by Candace Camp
His face didn’t change expression, and he looked back down at the woman with him. Alyssa managed not to hurry. The chauffeur hardly glanced at her. She turned the corner and almost ran the rest of the way home.
*****
Alyssa! It was all Philippe could do not to run after the woman and spin her around so he could stare into her face. Could that really have been Alyssa? No makeup, plain clothes. Her hair was the wrong color. But those eyes! He couldn’t mistake those eyes, even after this long, nor the sweet vulnerability of her short upper lip. Enfer et damnation! What was Alyssa doing in Paris? They must have gone mad in London.
Geneviève glanced up at Philippe, surprised by the sudden tightening of his grip. He forced a smile and kissed her again. Geneviève took the lapels of his coat between her fingers and smiled up beguilingly at him. “Is something wrong?” she asked in a soft voice.
“No. It’s all right. I just had a thought. Thank you for last night.”
“You’re welcome.” They both knew he referred to the information safely stowed in an inside pocket of his jacket. “I am seeing our friend tonight,” Geneviève continued.
“Good.”
“A threesome. I’m borrowing a boy.”
“See if you can get anything about the informer.” Philippe bent to nuzzle her neck. She smelled of expensive perfume. Had he told her everything? Asked everything? Philippe raised his head. “Good-bye.”
Geneviève went on tiptoe to give him a light peck on the lips. “Until next week.”
“Yes.”
Philippe turned and walked to the car. The chauffeur jumped to open the door for him, then got into the driver’s seat and started the car. As he drove to Philippe’s home, Philippe stared out the side window, his face unreadable. He thought of Alyssa. It had to be her. He couldn’t mistake her face, even in that brief instant, even with the precautions she had taken to subdue her looks. What idiocy had brought her to Paris? Rage surged in him. They were asking to have her killed—and worse. He could imagine what would happen to her if she fell into the hands of someone like Dieter Gersbach.
Once inside his apartment Philippe went straight into his bedroom and shut the door. Locking it, he whipped out a piece of paper from his inside pocket and sat down at his desk. After studying the paper, he jotted a note on the bottom and tucked it back into his pocket. He removed the jacket and tossed it onto the bed, and left the room, his bedroom door open behind him.
He showered and washed his hair, working up a thick lather all over him. Sometimes he felt as if he would never get clean; he took at least two showers a day now. The filth round him stained him until sometimes he was surprised to see that his fingers didn’t leave a trail of black on everything he touched. He wondered how long a person could live in dirt and not become it.
After the shower he returned to his bedroom to dress. Georges was there picking up Philippe’s discarded clothes and taking them away to be cleaned and pressed. Philippe knew that somewhere in the process the slip of paper inside his suit jacket would be transferred to Georges’ pocket. Later this afternoon Georges would go for a walk, as he did every afternoon, and he would sit on a park bench, reading a newspaper. When he left the bench, he would leave the newspaper behind with the message carefully folded inside it. The newspaper would be picked up and read by the stranger occupying the other end of the bench, and later he, too, would walk off, leaving it behind. But the slip of paper would be inside the jacket pocket of the stranger—Dragon, the one man in Paris who knew the identity of the Duke.
Philippe could imagine what Georges would think when he read the last line of the message: “Duchess here?” It was the only brief way he could think of to describe Alyssa to Pliny, and he was sure Georges would also know immediately to whom he referred. He wished he could have talked to Georges about it, but nowadays that was too risky. When they began, it had been easier; he and his valet had been able to speak freely. But as his circle of German friends had grown to include a Gestapo agent, Albrecht Schlieker, Philippe had been presented with first a chauffeur, then a housekeeper, both German. And Philippe and Georges had stopped talking about anything of importance inside the house or in the car.
The presence of his new servants smothered him. There was almost no time now when he could relax and be himself; the charade must always be carried on. He wasn’t sure whether Schlieker suspected him or was simply a very cautious man.
