She reached the Adlon at seven o’clock. The lobby was already teeming with high-ranking Nazis. As she walked through them, the only conversation she could make out was about the landings in Normandy. From what she could gather, the Allies had already taken a few key towns, and had landed hundreds of thousands of men on the beaches. The talk in the lobby that night sounded bullish, Leni thought, but she wondered how many of those who were talking big were already planning their escape routes, arranging their new identities and new futures. If she survived, she had resolved to help track those men down, using her intimate knowledge of so many of them to get her revenge. They would regret fucking her, regret writing her off as just another whore.

“Hello, Ulrich.”

Leni had reached the reception desk. Ulrich was her favorite receptionist. He must have been about eighty, but he was spry and fit—even his moustache was in good shape. He reminded Leni a little of her father, before his spirit was crushed that day by the Gestapo.

“Hello, Fräulein Hoffman! How nice to see you!”

Ulrich turned to get her key.

“No messages for you, I’m afraid.”

He handed her the key for Room 38.

“Thank you, Ulrich.”

She smiled sweetly at him. It was her genuine smile, not the smile she gave clients, which they all thought was her real one, the idiots.

The room was a godsend. The money to pay for it came from the GRU, who had decided a few weeks ago that she needed a base away from both Kitty’s and her flat. “Fräulein Hoffman” tried not to come here too often, in case she was noticed, but it was hard to stay away from the luxuriousness of the bedroom, which contained a huge four-poster bed with a good firm mattress. What made it even more tempting was the large bathtub, into which she was now running hot water, as well as adding some salts.

She undressed and got in the bath, briefly debated whether she would wash her hair, and then plunged her head under the water. She would need to look her best tonight. She had already worked out how she was going to play it with Carl. As Pugh had said, it would require her to use all her charms, but she had decided to play it a lot tougher than that. It would be unfair to trick Carl any longer—it was time he was compromised. There was no other way it was going to work, and besides, it might even help Lockhart.

The knock on the door came a little sooner than she had expected. She had spent the past few hours waiting, reading magazines, preparing herself.

“Hello?”

“It’s Carl.”

“Just coming.”