As he walked, he lowered his head shamefacedly, and he began cowering, quivering with visible fear. “Oh, God,” he murmured. “This is terrifying. I’ve been afraid of this happening for so long—”
Metcalfe’s knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor with an anguished wail escaping his lips. He was a trembling wreck, overcome with fright. The agent at his side loosened his grip on Metcalfe’s arm momentarily as he was pulled downward by Metcalfe’s sagging weight.
Collapsing to the floor, Metcalfe pulled the German down with him; then he spun, lightning-fast, slamming the man’s head against the stone floor. The crack of the Gestapo man’s head hitting the stone was audible: the skull had fractured. His eyes rolled up into their sockets, the whites of his eyes all that showed.
In a split second Metcalfe bounded to his feet, the unconscious man’s Walther in his hand. As he lunged to his right, behind the steel machinery, he fired off a shot at the other German.
“Drop the weapon or you’ll die!” the German shouted. Fear had taken over his once phlegmatic face. He fired at Metcalfe, but the round pinged off the steel hulk of the Linotype press. Shielded by the iron-and-steel press, Metcalfe pointed the stolen weapon between a gap in the machinery, aimed carefully as another round of bullets clanged against the metal. The Gestapo man rushed toward Metcalfe, firing, the shots ricocheting off the metal.
Suddenly Metcalfe felt a jagged pain in his thigh as a round creased his flesh, slicing through the fabric of his pants. He gritted his teeth, fired again, and this time his shot hit the German in the neck. The man screamed in pain, collapsing. He clutched his wound, which spewed bright red arterial blood. His right hand squeezed at the trigger of his gun, which was pointed upward, at the high cement ceiling, a stray last round. The agent collapsed, bellowing like an animal. Peering around the side of the machine, Metcalfe saw at once that his shot had been fatal. The man was not quite dead yet, but he was incapacitated and rapidly losing consciousness. His scream became a faint cry, liquid and burbling.
Metcalfe turned and ran toward the back door, and his right leg spasmed in pain. He heard a scuffling sound and turned to see where it was coming from. It was the first Gestapo man, the one who’d been knocked unconscious: lying on his side, he flung out his hands in what appeared to be an attempt to locate his weapon, not realizing that the gun was in Metcalfe’s hands.
Metcalfe fired off a shot, hitting the man in the stomach. The German collapsed to the floor once more. This time, if he was not dead, he was at least seriously wounded, permanently so.
So I’ve finally killed a man, he thought grimly, heaving a sigh of relief. Suddenly there came another explosion of gunfire. He flattened himself against the wall, beside a long wooden case of type, which jutted out far enough to act as a barrier.
Silhouetted against the bright light from the bookshop was the figure of Ducroix in his wheelchair. The Frenchman was firing at Metcalfe with steady and deadly accuracy. Bullet after bullet splintered the wood of the shelves just inches from Metcalfe’s head. A drawer of lead type shattered and scattered noisily to the floor.
Metcalfe squeezed off a round. One shot clanged against the metal seat of the wheelchair, another pitting one of the metal wheels, and the third struck Ducroix in the forehead.
The sight was horrific. A fragment of Ducroix’s forehead flew off amid a ghastly spray of blood, and the forger slumped in his chair.
Metcalfe stood still for a moment, stunned, then forced himself to move. He rushed to the bodies of the Gestapo agents and searched their pockets, removing all papers, badges, and identity cards. Any of them might be useful.
Then he ran toward the back door. Grasping the knob, he yanked it open and leaped into a trash-strewn alley.
Chapter Nine
There was only one place to go.
The safe house. The Cave. He had to get in touch with Corky and warn him about what had just happened, about Ducroix’s betrayal, about the disaster. Corcoran would be enraged that Metcalfe had been compromised, no question about that, but he had to be informed about the breach. Perhaps he would have an explanation as to why the forger had so unexpectedly turned—been turned, more likely.
Metcalfe had to reach Corky immediately, and the only way to do so was through channels, through his contacts at the Cave; that was the system Corcoran had devised, his means of preserving security.
