’

‘When something
is
mine I protect it … with my life, if necessary.’

‘Your men must love you, Markus.’

It proved the right sentiment to express. She watched him drop his gaze. By deflecting his advances, she showed that she was not hunting for romance. Lisette knew she had to make Markus Kilian want her, and to do that meant giving little ground. She needed to arouse his ardour, his jealousy, his anxiety. Right now he was fully in control, toying with her. She had to reverse that role … but she found him alarmingly sensual. It was a struggle not to fall under his spell.

He sighed. ‘And I love my men.’ He gave a growl of frustration. ‘I feel so helpless here in Paris. We know the Allies are preparing a final push to take place in the summer. Berlin should have all of its best men in place.’

She remained silent. It was a shock to hear him speak so casually and yet so confidently of the Allies’ intentions. London must be warned.

‘Well, you can’t change anything tonight, but perhaps tomorrow will bring the news you want to hear,’ she said placatingly.

They paused to stare absently into a shop window.

He turned to her. ‘Forgive me, Lisette. I don’t want to discuss strategy with you. It is wrong of me.’

‘Don’t apologise. My father was a soldier in the Great War. I grew up listening to war stories.’

He began to walk again, groaning. ‘I hope I don’t remind you of your father?’

‘Not at all, I just find men in uniform undeniably attractive.’

He gave her a sidelong grin and something unspoken passed between them.

‘Come. Let’s get you home before you catch a chill.’

They walked briskly, Lisette mostly listening, as he gave her
a guided tour of the famous places of Paris. She was genuinely interested in his commentary; he was knowledgeable and clearly loved the city, unable to contain his joy at its beauty. And he was right – walking the streets this late gave Paris a haunted quality; its beauty, even in shadow, managed to shine through.

The most direct route would have taken them an hour but Lisette’s more scenic path meant it took another twenty-five minutes. They finally arrived, sighing softly and laughing as they emerged into the main street of Montmartre. There were still a couple of cafés open, with the clink of glasses and men’s laughter echoing from them. The lights inside had been dimmed and would be turned off by midnight.

‘What do you actually do?’ Lisette asked, guiding Kilian towards her building.

He gave a groan. ‘I’m a facilitator for discussion between the Church in France, Paris mainly, and the German regime of the Occupation.’

‘But you’re a colonel of the Wehrmacht,’ she observed.

‘It is a punishment, Lisette, for my defiance of the Führer.’

‘Really? You don’t believe in the regime?’

‘I believe in Germany. I believe that it can rise from the ashes of the Great War, be a world power again. But no, my political views do not embrace the vision of our Führer. And now I shall have to kill you for hearing me utter that. Where is that pistol of mine?’ he asked casually, reaching towards his belt.

She felt a thrill of fear pass through her.

‘Oh, my dear Lisette. That was just a jest. I frightened you,’ Kilian said, stopping to take her hand. ‘Forgive me. We Germans aren’t known for our humour.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I do apologise. I think I shall be the one killed before you.’

‘Don’t say that.’

He looked down. ‘I shouldn’t be so bleak. But you know, years ago, when I was a youngster, perhaps fourteen, I went to our local fair. My mother didn’t approve but I sneaked out of my bedroom window and went with my friends late at night. There was a clairvoyant.’

‘And?’ They were nearly at her apartment.

‘And she told me that I’d die on foreign soil. I’m a soldier – I shouldn’t be surprised.’

Lisette felt genuinely sad. ‘Markus, set no store by fairground foretellings. You didn’t die in Russia. And the closest you’ll get in Paris might be dying of boredom in some cleric’s rooms?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, and you’re right – if the fortune-teller had been worth her salt, she’d have mentioned that I’d meet a beautiful young woman in Paris who would enchant me one spring evening.’

Lisette shrugged awkwardly, desperately not wanting to appear coy or girlish. She already sensed coquettishness would not work with Kilian. He was far too dry and direct.

‘Now I’ve embarrassed you.’

She met his gaze firmly. ‘No. I’m just not sure how to respond. We hardly know each other.’

‘All right. It’s your birthday on the eighth, you said?’

She nodded.

‘Be dressed gorgeously for dinner. A car will pick you up at seven p.m.’

Lisette was stunned. Her silence clearly amused him.

‘You will have dinner with me, won’t you?’

‘I had in mind a piece of cheese with the mice that plague my bedsit.’

He grinned. ‘You sound like Cinderella. Instead, enjoy a birthday dinner as my guest.’

‘No, Markus. Like Cinderella, I have absolutely nothing
gorgeous
to wear. Please, you don’t have to do this.’

‘I know I don’t. It’s a purely selfish decision; I wish to see you again and I don’t want to be in a crowded café or walking the streets. Besides, I must continue your education in calvados. And where I shall take you serves the finest. It will be my gift to you. A balloon of calvados at the Hotel Ritz.’

