“‘Posterity will not remember those who pursued only their own individual interests, but it will praise those heroes who renounced their own happiness.’ You should keep that in mind.”

The aide scoffed. “Of course a woman would say something so pitifully inane.”

“Oh, those aren’t my words, Herr Hesse. Those are the words of the Führer.”

The color drained from Hesse’s complexion.

“You may not like Mademoiselle Allard,” Sophie said, taking another step closer to the aide so that she was towering over him, “but she has, in her own way, proven her dedication and loyalty to the Reich. I would hope you would demonstrate your own loyalty by putting your self-interest and personal feelings aside.”

The aide’s superciliousness had been wiped from his face, and he seemed unable to formulate a response. “You will open this door, and we will see this art placed in a location of honour deserving of both the artist and Reichsmarschall Göring,” Sophie intoned coldly. “After that, we will return below, where I will order a Bee’s Knees from the bar and forget all about your…unfortunate lapse. Are we agreed?”

Müller was watching her with something akin to awe on his round face. The two Ritz employees looked like they were trying to follow the rapid German without much success.

The aide’s jaw had tightened. “I—”

“Colonel Meyer arranged for the assistance from the two Ritz employees you see here.” Sophie didn’t allow him to speak. “Hauptgefreiter Müller has agreed to supervise. Once you’ve opened the suite for us, you may go.”

Hesse stared at her and then seemed to recover. He threw up his hands with a sneer. “This is your problem then, Müller,” he barked. He yanked a set of keys from his uniform pocket and unlocked the door to the suite.

“Thank you,” Estelle babbled. “Oh, I’m so happy you changed your mind. The Reichsmarschall will be so pleased, I know it.”

The aide pushed the door open and stalked away, refusing to look at Sophie and muttering under his breath.

Müller entered the suite first, and Estelle indicated that the men carrying the painting should follow. When they were out of earshot, Estelle glanced at Sophie, her eyes wide. “That was…convincing,” she whispered.

“You may thank my German tutor for the inspiration,” Sophie whispered back. “She made me read Mein Kampf.”

Sophie entered the suite, and though Estelle had described the space in great detail, the luxury was overwhelming even in the failing light. It took every bit of her concentration not to gape like an awed tourist, and instead she swept through the gilded space as though such surroundings were the expected and not the exception.

She stopped in the center of the grand salon and turned in a slow circle, ostensibly deciding where the painting would best be hung. “Turn on the lights, please,” she said to Müller.