“Non! Attendez Roosevelt. Trust him. Les Américains finiront par revenir—”
Hearing the shouting, the landlady militantly flew out into the hall, her white head bobbing atop her rounded black-clad form. She froze at the sight of the bags.
“Monsieur Hawkins! Vous partez?”
“Oui, Madame Aubry—”
Incredulous, Madame Aubry gaped as he counted out two months’ future rent. Then the dam broke. Who knew tears could burst out in such a flood through so shattered an expression?
“Les Américains? Vous partez tous?” repeating it in growing tones of surprise, anger, resignation and despair, “Vous partez tous?”
“Non!” He said, “Ne vous inquiétez pas.” Don’t worry. “Je serai de retour.” I’ll be back. “Dans deux semaines.” A couple of weeks. He pressed the rent money in her hands, a hundred dollars, all in American greenbacks. “Voici le loyer pour deux mois—”
She kept softly repeating, “Les Boches, les Boches …”
Marie arrived back at the top of the stairs, champagne bottle in hand. She flung it overhand by the neck, fast and hard. Hawkins barely caught the glint of it from the corner of his eye and ducked. It glanced over the crown of his hat and slammed into the wall, half smashing a blue robed figurine of the Madonna, gouging out a spray of flying plaster. Then it bounced off the bags and crashed onto the tile floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. Madame Aubry began shrieking, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!”
Marie shouted, “Quelle merde!” and slapped a hand on her biceps as she pumped a fist to the ceiling.
-5-
“You’ve orders from London. Get out now.” Gordon, the Paris station chief, was on the other end of the line. Hawkins was calling from an MI6 safe house near Place de l’Étoile. Another half-track rattled by in the distance.
“What?” Hawkins said. “But we need to start organizing, resist behind—”
“No! Leave. Now!”
“Where?”
“Through Spain to Lisbon.”
“Lisbon? Why? That’ll take weeks.”
“Don’t know. That’s the order. Any way you can. Just get out. Then go to Lisbon. Remember, this comes straight from the top.”
“But our French counterparts—”
“No time. We’re shutting down here now. We’ll be gone within the hour.”
“We can’t leave them behind! Besides, we’re going to need them.”
“We’re on our own now. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t talk to anyone. You don’t know, some of them might go with this new government. Could hand everything over to Hitler, including you. Just get out now.”
“What about the papers here?”
“Damn. I forgot that. Burn everything. Then get out. Oh, and don’t use the phone. They’ll be in the exchanges shortly.”
A click. The line went dead. Hawkins rushed to a small steel cabinet, clicking in the combination, throwing the lid back. A rattling noise on the street outside. He slipped to the window, looking down at a careful angle, out of sight, one finger on the blinds. The usually bustling market was empty. Blowing papers floated through the air, darting over bits of rotting castoff produce, flattened boxes and upended stands. A lone Wehrmacht half-track turned the corner and vanished. Another scouting party. The Gestapo can’t be far behind.
Back to the cabinet. Hawkins pulled out a green binder, set it aside. He swept everything else up in his arms, throwing the wad in the old fireplace, fluffing it up, mixing in some newspapers, flicking out his Dunhill lighter. A quick hot fire blazed up. Hawkins kept one eye out for large floating pieces while he went through the binder. Several British and Commonwealth passports—Canadian, New Zealand—all useless now, into the flames. He paused at a South African one. No, probably useless, too. In it went. Also the forged Italian and Swiss ones. Dead ends, no getting out through those places. They hit the fire, too. That left the neutrals. He pocketed the Swedish, the Brazilian, the Mexican and the two Turkish ones. Gordon could go to hell.
Hawkins hit the avenue half running, then slowed to a walk like everyone else. Be careful, he thought. Don’t draw attention. The people seemed to be moving in the same direction, a tide against him. A gray-haired man in his fifties bumped into his shoulder. His cheeks were wet with tears, eyes red. There were several service ribbons on his chest—a veteran of the last war.
He gestured up the street. “Quatre ans! Nous avons survécu au front! Mes deux frères … mes deux frères.”