He began to run; then, feeling a throbbing from the wound in his thigh, he slowed to a purposeful stride. It was not just the wound, which was minor; Derek Compton-Jones, the radio clerk at the Cave, was trained in emergency medicine and could treat it properly. No, it was important to look unhurried, an innocent and important man on important business. If anyone stopped him for any reason, he could produce papers from either of the dead Gestapo agents. True, he looked nothing like either photograph, but he’d deal with that if and when he had to.
It was already late afternoon, and Parisians bustled along the streets. He was still shaken from the barely averted arrest, by the carnage. He had never taken a life before, and now he had killed three men. He felt numb, appalled at the bloodshed, even as he realized that if he had not killed these men, he would himself be lying there dead.
By the time he reached the crumbling brick building in which Le Caveau occupied the ground floor and the base station the level below, the pain in his thigh had abated somewhat and his limp was less pronounced. He descended the steps to the bar, cranked the old doorbell three times, and waited for the peephole to be slid aside as Pasquale, the bartender, checked on his identity.
He waited a full minute, then tugged the bell three times again. Pasquale, normally prompt in letting people in, must be occupied, he figured. Yet it was still afternoon, and there would be few customers at this time, the only ones the hard drinkers, the truly dissolute.
Another minute went by, and no reply.
He tried again. Strange, he thought. Was it possible that the bar was closed? There was another, more complicated, way to access the base station, Metcalfe knew. It involved entering the apartment building next door, taking the elevator to the basement, and unlocking a bolted steel fire door that led to a back way to this building. But that entry was reserved for emergencies, since it was less secure: residents of the adjoining building could see anyone entering and would be suspicious.
Metcalfe tried the doorknob and was startled when it turned and the door to the bar came open. It was supposed to be locked.
There were no lights on inside, which was surprising. No one was there. Yet the door was unlocked—it made no sense! As soon as his eyes because accustomed to the darkness and the shadows and shapes became recognizable as the long wooden bar and bar stools, Metcalfe saw something that caused him to freeze.
Several of the bar stools had been knocked to the floor. Along the top of the bar was broken glass—wineglasses shattered, cocktail glasses upturned and cracked. Something had gone on here, something violent.
He stepped into the dim recesses of the bar, saw that the drawer of Pasquale’s ancient cash register jutted open, empty.
A burglary?
Thefts, burglaries, still happened in Paris, even in the Germans’ police state. But this chaos indicated something more than a mere theft. It was evidence of a struggle.
And no one was here! Pasquale, his patrons—all gone.
What could have happened?
The base station!
Metcalfe ran the length of the bar, dodging overturned stools and broken glass. He bounded down the steps to the subbasement, feeling his way through the dark to the broom closet, pulled the door open.
He grabbed the broom handle, pulled it counterclockwise. The concealed entrance to the station swung open. The black-painted steel door was directly in front of him. Heart pounding, he pressed the doorbell twice, and then one more time.
Please God, he thought. Let them be here!
He waited in terrified silence. He knew what had happened. Somehow the Nazis—whether the Gestapo o
r the SD—had learned of the top-secret location of the station. Someone had talked. Pasquale the bartender? Could that be?
Or was it one of Corky’s agents, the one he’d said had been picked up by the Gestapo? But how had that agent been uncovered in the first place? There had to be a leak somewhere within the network!
Oh, God, no. What would he do now? What if the men of the base station had been rounded up in one terrible sweep? Metcalfe would be alone in the field, with no way to reach Corky.
No, there had to be a way! He’d been issued emergency backup directives, encoded and imprinted in miniature on the backs of tags in his clothing. There was always a backup; Corky had made sure of it.
He rang again, the same tattoo of two short rings followed by one long one. No answer now, either.
They were gone, too; he was now sure of it. They had been arrested. The ring had been fatally compromised.
But if they had been arrested . . . wouldn’t the Germans have set a trap for any stray agents who tried to contact the base? So far, there was no evidence of any such trap, but he would have to be alert for one.
