Three Hours in Paris

by Cara Black

  “Don’t worry, I’m taking you to a doctor,” she said.

  Dédé had backed up the cart to the shed’s door. He bent down, grunted and heaved the man up, struggling and stumbling under the man’s weight. Cries of pain filled the shed as dust motes swirled in the fractured light.

  “He’s not a barrel of beer,” said Kate, rushing to lift the injured man’s legs. “Go gentle.”

  Dédé got him into the cart with Kate’s help.

  “Shhhh,” he said, settling the whimpering man and covering him with more burlap sacks. He stowed a grain bag by the horse’s reins and pointed to a bell. “Ring that as you go to muffle his cries.”

  Worried, she knew she had to hurry. Would this man make it?

  “Don’t forget about the radio contact.”

  Dédé wiped perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand and nodded. “I’ll work on it and send you a message.” He led the horse and cart down the alley.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. That’s how it works. Safer for everyone.” Dédé glanced back to where he’d been unloading the beer barrels. “Hurry. You’ll turn right before the abattoirs in la Villette. The stable’s at eighteen rue des Ardennes. Dr. Ramou will expect you.”

  Kate offered the horse a handful of hay and stroked its neck. She mounted the trap, checked the handbrake—a worn black iron knob—and took the reins.

  Dédé slapped the horse’s rear. She held the reins tight in her right fist, her left hand poised on the handbrake, as the horse lurched forward.

  Just as a Mercedes pulled up at the end of the alley, cutting her off.

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  Near the Sorbonne, Paris | 3:45 p.m. Paris Time

  Gunter took the call from his lieutenant in Café Littéraire’s phone cabin. “Le Bon Marché’s closed now,” said Niels. “No one showed up, sir.”

  That would have been too easy. The woman might show up tomorrow, or perhaps the rifle had been written off.

  “What should I do about the girl, sir?”

  “Drop her off a block from her place,” he said. “Then pick me up.”

  He called Volke at the lab.

  “I said I needed two hours,” Volke said. “It’s going to be more like three if you keep calling me like this.”

  Gunter caught the warning in Volke’s voice. “Who’s there?”

  But Volke had hung up.

  Gunter made notes in the back seat as they sped toward the lab. On a fresh page he drew a diagram. By the time Niels parked at the requisitioned Lycée Montaigne he’d put more of the puzzle pieces together.

  Birds chirped in the courtyard. A sheen of sun lingered, glossing the leaves of the climbing ivy.

  As Gunter got out, he showed Niels his sketch. “Tell me, Niels, how long does it take to get from Montmartre to le Bourget Airfield?”

  Niels pulled a Michelin map from the glove compartment. Spread it on the warm hood of the Mercedes. “It’s thirteen kilometers.” Using the tip of a pencil, he traced the route. “Took us thirty minutes driving.”

  Gunter studied it. “What about these smaller roads?”

  “It makes me think of the 1938 Tour de France, when our champion Willi Oberbeck won the Paris-to-Caen stage.”

  Gunter shook his head. “You think the sniper might have been on a bicycle?”

  “Sir, I’d have to ask a real cyclist, but for someone in shape, trained, a route like this could take twenty-five to thirty-five minutes. To be safe, forty-five.”

  Barely enough time. “So in theory a sniper dropped by parachute at le Bourget early morning cycles in, attempts the assassination, hands over the rifle to an accomplice and cycles back in time for us to find him?”

  Niels shrugged.

  “I don’t like it,” said Gunter. Thinking out loud helped him. And standing out here in the fresh air, in a garden fragrant with blooming wisteria, away from the cells and miasma of death, the clatter of typewriters and barked orders. “Plus, there are checkpoints, which would add extra time.”

  He thumbed open the latest reports. A noontime telex stated the cancellation of the High Command’s visit.

  Canceled after the attempt on the Führer.

  “This could make sense if we’re dealing with two assassination attempts. Maybe they’re unrelated, or maybe one is a smoke screen.”

  He wiped his brow. Now to get the lab results from Volke. And convince Jäger of his theory.

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  Off Place Pigalle, Paris | 4:15 p.m. Paris Time

  “Nicht so schnell.”