God, hard to imagine the agony, Hawkins thought. Going through that for four years, then this. Weeping, the man started to collapse. Hawkins helped him to a café chair, then ran up and turned the corner.
A gray German column was parked at the curb. Acting like they’d driven into town on a shopping trip, calmly sitting and waiting—for what, wasn’t clear. A few of the soldiers were idly walking around. Completely relaxed, like there’d never been a war at all, gawking at the buildings, taking in the sights. The line of vehicles, hundreds of them and several thousand men, stretched up the boulevard, vanishing in the distance.
The government had declared Paris an open city and the French and British armies withdrew. The usually busy street was otherwise empty of people. A private turned, saw Hawkins, nodded and smiled slightly, then a sergeant spotted him, gestured him over, patted him down and gently tapped his shoulder to get going. Hawkins walked past them, barely glancing sideways, turning into an arcade, up a street eerily devoid of traffic and pedestrians at midday.
Twenty minutes later he reached the apartment.
-6-
The safe house once lodged people the Deuxième Bureau, France’s intelligence service, brought in and needed to hide. First dissidents from Germany. Then refugees from Czechoslovakia, Poland and the Baltics. Finally, Norway and Denmark—wherever Hitler reached. Now the old apartment was hiding the men and women of French intelligence itself from the enemy rushing in. People were milling around, rapidly pacing from one antique-filled room to another. Restless. Anxious. Agitated, as if unable to stop, unable to focus, bumping into each other, the mood shifting in seconds from consternation. To anger. Blame. Then to guilt. And back to blame again. All wrapped in a thick blanket of confusion and indecision. Everyone talking and shouting over one another in a crazed jumble. Words like blows.
“They’re traitors I tell you!” one shouted, unclear if he expected anyone to listen, aimlessly walking through into the other room.
“That’s not true. The marshal, he’s trying to salvage something,” another said.
A thick pall of smoke filled the room from a mix of too many cigarettes and a messy mass of records burning in the old fireplace. One man was standing over it, coughing, stirring the burning embers with a poker. He turned and shouted through the haze.
“The government should go to Algiers and the empire, take the fleet and the air force, all the troops they can round up.”
“Will someone shut that damn window? They’ll see the smoke.”
“They’re in the street outside?”
“Only makes sense to go to North Africa if the Americans are coming—”
“The Americans! And where the hell were they?”
They finally seemed to notice Hawkins standing there. They all turned and stared, Benoît, Dodier, LaDue, Marcellin, Champigny, Blanchard, Archambault and Godette. Good men and women, colleagues, friends, all of them, the last three years. The hollow expressions on their faces. That was the worst.
“Hawkins, what now for you?” Benoît said.
“I have to go,” Hawkins said, “I have orders.”
“You’re leaving the country?” Benoît said. Hawkins nodded. The sad expression in Benoît’s gray eyes was heartbreaking. But there was no anger or judgment. “How long?”
“I don’t know. I just got them an hour ago.”
“From Gordon?”
“Yes. Straight from London.”
“You’re staying with the British Secret Service? You’re not returning to America
?”
“I’m sticking it out.”
“You could go.”
“I know.”
“Hawkins, President Roosevelt, the Americans, what will they do? Surely they cannot abandon France, their sister in liberty …” Blanchard said. Hawkins and Stéphanie had crossed the Rhine together several times, posing as a married couple.
“I can’t say,” Hawkins said. “You know I haven’t been home in a long time.”
“Of course.” She looked down, fighting tears.
Hawkins handed the four blank passports to Benoît. He seemed to be the highest-ranking officer present.
“I’m sure you’ll know how to use them.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Roy.” Benoît scanned the tense, expectant faces. He sighed heavily. “We’ll draw lots.”
“I’m going to get my car now.”
“Roy, you must not attempt that. The Germans have given orders to confiscate all private autos. Haven’t you heard? It’s part of the settlement.”