Philippe sat down by the window and closed his eyes. He remembered Alyssa lying on the bed, her soft white body naked to his eyes, distracting him as he dressed for work. She had known the effect she had on him and had purposely not pulled up the sheet to cover her full, pink-tipped breasts. Instead she smiled at him bewitchingly, and he had gone over to the bed and sat down, burying his face in the sweet-smelling valley of her breasts.
His body tightened at the thought. He could feel the creamy perfection of her skin, smell her perfume and the scent of him upon her skin. Philippe wet his lips, tasting her on them again. He shook his head to clear it of the treacherous thoughts and stood up. Why was he letting himself think this way? He had realized long ago that dreaming about Alyssa would drive him crazy. She could not be a part of his life, even in his thoughts—thinking of her only made him despise his life more.
Walther, the chauffeur, waited downstairs on the sidewalk for him, arms folded, his eyes never missing anything around him. Sometimes Philippe thought that he had wronged Albrecht in assuming that he had set Walther to spy on him. Perhaps Walther really was there to protect him; he was always on the alert and quick to shield Philippe if there was any danger. He had jumped in to save Philippe’s life when the three assassins had attacked him a few months ago. Perhaps Schlieker had only wanted to help his friend, not keep tabs on him.
Or perhaps Schlieker was doing both.
Walther drove Philippe to the factory. It was completely rebuilt and producing again. About a year ago one of his army friends had requisitioned slave labor from Poland for his factory. Philippe hated going to it now and rarely stepped outside the office area when he was there. The few times he went into the factory and saw the workers there, he wondered whether what he did for the organization could possibly be worth it. He wanted to blow up the place again and flee to England.
But he knew that if he fled the country, the slave laborers would be sent somewhere else, would build trucks and cars and tanks for the German Army in another factory. And England would lose the secrets he provided. So he stayed—and avoided the factory.
He had abandoned his electronics business as well; there was too much in that field that could be discovered and used to Germany’s advantage. Instead he devoted most of his time now to his newer business interests—Geneviève’s place, the club, his dabbling in black market goods. They were more pertinent anyway, since they gave him contacts through-out the German Army. They gave him friends and favors. And information.
He left the factory a little before noon. He had a luncheon date with Albrecht, and it would never do to be less than punctual. Walther drove to Gestapo headquarters on Avenue Foch, a wide, tree-lined boulevard centered by a green swath of flowering bushes and small trees. It was a beautiful street, a perfect setting for the graceful large houses on either side. The idea of the darkness of the Gestapo residing on this lovely avenue was incongruous, like a huge spider hiding in a bed of flowers. But it wasn’t surprising—the Nazis, particularly the Gestapo, always seized the finest for themselves.
Walther stopped in front of number 84, a large, pale beige building with ornate black wrought-iron balconies. A tall black iron fence stretched across the front of it, and two gray-uniformed guards stood outside the gate. Another pair guarded the front doorway. One of the guards glanced suspiciously at the car, but Walther stepped out, and the soldier looked away again, recognizing him. Philippe waited inside the car. Albrecht would appear at twelve on the dot.
He watched the gate, wishing a miracle would occur and he would se
e a Frenchman slipping in or out of the headquarters building without a Gestapo escort. An informer. God, how he wanted that informer! It had been obvious from the way the Diamond network had been smashed that a traitor had been at work on the inside. Now cells of the Rock network were falling, too. Schlieker had let it slip in one of his rare confidences that his spy was at work again. He had predicted that the Rock network would soon be completely blown, too.
Philippe couldn’t let another resistance network be smashed. The name of the Nazi infiltrator was the most important information he could obtain right now. That was the reason he had been concentrating on the Gestapo lately. He’d even introduced Schlieker’s junior officer, Dieter Gersbach, to one of Geneviève’s girls, hoping that the rougher, louder, cruder officer might be more likely to let the information slip. But nothing had come of that except that the girl had wound up with bruises and several loose teeth from the “games” Gersbach like to play. Philippe had decided that Gersbach, in fact, didn’t know who the informer was. The informer was Schlieker’s tool and jealously guarded by him. It was common knowledge that Gersbach despised Schlieker as an effete intellectual and would love to take Schlieker’s job away from him. But Schlieker’s informant gave him an edge Gersbach couldn’t possibly overcome.
