Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris – November 8, 1937 – 12:14 PM
The cab moved slowly through the midday traffic, weaving past flower carts, trams, and bicyclists wrapped in scarves. Émile sat in the back seat, coat buttoned up, fedora tilted low, a cigarette slowly burning in his hand. The streets outside glittered with weak sunlight bouncing off wet cobblestones, but inside, his mind moved through shadows.
The woman he was going to see had many names. The one most people knew was Clara Laurent — actress, socialite, and widow of a diplomat who died under "unclear circumstances" in Vienna. But to Émile, she had always been something else:
An enigma wrapped in satin.
The car stopped in front of a small art gallery tucked between a wine bar and a bookshop. He stepped out, adjusted his coat, and walked through the door. The gallery was empty, save for a young man arranging paintings and Clara herself, seated near a window, drinking black coffee and reading a letter with a silver letter opener in hand.
She looked up before he spoke.
"You're late, Émile."
"I'm early. You just expected me too soon."
She smiled — a slow, deliberate expression that always made him uneasy. She set the letter aside, motioned to the chair across from her, and took a sip of coffee.
"Madeleine told you I'd be needed."
He sat down. "She knows too much."
"That's why we listen to her."
For a moment, silence. He studied her — the perfectly drawn eyeliner, the scent of vanilla and gunpowder that always followed her. She was too elegant to be an informant, too ruthless to be an actress.
"I need eyes in Versailles. Someone who can move through parties, listen to whispers, disappear when needed."
"You're lucky I like dangerous men in uniforms."
"I'm not in uniform."
"Then I'm in even more danger."
She handed him the letter she'd been reading.
"A Russian contact. He's asking questions about 'the eagle in the garden.' He thinks the garden is Versailles."
"He's not wrong."
Clara folded her hands. "You realize what happens if this goes wrong, Émile? If Reiner dies on French soil?"
"War moves faster."
She stood, picked up a pearl-handled pistol from a nearby drawer, and slid it into her purse.
"Then let's slow it down."