“But I’m not French—”
A slight note of exasperation crept into Benoît’s voice. He slowly shook his head. “What kind of car is it? Did you bring it from America? Does it have American papers?”
“No. It’s a Traction Avant. I bought it here.”
“I thought so. Then to the Germans it is an enemy car. British, French, it doesn’t matter. If you try to drive it out they’ll stop you and take it. Then comes the interrogation and search. You must not risk this. At the very least you’ll be stranded on the road, many kilometers out in the country. But it will likely be far worse. You don’t want to draw their attention, make contact, have them start checking. You’ll have to take your bicycle.”
Marie. Oh dear God. Marie may be right after all, Hawkins thought. This is going to take time. By bike? Certainly far more than two weeks. She’ll think I lied to her, that I’ve abandoned her. Fuck all. For a moment he felt sick and queasy, his face flushing prickly cold and clammy, then the rest of him.
“Hawkins, are you all right? Perhaps you should sit down.”
“No. I’ll be fine. I have to hurry, then. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I’m sorry I don’t have more—” his voice started to break.
“Hawkins, you don’t have to apologize. We all did all we could.”
“London’s taking me out to put me back in. I’m certain of it. Since the US is neutral I’ll be able to go in and work undercover on my American passport. There’ll be plenty of Americans staying on in the city. All kinds of possibilities. We can organize, keep fighting.”
Benoît looked dubious, then worried. “Roy, mon ami, you were certainly blown by the mess in Holland, too. They may not have a new name, but they will find your photo in the files. You may be more at risk than any of us—”
“No. I’ll be back. I know I will.”
“Listen to me. You have been operating undercover as an American. The US government cannot help you if you are caught spying for Britain without violating its neutrality. And you are breaking American law, non? The government in Washington cannot help you and will not because to them you are a criminal, and London cannot either without admitting that it is violating the sanctity of an American passport, which would damage relations with America. Even a British agent could be exchanged, in theory. But you are naked. It’s suicide.”
“I’ll be back. I’ll just go to ground if I have to.”
“Eh bien, we’ll see. Bonne chance, Roy.”
“Bonne chance, all of you.” Hawkins shook hands all around.
Benoît began tearing up strips of paper, four long, three short.
“Stéphanie, you should take one first,” Benoît said, “you went over there with Hawkins. You are most at risk.” They all mumbled “oui, oui” in agreement. She nodded, half sobbing, then ducked her chin down, took the blank passport and left for the lab to fill it in and attach a new photo. The faces of the others actually went white as they watched. They stood frozen, knowing they were likely drawing lots for who would live and who would die. Hawkins turned to leave. LaDue finally reached out, his hand shaking slightly.
-7-
The top of the hill, finally. Hawkins climbed off the wobbly bike, parking it, legs aching. Time to rest a minute, check the ropes on the suitcases stacked on the fenders, hanging off the sides. He turned, looking back. The suburb of Meudon lay below, dark and asleep. Farther out, the city. After the Armistice the power had been turned back on. All of Paris was lit up, glowing before him—for him. The dome of Montmartre. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. Notre-Dame. All still there.
From up here, on the hilltop, it seems so peaceful, so normal, so inviting, Hawkins thought. It can’t be true what happened. It’s impossible. Go back—it’s too much to lose, too much to bear.
Why am I leaving?
Then, remarkably, starting in the northeast, one arrondissement after another went dark. The Wehrmacht was shutting off the power, enforcing a new blackout on the city. As the quarters of the city went dark, one after another, the quarters of his heart seemed to tumble into a dark abyss, too.
The streetlights around him went out, plunging him into total darkness. Is this what it’s like to die? The switch is thrown, the lights go out? Maybe it’s just as well. Maybe the dark is where I belong.
Hawkins staggered around, almost tripped over the bike, angrily grabbed it and tried to throw it, then kick it, heavily flipping it over instead. He paced up and down a moment, holding his head in his hands. With the image of the city gone, all that was left in the dark vacuum was the pull of his orders. Everything else was gone. After a few minutes he groped around, found the bike, got on and rode down the hill and out of the city and into the empty countryside, following the bike’s dim flickering yellow light.