‘The Hotel Ritz,’ she repeated in a shocked squeak. The heartland of the German government in Paris! SOE would be thrilled.

‘I can’t tell if you’re shivering from anticipation or the cold, but we must get you home,’ he said kindly.

‘We’re here,’ Lisette said, looking up at the whitewashed three-storey building they stood beside. ‘I’m on the top floor.’ She pointed. ‘That’s my balcony.’

‘You must have a splendid view over Paris.’

‘The hill can be challenging some evenings but it’s always worth it once I’m inside. Thank you for walking me home. Will you be all right?’

He laughed aloud. ‘I am a soldier who survived Russia. I think I can manage to get back to my comfortable hotel in Paris.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. You make me nervous.’

He grinned. ‘So, let me watch you go safely inside, Mademoiselle Lisette. Thank you for tonight, and don’t worry about next Monday. I shall take care of everything. Just agree to come.’

‘All right.’

He leant forward and gently kissed each cheek; she felt the
evening shadow of his chin. It surprised her how seductive that fleeting graze of skin on skin felt. He wanted to kiss her properly, that much was obvious – but she needed to keep hesitating, holding him at bay.

‘
Gute nacht
, Markus.’

‘
Bonne nuit
, Lisette.’

She felt his gaze follow her up the small pathway to her building’s entrance. She turned at the doorway and gave him a wave, then dashed up the two flights to her door, fighting with the keys to open it. She ran to her window and looked down. He was still there. She watched the flare of a match and then the tip of a cigarette glow; it burned brightly as he inhaled and his handsome, angular face lit momentarily.

Then Colonel Markus Kilian turned and disappeared into the darkness of the night’s curfew. Lisette trembled as she wrote out her message on the cigarette paper immediately. She would drop it in tomorrow; London would know that Lark’s mission was finally in play.

Walter Eichel didn’t seem surprised to hear of Lisette’s birthday date with the colonel. ‘I think he was captivated from the moment you arrived.’

Lisette blushed. ‘I can’t say I regret running into you, but I wanted to be sure that you didn’t disapprove in any way.’

‘No, my dear. I’m surprised and rather delighted. Kilian may be in some sort of disgrace but privately, I admire him. Rumour has it that he’s taking the rap in the wilderness for a lot of others who defied the same orders.’

She frowned in consternation. ‘I have nothing to wear to the Ritz.’

He smiled. ‘You could walk in wearing a hessian sack and still every woman would envy you. Take a day off as my gift to you.’

She kissed her godfather. ‘Thank you, Walter.’

On the afternoon of her birthday, she was in the process of getting ready when she heard a knock at the door. She froze
while holding up her one dress against herself, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

There was nowhere to hide but also nothing to hide, she was sure of it. She looked wildly around her tiny bedsit for anything incriminating. The morning after meeting Kilian, she’d been in such a hurry to deliver her information that she was among the first patrons to walk into the café in Rue Pergolese as it opened up. Once there she’d stuck her cryptic message into the newspaper.
Lark has made her nest
. It was then up to Playboy to pick up the message and transmit it to London.

By now SOE would know that her mission was in play. The knock at the door came again. Few knew where she lived, so she couldn’t imagine who could be calling at three in the afternoon. Maybe Walter had sent something for her birthday?

Lisette opened the door and instantly felt cold tendrils of fear reaching down from her chest and squeezing themselves around her gut. But she betrayed nothing other than an enquiring smile. Snapping to attention before her was a man in the familiar green uniform of the Wehrmacht. He was young, his boots polished, his freckled face rosy and scrubbed to a gleam.

‘Yes?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m Corporal Otto Freyberg from the ministry. I work for Colonel Kilian.’

‘Markus,’ she whispered in a gust of relief.

He blinked at her use of his superior’s first name. ‘Are you Mademoiselle Lisette Forestier?’

‘I am. Is something wrong?’

‘The colonel asked me to deliver this to you,
mademoiselle
,’ he replied.

It was only then she noticed the box in his hands and the bag beneath it.

‘Oh … What’s this?’

‘I am simply the courier,’ he replied with a grave expression.

She nodded, bemused. ‘Thank you, Corporal Freyberg.’

Lisette could hear his boots clomping all the way down to the front door. Her neighbour below stepped out and looked up the narrow staircase. ‘Are you all right, Lisette?’

‘Yes, Sylvie. Sorry to disturb you.’ She assumed her new neighbour must work shifts; she’d once mentioned going for an interview at the telephone exchange. She was beautiful with a wide mouth that gave generous smiles, while her dark eyes held a hint of mystery. They were on cordial terms, but Lisette had found Sylvie to be a little too curious for her liking.

