Chapter 9
9
T he hum of cocktail conversations and the glow of chandeliers at the ambassador’s soiree filled Ginger’s senses. Their social life in Paris was active due to Bertrand’s calendar filled with diplomatic affairs.
“Having a good time?” Bertrand asked.
Ginger squeezed his hand. “Always with you.”
He kissed her cheek with a bemused smile that lit her heart. “Come with me. I need to speak with Grant Jones-Smith.”
“The way he looks at me makes me uncomfortable. Can you spare me?”
“Of course, darling. Don’t judge him too harshly; you are a sight to behold, especially in your wedding ensemble. Only we know what happened that night, don’t we?”
Her cheeks warmed at his words. “You’re incorrigible.” And she loved it. “Go on, have your talk with Grant. I’ll watch the room for a bit; it always humors me.”
“I won’t be too long.”
Ginger watched him go. In her eyes, he was easily the most handsome man in the room—or anywhere they went. She nursed a glass of champagne while Bertrand circulated among colleagues.
She had learned how to occupy herself at these functions. For example, she had already tallied the number of guests—one hundred fifty-three. Idly, she calculated the number of crystals in all the chandeliers, which probably rivaled the number of sequins on one woman’s mauve evening gown. She had moved on to multiplying the hours likely required to construct each light fixture when a man in an evening suit tapped her crystal glass with a resounding ring.
A playful smirk danced on his lips. “You look bored beyond belief.”
He had an American accent. East Coast, she imagined. “I’m watching my husband.”
“Liar. You were studying those chandeliers as if planning a heist and estimating their worth.”
“That depends on the cost of each piece of crystal.” Ginger named the number she’d calculated, give or take a few missing pieces. “If you know that, I can give you a fairly accurate assessment. I can share that calculation if you have time.”
Instead of excusing himself then, as most men would have done at this point, he stared at her. “Are you serious?”
“I’ve met sixty-three-and-a-half people this evening, though my husband is much better at names than numbers. I prefer this.” She glanced up again, giving him another chance to leave.
Amusement crinkled his eyes. “A half?”
“Half of who they might be.” She sniffed at the waste of human potential. The vacuous, the bored, or those who had given up on life. What a shame, she thought.
“Quite right,” he replied, looking slightly awed. “And who is your husband?”
“Bertrand Delavie.”
The man’s eyebrows raised. “Why, you don’t say?”
“That’s exactly what I said.” Ginger wondered why people said such things.
She turned her gaze upward again, signaling her disinterest. Perhaps he would leave to converse with her husband, who was much more affable.
“Are you appraising the chandeliers?”
“No, but I would place the value at…” She quickly named a figure, to his apparent surprise.
Seemingly intrigued, he inclined his head. “Sounds like a good guess.”
“I don’t guess. That’s for amateurs.” Slightly annoyed, she went on. “Lacking specific information on value, I assumed each crystal is worth four U.S. dollars. If it were six dollars, you’d increase that by fifty percent. Value is a variable to be confirmed.”
He lifted a corner of his mouth in a half grin. “How about that in French francs?”
“Of course, one moment. The prevailing exchange rate is…”
The man looked on in amazement as Ginger rattled off numbers in two currencies and then multiplied that by the number of chandeliers in the room. This was a cheap parlor trick, but it kept her mind occupied.
“What if you knew the cost?”
“Helpful, though cost and value are different.”
“You could add percentages for the cost of labor and profit. Realizing that these are only assumptions.” A smile touched his lips as if amused.
“Alright.” Without having anything more worthwhile to do, she spun out a few more numbers before turning back to him. After finishing, she waited for him to leave. They always did.
When he didn’t, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be moving on to someone more important or fascinating? I’m only a career diplomat’s wife.”
He shook his head in amazement. “I’ve never seen anyone do math in their head like that.”
“I’m sure any college professor of mathematics could do the same. Though I wouldn’t know.” Without higher education in mathematics or better fluency in French, she hadn’t been able to further her study in Paris, although she was working on the latter.
Bertrand caught her eye and touched his lips as though in thought. She smiled and did the same.
They’d developed little signals they used at functions. A finger touch to the lips meant I love you . A sweep of a finger to an eyebrow signaled the desire to leave; a tap to the forehead meant yes , and a touch of the chin for no . Fingers to the chest meant come here, I need you .
“I’m not sure even a professor would have your rapid mental dexterity,” the man continued. He stared at her with a look of disbelief creasing his brow.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Ginger said, extending her hand.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Silas Rutherford. And what do you do with your time here in Paris?”
Back to trite conversation, she thought with a small sigh. “Study French, math, and science.”
“That’s quite aggressive. No shopping?”
“I didn’t say that.” He showed no sign of leaving. “And I read.”
Silas inclined his head. “What do you enjoy reading?”
“Mathematical theories, scientific discoveries, puzzle solving techniques.” From experience, she’d learned that response was often met with blank looks.
Silas stared at her again.
Just then, a woman approached them looking perturbed. Ginger assumed this was his wife.
Silas fluttered a hand to the woman. Perhaps he was late delivering her promised cocktail. “I should like to continue this conversation, but I’ve overstayed my welcome. Would you excuse me?”
“Delighted,” she replied, turning a bright smile his way. “To have met you, of course,” she quickly added. She was, after all, a diplomat’s wife. Bertrand expected cordiality of her, even as he secretly agreed with her assessments.
Ginger breezed into Bertrand’s study the following week, surprised to find him deep in conversation with the man she’d spoken to at the party. Silas Rutherford. An undercurrent of tension rippled between the two men, piquing her curiosity.
“Your wife is truly remarkable, Bertrand,” Silas said as she approached. “Her mental acuity is astonishing.”
