In the summer of 1939, Hollywood invaded the French Riviera.
Annabel and her escort were attending a big party at the Grand Hotel in honor of the very first Cannes Film Festival. The entire hotel and its splendid grounds were all decked out for this gala event, with sparkling fairy lights in the graceful umbrella pines and along the borders of every path so that guests could find their way in the twilight.
Ladies in chiffon dresses and men in formal tailcoats were flitting across the great lawns like butterflies. Laughing and chattering with excitement, they passed under a white satin banner at the entrance to the terrace that spelled out in gold letters: La Fête des Étoiles.
“The Celebration of the Stars!” someone translated in a shout, and everyone was eagerly scanning the crowd in search of the human stars to be honored tonight—those mysterious Hollywood actors who’d be here in the flesh instead of flickering elusively on the silver screen.
Annabel had not even reached the main path when she heard the first strains of music wafting toward her on a Mediterranean breeze. A young woman began singing a plaintive, haunting new song called “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
But instead of hurrying to catch up with the other partygoers, Annabel, dressed in a blue-violet gossamer gown and matching satin shoes, laid a gloved hand on her escort’s arm to detain him, explaining that she’d forgotten something.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” she murmured apologetically.
He sensed that she was up to something, and he said jokingly, “You’ve finally become a woman of mystery.” Then he added gently, “And I’m not sure I like it.”
But he waited there patiently, taking the moment to smoke a cigarette and gaze upward at the real stars in the sky.
Annabel hurried off, knowing that she had to work fast. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain that no one was watching, even though the hotel guests and the staff would all surely be preoccupied with this party tonight. The rest of the world was about to burst into flames, but here on the Côte d’Azur, the parties went on and on.
She felt a little guilty about sneaking into someone else’s room with a “borrowed” key. It just wasn’t in her nature to be deceitful. But this was no time for second thoughts. She had been warned not to make a mistake tonight. People have already been murdered just to stop us from obtaining this item.
She put the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and hurried inside. There was only a small lamp lighting the room, and Annabel preferred it that way, so that she could move about in the shadows and search around without her figure being illuminated in a window. She thought of an old proverb her father once told her: When skating over thin ice, safety is in speed.
So she set to work, rapidly pulling out several dresser drawers, carefully rummaging through each. Then she searched beneath the bed and under the mattress, until . . .
She heard a rustling noise, and she froze. No one was supposed to be here, and yet . . . Yes, now the sound was unmistakable. Someone was definitely in the adjoining room—and coming closer and closer with each footstep.
Her heart was pounding fearfully. She cast about looking for a hiding place, then quickly ducked into a nearby closet only seconds before someone entered the room.
Annabel held her breath. She’d been warned about moments like this: It takes great training to be a spy. You must unlearn natural behavior.
But she wasn’t really a spy. She wasn’t anybody important. She was just a girl from America with a summer job. At the beginning of this month, she’d been carefree, trusting, and open to new experiences.
What a difference only a few weeks could make. Thinking back on it now, there had been warning signs all along. Yet everyone was either too busy or having too much fun to notice that, this summer, they were all on a collision course with history.