‘It’s lucky you did,’ Sylvie said with a yawn. ‘I had to get up anyway.’

Lisette waved her farewell and eagerly carried her parcels inside. Something clunked heavily in the bag and she couldn’t resist checking it first. She gasped softly. It was the unmistakable white box of Chanel No. 5 perfume. In fact, there were two Chanel boxes. She dared not touch either but just stood, staring at the gift that prompted a score of thoughts at once and a dozen sensations, ranging from terror at the expense of this gift, to joy at understanding they were for her.

Finally, she lifted the boxes out of the plain brown bag as though carrying treasure. The first contained the square bottle of perfume, reminiscent of a whisky decanter that she remembered from her childhood. Once, while in a perfumery together, her mother had pointed out the Chanel brand and told her daughter it was the one to look forward to when she grew up; even dabbed some on her tiny wrist. As if in a dream, Lisette opened the black lid and inhaled the amber liquid. The fragrance instantly transported her back to childhood,
to happier, more plentiful times, when her mother’s infectious laugh rang through the house.

The
extrait
was intoxicating. A helpless grin claimed her. The second box contained something even harder to believe. Soap! Not just the real thing but waxy white and exquisitely perfumed to give her a moment of pure rapture. She couldn’t imagine what Kilian had paid for it, and dared not try.

Her gaze drifted treacherously to the plain white box. She could guess what it contained. It took her a full five minutes of internal battle to find the courage to lift the lid. Finally she decided that if Kilian was choosing to shower her with gifts … so be it. London wanted her to become his companion, and to do so meant to accept his favours, no matter how corrupt it was when people in Paris were starving.

It was no ordinary dress, of course – it was a gown. And it was so beautiful to behold that she backed away from it initially, too overcome to touch it straightaway. But she did eventually reach for the fabric, a black silk chiffon, and lifted the dress from the confines of the box. The silk lining rustled deliciously as the gown loosened from its billowy folds. She stared at the gorgeously unfussy design – even Coco Chanel would have approved: a thick halter neck to flatter her shoulders, slightly ruched around the bust but with a fitted bodice that would hold her in figure-hugging style. Achingly simple, black as night, exquisitely stylish and undoubtedly breathtakingly expensive. Lisette realised it would also reveal plenty of skin. It was the sort of dress that movie stars would wear with a fur coat to a premiere. She barely spared a glance for the sheer stole that accompanied the dress and which had probably cost another small fortune.

Kilian wanted her to wear it for him, she kept telling herself.
Even so, her mind was in turmoil. She laid the dress down on her bed and sat beside it, feeling numb. What was she to do? What would Buckmaster say? What would Vera say? She nodded, already knowing. She was playing a role now. People were counting on her to give the performance of her life because maybe something she did could help to save lives.

So she would wear Kilian’s dress, and she would wear his perfume – neither was a hardship – and she would permit him to become her lover, because that was what was required of her. Others risked their lives daily to tap out Morse messages or pick up arms and fight with the Maquis – and some, like her, were required to use other attributes.

Lisette picked up her soap with a fresh resolve and walked into the cubby that served as her bathroom.

Kilian had been unsettled through Monday; he knew why but was determined not to acknowledge it; seven p.m. would come soon enough. In the meantime he had a meeting with senior clerics about their ceremonies for Pentecost. He tried not to dwell on the frustrating pointlessness of his role. He’d brought it on himself, after all. Perhaps within the priesthood he might find some answers to his own doubts about the war.

He knew that among the clergy were many troubled men whose consciences kept them awake at night. Like him, they searched for ways to wage their own private war against the atrocities foisted on innocents. But for every man who resisted, there were nine others who acquiesced to the regime, and a surprising number who privately supported the extermination of the Jewish people, the Roma, homosexuals, the disabled and the mentally ill.

He shook his head clear of his burdens and reached for a
piece of writing paper. Without thinking, he began to pen a letter to Ilse, the woman he’d left behind in Germany almost six years ago. They had communicated only once in that time, during the first year of the war. Her letter had been hesitant, and revealed little. All the same, he had been glad to hear from her. He sensed an undercurrent of sadness in her words as she wished him only safety; she had quietly suggested that when he finally returned after the war, he might look her up.

It felt cathartic to write to Ilse; he told her everything that weighed heavily on his mind, and in doing so wondered whether it would ever reach her, certain that mail was read and confiscated. He thought it would be a short letter but it turned into one that was several pages long in his neat, small handwriting. He wasn’t surprised when Lisette Forestier crept into the letter; he told Ilse that he thought he had found the perfect translator and hoped that with her arrival in his life he could communicate far better and with greater subtlety with the French. By the end he realised he was simply pouring out his stream of consciousness, and wondered whether he’d ever send it. Nevertheless, he addressed the envelope and put the letter inside his pocket with the resolve to add more to it and send it some time. His mind wandered again to the young woman who had blown into his life two evenings earlier.