-8-
LISBON
1 AUGUST 1940
Hawkins felt the suitcase with his heel and sat on it, rocking back.
Somewhere out there, an alleyway, rising up a small hill. Two or three shops. A crossroads farther up by a fountain. Probably two dozen houses with lots of overflowing flower boxes. A pleasant lane outside Lisbon—in the daytime. At night, utterly black. Like being swallowed like Jonah. No electricity here in this ancient, poor neighborhood. It could still be the eighteenth century. Not even a candle, not even stars.
Also at least fifty windows where anyone could stand and shoot. All invisible in the dark. Like staring into oblivion.
He rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulled out pouch and pipe, filled the bowl and clicked his Dunhill, lighting up his face. He waited.
Nothing. No shots. Still here. He reflexively brushed his American passport again. Still there, too. Be good to quit this place.
The entire European continent had turned into a giant overpressurized boiler with Lisbon the split in the seam firing out human steam. Desperate refugees were lurking everywhere. The bolder ones sized you up eye-to-eye, like prizefighters probing for a vulnerable moment of opportunity. The women were harder to stare through, their desperation, their need for protection—your protection—revealed so willingly, so startlingly apparent.
A hint of brightening down at the end, toward the crossroads. He checked his watch’s radium green glow: three-forty.
The lights turned and flashed around the corner. In the predawn silence the narrow lane magnified the approaching Daimler’s low purr, its tires ripping over the cobblestones became a roaring, rhythmical clatter.
The sound instantly triggered an image—standing at the window in Paris listening to the growing beat of treads from the Wehrmacht scout car.
A familiar, slightly sick feeling welled up. And rage. Can’t indulge that, he thought. But the longer he chewed it over, the harder he fought it, the duller his mind felt. Eventually his brain seemed to close like the iris on a camera, nothing but darkness.
In the weeks on the road the same questions kept coming up with an accelerating frequency, advanced by that final image of the long gray column stretching up the avenue. H
ow could it have happened? How will we ever get them out?
Isn’t it all really hopeless now?
Hawkins mentally flicked the image away. Thank God this one’s punctual.
The driver tapped the high beams, signaling. Hawkins darted across the courtyard in a low crouch. Threw his bags through the back door. Jumped in front, so quick only an expert would’ve seen. As they pulled up the lane he carefully rechecked the street again. No one watching. Strictly routine. The old Daimler wound its way through the dark outskirts of Lisbon. The driver looked over, his face illuminated by the dash lights.
“You lit a pipe? You always break protocol like that? Suppose someone saw you, took a shot.”
“Probably do me a favor. Who the hell are you?” The driver was a much older man, a sedentary, bureaucratic type, around sixty and close to retirement, with a strong Scottish accent. He kept glancing at Hawkins, his alarm tinged with uncertainty. Hawkins still had a young face but the dark circles ringing his eyes gave him an almost dissipated quality, making him look older than his twenty-four years.
“Wilkinson. Deputy station chief here in Lisbon. We’ve been expecting you for over a month!”
“I know. Couldn’t be helped. Forty kilometers south of Paris the back tire on my bicycle blew out. Had to push it 260 kilometers, all the way to Châteauroux.”
Wilkinson glared back, almost accusatory. He’s wondering about the accent, Hawkins thought. Any second now.
“Say, you a Yank?” Always the same squinting question. What are you? No easy answer there.
“My father was.”
“I see.” He gestured at the seat between them. “You’ve new orders there.”
Hawkins stared at the envelope. New orders? He tore one end off. A thin strip of tissue designed to melt in water drifted down. He bent over to read as it settled on his knee.
tks waiting lisbon—he knew that already. Then came the unexpected part, the punch in the gut. paa. report w new york station. inspect bermuda station en route. Signed C, the chief of MI6. Right from the top, indeed. As he reflexively popped it in his dry mouth and swallowed Hawkins could feel the flush of anger rising on his face.
New York Station Page 2