The front door opened, and a man stepped out, dressed in a crisp dark pin-striped suit. The fact that he wore no uniform when all the other Germans in Paris did, immediately identified him as a member of the dreaded German secret police, the Gestapo. The man’s eyes ran automatically around the small yard and over the guards, checking for mistakes or anything suspicious. Schlieker was a very careful man.
He walked across the yard and out the gate as the guards saluted him, and climbed into the back of Philippe’s car. He smiled. “Philippe.”
“Albrecht.” Philippe thought that Albrecht Schlieker had as much liking for him as he did for anyone. Schlieker enjoyed conversing with him, often remarking that it was his only opportunity for intelligent discussion. When it came to art and music, he dismissed his Gestapo compatriots with a sneer. Philippe had once heard him joke that Dieter Gersbach understood nothing more refined than beer-hall polkas. Philippe cultivated Schlieker carefully, maintaining a charming, friendly, but unservile attitude with him. Schlieker was used to everyone fawning over him because of his power, and while he accepted it as his due, he despised the people who did it.
Walther drove them to an expensive restaurant where a table sat waiting for them. Schlieker never sat at a sidewalk café, and his preference was for a table in a corner, where he could have his back against a wall and survey the entire room. Since the assassination attempt on him a few months ago, Philippe could understand Schlieker’s precaution; he found he was no longer as fond of sidewalk cafes himself.
Schlieker spent a good deal of time and effort choosing their wine, and Philippe offered no suggestion. It was a point of pride with the Gestapo officer that he knew wines, and he enjoyed thinking that a Frenchman relied on his expertise in choosing wine. The sommelier brought the wine, and they savored it for a moment. Only then did they begin to talk.
“How is our lovely Madame Geneviève?” Schlieker asked, smiling faintly. Philippe wasn’t surprised at his bringing the woman into the conversation today; he liked to remind Philippe that he always knew where Philippe was and what he was doing.
Philippe managed to look astonished. That was another thing Schlieker liked—amazement at his knowledge and skill. Philippe’s stomach curled in disgust at playing Schlieker’s games, but the feeling was so long-standing he no longer paid it any attention. “As lovely as ever. I saw her last night.” He paused. “Does that bother you?”
Schlieker laughed. “God, no. She is just a tart. I’m happy to share her with a friend.”
Philippe had suspected that would be his answer. Schlieker would never allow a prostitute, no matter how lovely, to come between him and a male friend. Besides, he imagined Schlieker used Geneviève more as a cover than anything else, a woman to be seen with. From what Geneviève had told him about the man, he was more given to young men than beautiful women.
“Speaking of Geneviève…” Philippe began, frowning a little.
“A problem?”
“I’m not sure. But I am a little concerned about one of her girls.”
“Yes?” Schlieker’s eyes lost interest, and he lit a cigarette.
“From what Geneviève tells me, I think she may be a spy.”
Schlieker’s head came up, his interest revived. “Why?”
“She asks too many questions. She is always talking to the other girls about the men they service—and as you know, nearly all Geneviève’s customers are German officers. She seems much too interested in what the customers say. And Geneviève has found her once or twice where she should not be.”
Philippe and Geneviève had indeed discussed the girl last night. As usual on the evenings when he stayed at her place, Geneviève gave him the information her girls gathered throughout the past week. This exchange of information was all that occurred between them; the pretense of an affair made a good cover-up for their real relationship.
Philippe had known Geneviève for years; she had grown up in the slums of Lyons with him, and long ago they had been lovers for a brief time. Later she moved to Paris and became a dancer in a club, supplementing her income with the money she received from men. The sideline became more lucrative than the job, and before long, she had established herself as one of the most beautiful and talented courtesans of Paris, a city famous for such women.
