“Sure, boss,” said Sacha. He shot out one oversize hand and began worrying the radio dial until he managed to find a station. “Blah blah blah is all that's on.”
“Then turn the blah blah blah up so we can at least hear it,” Rick ordered. After all his time in Casablanca and in Paris, his French was still only passable, and sometimes he had trouble understanding on the telephone or over the radio. If anything important was going on, Louis would tell him soon enough. Or Sam, who learned languages the way he learned the piano, by ear.
Renault was about to say something when something caught his attention. “Quiet!” he shouted in a tone that shocked everybody into silence.
Sacha fiddled with the volume, and an excited voice suddenly filled the car. Even Rick knew what the announcer was saying. He just didn't want to believe it.
In far-off Hawaii, the Japanese had just bombed Pearl Harbor.
“Boss, we got trouble,” Sam said from the front seat.
“I know that,” snapped Rick, trying to listen to the radio. He caught Sam's gaze in the rearview mirror.
“I mean we got company,” Sam explained calmly, slamming the car into high gear.
Rick twisted in his seat. A pair of yellow headlamps was gaining on them.
The silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons. A bullet pinged off the trunk of the Buick.
“Gimme a clip, Sacha,” Rick said.
“Right here, boss,” said the Russian, happy at last.
Rick slammed it into his Colt .45. He had always wanted to see if a phaeton with a 141-horsepower engine could outrun a Mercedes-Benz, and now he was about to find out.
CHAPTER TWO
Ilsa Lund turned to face her husband as their plane ascended into the night sky. They flew directly over the city at first, then banked steeply out toward the sea. Her last view of Casablanca was of Rick's place. Illuminated only by the street lamps, it looked silent and forlorn.
Traces of her tears remained on her cheeks. She didn't want to wipe them away. They were all she had left. “Everything's happened so fast,” she murmured. Too fast. The surprise, the shock, the excitement, the danger, and now the relief—relief so tinged with sadness and regret.
“I didn't know he would be in Casablanca!” she whispered, more to herself than to Victor. “How could I have? What fate led us to him—to him, who had the letters of transit! I know you're upset about what happened in Paris between Rick and me, but please try not to be. Didn't everything work out for the best? Where would we be without those letters? What would we have done?”
She clutched his arm and imagined that the beating of her heart could be heard over the drone of the airplane's engines. “Oh, Victor,” she said, “don't you see? I thought you were dead, and I thought my life was over, too. I was lonely. I had nothing, not even hope. Oh, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore!” She started to cry again, but she was not sure why or for whom. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief as the plane bumped its way through the clouds.
“Then I learned that you were alive, and how much you needed me to help you in your struggle,” she said, regaining control. “You could have abandoned me a dozen times in the past eighteen months—in Lille, when I was having trouble with the authorities, in Marseille, when I was sick for two weeks and you nursed me back to health—and in Casablanca, when you might have purchased one of those letters and fled. But you didn't. Now I understand why you have kept our marriage a secret even from our friends, so that the Gestapo would never suspect that I was your wife.”
She managed to look over at Victor, but he was staring straight ahead again, as if lost in thought. She wondered, not for the first time, if he had heard a single word she had said. He had so much on his mind. “Tell me … tell me you're not too angry with me,” she concluded.
He reached over and patted her arm affectionately and a little distractedly. “Anger and jealousy are two emotions I choose to live without,” he said. “Besides, how could I ever be angry with you when there is so much important work ahead?”
“Yes, Victor,” replied Ilsa. Did he not understand what she was trying to say, or was it impossible for him? “How could you?”
For a while they sat together in silence. If the other passengers on the plane had noticed anything out of the ordinary about the handsome couple, they did not let their curiosity show. In wartime Europe, keeping one's curiosity private was always wise.
Victor leaned his head close to Ilsa's. “When we get to Lisbon, my dear, I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”
“When have I ever not?” asked Ilsa, but Victor was still talking.