He drew from his pocket his key ring. The key fob was a leather disk. He compressed it at the side, and it popped open; inside was a small steel key that opened this door.
The key unlocked three separate locks along the perimeter of the door. When he’d sprung the third lock, the door came open with a click and the sibilant hiss of the rubber seal.
He hesitated before speaking, alert in case anyone was lying in wait inside.
He saw the greenish glow from the row of transceivers. The machinery was still there, which was a good sign: if the Nazis had somehow discovered the Cave’s location and had made a sweep, they’d surely have seized the valuable equipment at the same time.
But where was the staff? Why was the machinery unattended?
Metcalfe saw a figure seated at one of the consoles. Metcalfe recognized, from behind, Johnny Betts, the American radiotelegraph operator. He called out: “Johnny! Didn’t you hear—?”
Then Metcalfe saw that Johnny still had his headphones on, which explained why he hadn’t heard the buzzer. He approached, tapped him on the shoulder.
Suddenly Johnny slumped to one side. His eyes bulged. His face was crimson, his tongue lolling grotesquely.
Blood rushed to Metcalfe’s head. He let out a horrified cry as he stumbled. “My God, no!” Johnny Betts’s throat looked at first as if it had been slashed, but then Metcalfe realized that what appeared to be a deep gash was in fact a ligature mark with accompanying bruising.
Betts had been strangled, garroted, with some sort of thin cord or wire.
Johnny Betts had been murdered!
Metcalfe whirled around, looked for the others—for Cyril Langhorne, for Derek Compton-Jones. He saw no one else. Rushing to the adjoining room, he opened the door, looked in, but it was empty. Where were the others?
He raced to the antechamber that led to the emergency access into the next building, and there, beside the steel door, which was slightly ajar, he found the crumpled body of Cyril Langhorne, a single bullet hole in his forehead.
The station had been entered through the emergency entrance, Metcalfe knew now. Langhorne had gone to the steel door and had been shot, swiftly and probably with a silenced pistol. Betts, wearing his headphones and engaged in his transmission, had heard nothing. For some reason—to ensure silence?—he hadn’t been shot but had instead been garroted. Someone had stolen up behind him—there were several invaders, no doubt—and slipped the cord or wire over his neck, strangling the life out of the American.
Dear Jesus, how had this happened?
And where was Derek? He was the only regular staffer not here. Had he been off, at home, asleep? Perhaps—please, God—Derek’s schedule may have saved his life.
A noise. The loud squeal of tires, then brakes, from outside. From the street. Ordinarily traffic noise would not be heard in this soundproofed chamber. But the steel door was ajar, letting in noise from the street above.
It could only be the Nazis who would arrive so noisily. Backup of some sort? A follow-on team?
They were here for him.
Metcalfe leaped over Langhorne’s corpse, slipped out through the open fire door, and raced up the basement stairs of the apartment building next door. As he ran he caught a glimpse, out of a basement window, of three or four black Citroëns converging on the street. The Gestapo, there was no doubt about it.
This time he knew his exit.
He escaped via the roof of the building, along the rooftops for a short distance, and then climbed down to the narrow alleys behind the avenue.
He was short of breath, but his bloodstream coursed with adrenaline, and he barely stopped to think. He just kept on running. He had to get to Derek Compton-Jones’s apartment, to warn him not to go to the base station—but also to find out what might have happened, if Derek had any inkling.
Assuming Derek had escaped, that is.
He hadn’t been there; at least, his body hadn’t been anywhere to be found. Compton-Jones worked at night and slept during the day; the others had the misfortune to have drawn earlier shifts. Maybe Derek was alive after all.
And did Corky know about this nightmare yet?