After Philippe began his secret work, he thought of her. His German ‘friends’ seemed insatiable for the company of lovely Frenchwomen. Setting them up with women seemed a perfect opportunity to supply their needs, thus earning their gratitude and friendship, while at the same time gathering more information from them. Philippe approached Geneviève cautiously, but it hadn’t taken long to realize that she was in agreement with him on the subject of Nazis. At first he simply introduced her to various officers, and she gave him whatever information she gleaned from them. Later they decided to expand their operations, and he set her up in a brothel.
Only two of the girls besides Geneviève were aware of her activities and actively participated in them—though even they had no knowledge that Geneviève’s sometime lover, Philippe Michaude, was actually the ultimate receiver of the information. The other girls were there simply to earn money in the manner easiest for them, but Geneviève and her two co-conspirators were able to pick up information from them in conversations.
But now there was a new girl, hired a month ago to replace the woman Gersbach had damaged, and she asked a great many questions of the other girls about the officials they serviced. One of Geneviève’s employees had seen her meeting a man secretively in the alleyway early one morning. Philippe and Geneviève suspected she had been set to spy on them by the Gestapo.
Questions to headquarters brought back denials that the woman worked for the Free French or the British, and after that Genevieve kept a closer eye on her. It was soon clear that she was regularly meeting the same man in the alleyway or at the market or a cafe. Worse, Genevieve recognized him as a man who worked at Gestapo headquarters.
They had to get rid of her; a Gestapo spy would cramp Geneviève’s activities. There were several ways to do so, the easiest being simply to fire her, but doing so might fix the Gestapo’s attention even more on Genevieve’s house. Turning her in to Schlieker, however, served the double purpose of disposing of her and proving their loyalty to the Germans at the same time. The subtle twist pleased Philippe.
“What is her name?” Schlieker whipped out a flat little notebook and removed a small pen.
“Lisette. I don’t know her last name. A rather flamboyant redhead.” He watched Schlieker jot down the information and return the notebook to his pocket. It went against the grain to inform on anyone, even a German spy. But Schlieker wasn’t one who would wreak vengeance on
one of his own. He lacked Gersbach’s sadistic delight in torture. That didn’t mean he was any less likely to torture suspects, but he did it only with reason. It was merely a job to him, and in a way that was even more chilling.
Philippe thought of Alyssa and what Schlieker or someone like him would do to her, and his insides turned cold and liquid with fear in a way that they had never done when he considered the danger to himself.
Surely that woman he had glimpsed on the street hadn’t been Alyssa. Pliny couldn’t have been so foolish as to send a woman with her distinctive good looks. It was merely a woman who somewhat resembled Alyssa, and Philippe thought about her, dreamed about her, so constantly that his mind had turned her into Alyssa. That was all.
But he thought again of those vivid blue eyes, and he knew it couldn’t be anyone but Alyssa.
The waiter arrived with their first course, escargot swimming in a buttery herb sauce. Philippe could hardly force it down.
*****
Alyssa returned to Jules and Odette’s apartment, thoroughly shaken by her encounter. Philippe had looked straight at her. Was it possible he hadn’t recognized her, given her unflattering clothes and new hair color? No, he knew her too well to be fooled by that. More to the point—having recognized her, would he turn her in?
They had been so close once, so intimate. He had loved her. A year ago in Washington, he swore that he loved her, and she believed him. It was difficult to reconcile what he was doing with any ability to feel love, but he clearly held some strong feeling for her. Still… she reminded herself that he had no moral fiber. Even if he had once cared for her, that had been two long years ago. And who knew how low he might stoop to ingratiate himself with his Nazi friends? It would be foolish to rely on his silence. She must be very cautious, very alert to any danger.
The next evening after curfew, one by one, three men came to the apartment. Jules introduced them to Alyssa as “Green,” “Blade,” and “Unicorn.” Green and Blade were both dark, one quite tall and slender and the other short and heavyset. They made Alyssa think of Mutt and Jeff from the comic strip. Unicorn was a small man with sandy hair and eyebrows and reddish-brown eyes. He smiled at Alyssa, and there was hint of a devilish twinkle in his eyes.