“The slightest hesitation could be fatal for both of us. Until now, I’ve been unable to tell you very much about my mission.” His voice softened a bit. “I couldn't breathe a word of it to anyone back in Casablanca—not even you. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m sure I do,” replied Ilsa.
The plane climbed above the Atlantic, buffeted by the winds. Once or twice Ilsa felt her stomach lurch, but Victor remained imperturbable. He had faced far worse dangers than a simple airplane trip, she knew, and she envied him his calm certitude. She wondered if that was an emotion she would ever experience for herself.
“Even at this moment, I cannot confide in you the full details of our plan,” Victor went on. “Indeed, I myself do not know them fully yet.”
Ilsa interrupted him by placing her hand on his forearm. He winced, and then she remembered the wound he had suffered back in Casablanca, when the police broke up the Underground meeting just before his arrest. “It's very dangerous, isn't it?” she asked.
“More dangerous than anything I’ve ever done,” said Victor. “But don't worry, everything will work out. Our cause is just and theirs is not, and in the end we shall win. When even a man as blind to the fate of nations as Richard Blaine can see the difference between us and the Germans, the virtue of our cause must be clear to everyone.”
“What do you mean, Victor?”
Laszlo gave his wife a small smile. “I mean simply that his action in giving us the transit letters was the mark of a man who has stopped running from himself. Who has finally realized, as you and I did long ago, that there are far more important things in this life than oneself or one's own happiness. Why do you suppose he did what he did back there? Why did he give us the letters of transit, when he might have kept them for himself?”
“I’m sure I don't know,” replied Ilsa. Her mind flashed back to the last time she had seen Rick alone, in his apartment above the cafÉ last night. She had been ready to sleep with him or shoot him, whatever it took to get the letters of transit that were her husband's passport to freedom. She had not shot him.
“When he might have turned me over to Major Strasser as casually as swatting a fly,” continued Victor. “When” —his face darkened a bit—”he might have tried to take you away with him.”
“Why, Victor?” breathed Ilsa.
“Because your saloon keeper has finally become a man, and declared his willingness to join us in our fight,” said her husband. “He knew that I must escape Casablanca, and he knew I needed you to come with me. Whatever his true feelings for you might be, they were of no moment. Because the cause is all.”
Their plane landed in Lisbon without incident. Victor and Ilsa passed through the border formalities easily. They took their rooms in the Hotel Aviz without question. They slept together that night without passion.
The next morning Ilsa was startled to wakefulness by a soft knock at the door. Two years ago she never would have noticed it, not so softly and not so far away. Since 1939 no one in occupied Europe had slept well or soundly. Instinctively she reached for her husband, but he was not there. Up and dressed, he was just closing the bedroom door behind him.
Outside she could hear voices. They were raised from time to time, but not in anger. In her nightgown she padded across the bed chamber and tried the door, but it was locked. Victor had locked it
from the outside. For her safety? Or for his?
She bent down to the keyhole. The room beyond was still plunged in the darkness of the coming winter solstice. Listening intently, she could just make out some of the words. To judge from the differing voices, there were two other men in the front room with her husband.
“… changes everything … ,” Victor was saying.
“… British Intelligence … ,” said someone else.
“… danger … no chance … alive … ,” said the second stranger.
“…der Henker …”
“… Prague …”
“As soon as possible!” Victor said, putting an end to the discussion.
She heard the front door shut softly. She jumped back into bed when she heard the turn of the key in the bedroom door.
“Is that you, Victor?” She feigned sleepiness.
“Yes, my dear,” he said.
She wiped some imaginary sand out of her eyes. “Are you up so soon?”
“I went for an early morning stroll,” said Laszlo. “You can't believe how good it feels to breathe free air once more. After Mauthausen, I never thought I’d have the chance again.”
Ilsa propped herself up slowly, yawned, and stretched. “I can only imagine how it must feel,” she said.