He slowed only when he approached Derek’s apartment building. Despite Corky’s strict rules of compartmentation, Metcalfe knew where Derek lived; the Paris station was small, and they were friends, after all. Now he stood in front of a stationer’s across the street, feigning interest in the window display, actually tilting his head to catch the reflection in the glass. After a few minutes he was satisfied that there was no suspicious activity in front of the building: no idling cars, no loitering pedestrians. He crossed the street quickly, entered the building, and took the stairs to Derek’s flat.
At the apartment door he listened for a moment, then knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, said, “Derek?” If Derek was inside, afraid to open the door, he might recognize Metcalfe’s voice. But a few minutes went by, and nothing.
He looked to either side, saw no one. From his wallet he removed a long, slender metal pick that curved up at one end. It was a rudimentary lock pick, which he’d been trained to use. Inserting the pick, he jiggled it in and out, up and down, as he turned it to the right. Before long the lock gave way. These old French locks were not complicated, Metcalfe realized with some relief. The door came open, and Metcalfe entered carefully.
He had visited Compton-Jones a few times, shared a bottle of whiskey while Derek had listened with rapt fascination as Metcalfe told tales from the field . . . and even, discreetly, from his bedroom. To the young British code clerk, Metcalfe had embodied all that was exciting about this underground war; through Metcalfe, Derek had been able to live it vicariously.
Metcalfe looked around quickly, calling out in case Derek was still here, asleep. Then he knocked on the closed bedroom door. When there was no answer, Metcalfe opened the door.
What assaulted him first was the acrid, metallic odor of blood, smelling the way a penny tastes on the tongue. His heart sped up as he entered the room. A few seconds later he saw Compton-Jones’s body, and he could not suppress a moan.
Derek lay on his back on the floor next to the clothes closet. His face was reddish-purple, the color of an old bruise, and his eyes stared, bulging horribly, just as Johnny Betts’s had. His mouth was slightly ajar. Bisecting his throat was a thin, deep red line, a ribbon of hemorrhaged tissue.
He had been garroted, too.
Metcalfe shuddered. Tears came to his eyes. He dropped to the floor, felt Derek’s neck for a pulse, but knew there would be none. Derek had been murdered.
“Who did this?” Metcalfe said in a low, keening, ferocious voice. “Who the hell did this to you? God damn it all, who did this?”
Perhaps it was foolish to think that some murders were more violent than others—a murder is a murder, after all—but Metcalfe believed that this garroti
ng seemed unnecessarily brutal, personal. Then again, Metcalfe realized, garroting had certain tactical advantages. It was a stealthy way to kill, no doubt the stealthiest, if one could bring oneself to do it. By cutting off the victim’s ability to produce sound, and the flow of blood to the brain, you ensured that there was no loud cry. Still, most men would not use a garrote. This killer was not just skilled; he was a disturbed man.
And the garroting seemed to be his signature.
Metcalfe somehow managed to get to his feet. Lightheaded, on the verge of passing out, he went to the apartment door just as it opened.
A German strode in. A middle-aged man in a Gestapo uniform that bore the insignia of a Standartenführer.
The colonel’s Walther was drawn. “Freeze!” he barked, aiming his pistol at the center of Metcalfe’s chest.
Metcalfe reached for his ankle-holstered gun.
“Please do not pull out a weapon,” the German said. “I will have no choice but to fire at once.”
Metcalfe considered pulling it out anyway, but the Standartenführer had the advantage of several seconds. To attempt it would be suicide; the Gestapo colonel appeared to be entirely serious and poised to fire. There was no choice in the matter.
Metcalfe stared imperiously at the German, slowly folding his arms.
“Hands at your side,” the German said.
Metcalfe complied but remained silent. He continued to stare defiantly.
Finally he spoke, in flawless German. “Are you quite finished, Standartenführer? Have you had enough?” His eyes were glacial, yet his expression was phlegmatic, superior. Metcalfe’s German, acquired in childhood, was perfect, and if it had the trace of an accent, it was the Hochdeutsch spoken by his aristocratic German language teacher at his Swiss boarding school. Germans were so class-conscious, Metcalfe knew, that the Gestapo agent could not help but be intimidated in a subtle, unspoken manner.
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