It might have been Lisette’s youth. Or the fact that she was strangely aloof. She hadn’t latched onto him as so many other women had, trying too hard to win his attention. Lisette had paid far more attention to her godfather.

He’d not slept well that night, nor last, thinking about the cool young woman with the dark hair and secretive dark-blue eyes. He could see certain traits that reflected her German heritage, in her slightly reticent manner, but these were softened
by what were more classically French traits – a certain tendency to romance and flirtation. He was intrigued by her. It had been too long since Markus Kilian had kissed a woman or felt the security of a genuine embrace – one without an ulterior motive.

Now that his gifts had been dispatched, he began to wonder whether his spontaneity was premature. Would it scare her off? Offend? Had he misread her taste … or was he imposing his own too soon? Agitated, he moved through his day speaking to as few people as possible, eating nothing, sipping from a tumbler of water. He remembered little of his meeting with the clerics; but then something both alarming and exciting occurred that shook him from his stupor. Waiting for him on his return from the meeting was a lieutenant colonel, who said he was passing through Paris and brought news from the Front. Kilian decided the impromptu visit meant the man must have presumed he’d be missing the action and his men.

‘I’m sorry. Have I kept you waiting?’ Kilian asked. Without an assistant he had no way of knowing.

‘Not at all, Colonel. I arrived unannounced; I’m pleased I caught you,’ the man called Meister said amiably.

‘And you are on von Tresckow’s staff?’

‘Yes, indeed. Have you met him?’

‘Twice. He seemed a good sort.’

‘He is a good man,’ Meister replied.

‘Are you on your way to Berlin?’ Kilian asked. ‘Or stopping a few days in Paris?’

‘Actually, I’ve come from Berlin, on some business here for my superiors. I’m heading back east tomorrow.’

‘I pity you,’ Kilian said.

‘And still you say those words with longing, Colonel Kilian. I’m sure you miss your men.’

‘No doubt. Can I offer you something?’ Kilian looked at his watch. Too early for a snifter. ‘A coffee, perhaps?’

Meister smiled. ‘Thank you. Perhaps we can walk out together, Colonel? It’s a beautiful afternoon for a stroll.’ Kilian frowned, curious about this visit from a man with no reason to be visiting. Perhaps Meister was a spy from Berlin, sent to assess whether Kilian should be given a more challenging role.

Meister stood. ‘Shall we?’

Now Kilian was sure that Meister wanted to speak somewhere they could not be overheard, for nothing in their conversation thus far gave any reason for his presence. Once outside of the ministry building, Meister’s demeanour changed.

‘Forgive me, sir. I’m sure you realise that I wanted to speak privately.’

‘Indeed.’

Meister pointed and Kilian followed him towards the Tuileries. It was another sparkling day. Kilian hoped its mildness would hold for this evening. Meister led him to an isolated bench, and after taking a surreptitious look around, he dropped his voice. ‘I was sanctioned to pay this visit by General Friedrich Olbricht and Colonel von Tresckow in Berlin.’

Of a hundred different explanations that Meister could have given, this would have not have made the list in Kilian’s mind. His shock showed.

‘I think you should laugh as though I just made a joke, sir. Gestapo are everywhere.’

Kilian feigned a chuckle and sat back, trying to adopt a natural pose.

Meister smiled. ‘Here, Colonel.’ He put the newspaper down that he held under his arm. ‘Inside this is proof that what I have to say is the truth. It is written by General
Olbricht. He said you would know his signature.’ Kilian took the newspaper casually and opened it. Meister pointed, so that to anyone watching it would appear they were talking about an article, but Kilian quickly scanned the handwritten note inside. Meister smiled and took the newspaper back, folding it quickly and neatly. He took a breath. ‘Forgive me, but we can’t be too careful. You have highly placed supporters, sir, and we are assured you are a kindred spirit, wanting change.’

Kilian gave a mirthless grin.

‘Was that a yes, Colonel?’

‘It was.’ Kilian took out a packet of cigarettes. He didn’t smoke much, did it more to keep his men company, or whenever he felt rattled. He offered one and Meister took it. Kilian lit both.

‘The general has asked you to trust me. I have come directly from him in Berlin.’

‘Go on,’ Kilian said, taking his first joyless puff. He listened with a mixed feeling of dread and elation as Meister briefly outlined a plan to assassinate Hitler. Once Meister was done, Kilian stared at him, trying to hide his shock. ‘You’re serious about this?’

‘We are well advanced in the plan.’

It was as daring as it was dangerous. Kilian almost wished he was the one planting the bomb in the wolf’s lair.

‘Why am I being told? I’m not in a position to do anything helpful,’ he said.