“Of course you can.” He stroked her hair lightly, absentmindedly. “There has been some extraordinary news, my dear. The Japanese have attacked the Americans at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii.”
Ilsa sat bolt upright; no need to feign sleepiness now. “What?” she exclaimed.
“It happened yesterday, a surprise attack on the U.S. Navy at Pearl Harbor near Honolulu. Most of the ships were destroyed in the harbor, and many men were killed. President Roosevelt has asked Congress for a declaration of war on Japan.” Victor seemed almost joyful. “Now the Americans will have to join in our struggle.”
He got up and walked around the room excitedly. “Don't you see, Ilsa? This is what we have hoped for. This is what I hoped for during all those long months in the camps, when it seemed that no one would come to our aid. The English look beaten. The Russians are reeling on three fronts. But this changes everything! Everything!”
Impulsively he swept his wife up in his arms.
“With the Americans on our side, we cannot lose! Oh, we won't be victorious right away; it will take years to roll back the Germans, destroy their armies, and free Europe once more. But the die is cast now, and there is no turning back. There are no Rick Blaines in America anymore, men who hide behind their cowardice and call it neutrality. It will take time, but from this moment on, Germany is finished.”
As abruptly as he had embraced her, he released her. “We must make haste—more haste than ever. Quickly!” He found her suitcase and threw it on the bed. “The taxi is downstairs, and the plane leaves in less than an hour.”
Ilsa rose quickly and began to pack. “I have always wanted to see New York,” she said. “Now that the Americans are on our side—”
“There is no longer any point in going to America,” Victor said. His bags were already packed, and he stood in the doorway impatiently. He was barely able to contain his excitement. “The time for speech making and fund-raising is over, thank God. Now the time for action is at hand!”
“Then where are we going?” asked Ilsa.
“To the headquarters of the Czech government-in-exile since the fall of France,” he said as he closed the door behind them. “To London.”
“London!” exclaimed Ilsa. That was where King Haakon lived now, along with the Norwegian government-in-exile, ever since Vidkun Quisling and his Nasjonal Samling, aided by some traitorous army officers, helped the Germans to occupy their homeland.
That was where her mother was.
Her thoughts raced back to Rick as Victor settled their account. She had asked him to follow, and now she must tell him where. Impulsively she scribbled unobserved a private note for Mr. Richard Blaine and left it with the chief reservations clerk, the one who had looked at her so appreciatively when they'd checked in the night before. The note was brief and to the point. “To London.” “British Intelligence.” “Danger.” “Prague.” And “Come quickly.” It was signed simply, “I.”
That was all. She hoped Rick would understand what it meant, because she didn't.
She smiled at the clerk as she handed him the note. He looked back at her with the same mixture of awe, admiration, and desire that she had seen in the faces of men since she was fourteen years old.
“For Mr. Blaine only,” she said, gazing into his eyes to make sure he wouldn't forget. “You understand?”
“You have my word on it, madam,” said the clerk, impressed.
Then she heard her husband's voice in her ear, felt his hand on her arm—”Hurry, Ilsa, hurry”—and she was whisked away.
The waiting taxi sped them to their destination. They boarded the London-bound plane and took their seats. A pair of young, tough men, Slavs by the look of them, got on with them. They said nothing to Victor, but Ilsa knew they were watching them.
As the plane took off, she brought her mouth to her husband's ear. “Victor,” she said, “let me help you this time. Please.” Laszlo, however, stared straight ahead, his mind not on the present, but on the future.
CHAPTER THREE
Rick reached across the seat and shoved Renault hard. “Get down, Louie,” he barked. “I’ve seen a man get his head blown off, and believe me, it isn't a pretty sight.”
Renault ducked. “I happily defer to your obviously greater experience in these matters,” he said.
From the backseat, Rick could see that the two cars were about three hundred yards apart. As the Buick roared along, the Mercedes no longer seemed to be closing on them, but neither was it receding.