While Ginger enjoyed the recognition, she also noted the pinched look around Bertrand’s eyes. What had him so ill at ease?
“Her skills would be invaluable to our intelligence efforts,” Silas stated. “I want to recruit her.”
The words hung in the air, practically shimmering with unspoken possibility. Ginger’s mind began to whir, with visions of coded dispatches and clandestine operations dancing in her thoughts. To assist in such vital, high-stakes work would be the grandest mental exercise she could conceive.
“You know the dangers of such work, Silas.” Bertrand’s commanding baritone sliced through her reverie. “I cannot allow Ginger to be put in harm’s way.”
“Forgive me, but we need her skills. There aren’t many?—”
“Ginger.” Bertrand spied her and rose from his desk. “I didn’t see you there. You remember Mr. Rutherford?”
“Silas, please.” The man was quick to extend his hand without waiting for her to offer hers.
That small action was sure to annoy Bertrand. “Of course. We solved mathematical problems for a little while.”
Bertrand looked confused. “About what?”
When she hesitated, Silas jumped in with an answer. “The number of crystals in the chandelier and their value in U.S. dollars and French francs, and various cost and profit margin calculations. It was truly remarkable.”
“Parlor games,” Ginger added with a self-conscious shrug. She hadn’t meant for Bertrand to know how bored she was.
He nodded slowly. “So that’s how you amuse yourself when I leave you alone.” After a slight hesitation, he turned to Silas. “I’m not making any promises, but I will speak to my wife about your proposal.”
Silas inclined his head in appreciation. “Of course. Take your time. But I urge you not to immediately disregard the opportunity before her. We need people like her.”
That evening, after their housekeeper had cleared the dinner dishes from the table, Bertrand took her hand. “I’ve always known you have a brilliant mind meant for great discoveries. How would you like to put it to work?”
Ginger’s eyes lit up like the Parisian night. “Do you mean Silas’s offer?”
Bertrand nodded and explained the other man’s proposition. “You need to understand the dangers, my dear.”
“And the potential to save countless lives. Using my skills to make a difference is what I’ve longed to do.”
“I’m aware of that.” He took out his pipe and tapped it in his hand as he spoke. The scent of his vanilla tobacco sweetened the air. “On the surface, it’s high-level study, but if certain characters discovered what you’re doing, it could be dangerous.”
Ginger recognized the nervous gesture and the catch in his voice. “I’ll be careful.”
“You must think about your parents as well.”
“And you.” Ginger spoke with understanding. “I know the risks, my love. But I also know I cannot sit idly by when I have the intelligence to help. This is my chance to be part of something greater than myself. For my country and for others.”
“Alright, but we must take every precaution.” With a sign of surrender, he pulled her close. “This will require travel to Virginia for training. Can you manage on your own?”
“I manage fine when you’re away.”
“I had to ask. You’re my wife, and my job is to protect you.”
“You do. But you must also let me go.” Ginger’s mind was already sizzling with excitement. “I’ll come back like a boomerang. I promise.”
It was a beautiful spring morning when Ginger slipped into a nondescript back door a few blocks from the U.S. embassy in Paris. She was a few minutes late, having raced from an early doctor’s appointment.
She was still numb at the diagnosis.
But she had no time to process that. Immediately, she unlocked a cabinet and withdrew her work from the day before. She settled into her chair at the wooden desk and addressed the stack of documents.
The room fairly hummed with the quiet concentration of a handful of other cryptologists, each bent over their work. Though she’d only been at this for a few months, Ginger felt as if she’d finally found her true calling.
She was skilled at pattern recognition, the initial step in decoding messages. To an outsider, the work might seem monotonous, even mind-numbing. But to Ginger, each new coded message was an exhilarating challenge, a complex equation taunting her—yet, destined to be unraveled.
As she reached for her first document of the day, a shadow fell across her desk. Looking up, she met the approving gaze of her supervisor, Reginald Thompson.
“Mrs. Delavie,” he said in a low voice, mindful of the quiet room. “A moment of your time, please.”
Ginger nodded, rising to follow him to his office. Curious glances from her colleagues also followed her. Her unique position as both a skilled cryptologist and the wife of a high-ranking man in diplomatic services hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Once inside Reginald’s office, he gestured for her to take a seat.
“I’m sorry for being a few minutes late,” she began.
“That’s not why I called you in,” he said, lacing his fingers on the desk. “Your work has been exemplary. The patterns you’ve identified in Eastern European communications have provided invaluable insights. And saved lives.”
A warm glow blossomed in Ginger’s chest. “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for the opportunity to contribute.”
Thompson’s lips quirked in a rare smile. “Which is why I’m recommending you for more advanced training in Virginia. Six weeks, this time. Starting next month. You’ll work with top analysts on more sensitive materials.”
Ginger’s heart raced with excitement. Advanced training meant more complex codes, higher stakes, and the chance to improve sensitive situations. But a small voice in the back of her mind whispered a reminder.
“That might not be a good time.”
Thompson continued, “You have a unique situation, Mrs. Delavie. We’ll make any necessary accommodations. Your husband’s position affords you certain flexibilities.”
She bristled slightly at the implication she received special treatment, but practicality won out over pride.
“May I let you know tomorrow?”
He nodded, satisfied.
Settling back into her chair, Ginger picked up another document with renewed vigor. A profound sense of purpose washed over her.
Each pattern she identified, each code she cracked, led to something greater. She was no longer just Mrs. Bertrand Delavie, the nameless extension of her husband. In this room, she was a vital cog in the machinery of national security, using her intelligence to protect her country and her family.
Yet, sooner or later, she would have to address what would soon become obvious.