“What have they got, Sam? Tommies?” asked Rick as their pursuers’ bullets whizzed by.
“Prob'ly some new Krupp thing,” demurred Sam, two hands on the wheel. “Tommies is old now, boss, or ain't you noticed?”
“Yeah, well, I wish we had one.”
“You and me both,” said Sam, eyes straight ahead.
“What've we got?”
“Your forty-five, Sacha's thirty-eight, my twenty-two … what you got, Mr. Louis?”
Renault unholstered his sidearm and looked at it, as if for the first time. “A thirty-eight,” he said. “Not that I’ve ever had to use it.”
“Except to impress the girls,” said Rick.
Sacha leaned out the window and squeezed off a couple of shots.
“Cut it out, you idiot!” yelled Rick. “Never let ‘em know what you've got until you have to. If they know all we have is pistols, they'll cut us to pieces.”
“Sorry, boss,” Sacha said.
The road to Rabat was pitch dark. The coastal fog made the moon irrelevant. The only problem was that the Buick was in the Mercedes’ headlights and not the other way around.
“Gimme a little distance, will ya, Sam?” ordered Rick. “I’d like to see if I’m getting the horsepower I paid for.”
“You got it, boss.”
Under Sam's urging, slowly but inexorably the Buick pulled away. Three hundred and fifty yards, four hundred yards … Rick decided it was safe to stick his head out the window.
“Is there a turnoff anyplace soon?” he shouted over the roar of the slipstream. They might be able to outrun the Mercedes, but then again they might not: a flat, an accident … better to get the drop on the Germans if they could and get it over with.
“There's always a turnoff, if you don't mind jungle,” said Sam.
“Then turn off, damn it.”
Sam spun the car so hard to the left that Renault thought he would fly out the window. He was amazed to see Rick sitting bolt upright and leaning out of the ear as calmly as if he were at the track on a Sunday afternoon, studying a racing form. Except that he had a gun in his hand instead of a pencil.
“Gimme a count, Sam,” said Rick as the car began to rotate.
“On
e Mississippi, two Mississippi …”
Steered and braked expertly by Sam, the Buick revolved a full 360 degrees in a controlled skid, returning to its original direction at the exact moment the Mercedes caught up with them.
“… three!”
The Mercedes was right beside them. Rick caught a glimpse of the amazed face of the driver.
“Laissez le bon temps rouler,” said Sam.
“Now, Sach’,” shouted Rick.
The Russian and the American opened up on the Germans. Sacha's shot put out the window on the driver's side. Rick's shot put out the driver's left eye.
Rick caught a glimpse of the gunman in the backseat as the crippled Mercedes veered sharply to the right and headed for the trees. The Nazi managed to get off a couple of wild shots before they smashed into a grove of mangoes.
The explosion sent an orange ball of flame into the sky, scorching the fronds as it billowed. Sam slammed on the brakes so they could survey their handiwork.
“Piece of cake, boss,” he said as he backed up the Buick.
The fireball was consuming most of the big Mercedes by the time they got there. Over each headlight was a small flag bearing the emblem of the swastika, now burning merrily. Rick could see that the car had three occupants, but it was too late to help any of them.
“Nice shooting, boss,” complimented Sacha.
“Fish in a barrel,” said Rick.
“I never see fish in a barrel, boss.” Sacha threw his arms around Rick's neck. “Can I kiss you?”
“Get away from me, you crazy Russian,” said Rick.
The fire burned for what seemed like an eternity. Privately Renault wondered why they didn't drive on, but Rick seemed disinclined to leave. He sat, head bowed, lips moving, but no sound emerging. Was he praying? Rick Blaine was full of surprises this evening.
“Come on, let's go,” Rick said abruptly. “We've got a plane to catch.”
The Buick pulled back onto the road.
The glare from the burning Mercedes receded rapidly in Sam's rearview mirror, which made him happy. Sam disliked violence, even when it was necessary. He'd seen enough of it.
As Time Goes By Page 2