  An SS officer in a black uniform stepped out of a Mercedes.

  Kate’s heart skidded. Caught already?

  Keep calm. Get him to move the car. Unblock the alley.

  Kate nodded, pulled the cap low and pointed. “Bier?” But the SS officer didn’t move his car.

  Where the hell was Dédé?

  She jumped off the wagon and grabbed the horse’s reins. Made clucking noises, praying the horse would cooperate and back up to let the car by.

  Only a loud neighing. She’d lost her touch.

  She had to get hold of herself. She calmed the skittish horse, his yellow teeth bared, as he munched the hay in her hand. She kept her back to the soldier and rubbed the horse’s mane. Sweat beaded her lip.

  What could she do?

  He was saying something in German. Coming closer.

  Of all times.

  “Bier,” she said again, pointing toward the beer cellar’s stairs.

  Just then Dédé appeared, wiping his face with a handkerchief and beckoning the German.

  Finally the man got back in the Mercedes and pulled over to let the cart pass.

  It made her sick with fear but she gritted her teeth in a smile—smiling yet again at a German—and waved thanks. She climbed back up, clucked to the horse, and drove the cart through Place Pigalle. The cart wheels produced a spine-shaking rumble over the cobbles as the horse dragged the cart uphill on narrow winding streets. She passed silent, shuttered boîtes à nuit and strip joints, as if everyone was napping before the life of the evening.

  Another close call. She needed to be more careful.

  Kate urged the trotting horse to gain speed as the cart crossed over the train lines shooting from Gare du Nord. They reached the canal. Apprehension thrummed through her body from her head to her tingling toes. She had been on the run since dawn, since failing her mission. But now she felt a flicker of hope that Dédé might come through.

  Along the stretch of the canal toward la Villette, barge oil glistened on the metal boat rings. She passed the twin warehouses on either side of the arched drawbridge where the wide Bassin de la Villette thinned into canal de l’Ourcq. Late-afternoon sun filtered through leafy tree branches, casting a lazy greenish haze. From somewhere ahead droned the dull roar of military vehicles, trucks and tanks on the road from Germany.

  The huge glass-roofed Grande halle de la Villette, supported by metal arches, stood on the dockside horizon. The livestock market and abattoir, so close to the train tracks, took her back to the slaughter yards outside Medford—those rail yards at the depot where cattle cars were unloaded. She remembered the glimmer of yellow-tongued flames, the bearded, tattered hobos hunched over trash bin fires, rubbing their hands to keep warm in the cold afternoon drizzle.

  It had been the day of her mother’s funeral during the Depression. That morning her father bought a pine box for her burial. After the funeral, he’d taken them to the rail yard to hop a train back to the ranch; he’d had no money left for train tickets or food. Kate and her brothers huddled under a blanket amid the frightened moans of the cattle, the clatter of their hooves on the metal ramps, until they jumped a freight car.

  She pulled herself from the memory. The bleating sheep that were being herded from the cattle ca
rs drowned out the horse’s clopping hooves. Where the hell was rue des Ardennes?

  Bone-tired, she forced herself to pay attention. She couldn’t afford to overshoot the street, waste a vital moment with an overworked horse and a wounded man. He’d made no sound since they’d been on the road, or none she could hear over the horse’s clip-clop.

  At last. On rue des Ardennes, she pulled back on the right rein and slacked the left to turn into the narrow street. The horse neighed, as if he knew where he was. Finally.

  Too late she saw the dark red slick sheen of clotted cattle blood staining the cobbles. The wagon’s back wheels slipped, causing a gut-wrenching wobble. The cart was sliding out of control, swaying and scraping against the wall.

  Her heart jumped. She pulled at the brake, tightening the reins. Feared the tired horse would fight her, break away. “Whoa, boy.”

  A man riding by on a bicycle looked up at her.

  He’d heard her blurt that out in English.

  Idiot.

  The bike passed.

  Somehow, she regained control, the force pulling them through.

  Too many close calls.

  Near the stable entrance a woman in a long blue apron dispensed fresh milk from a dairy cart to a group of barefoot children. Kate had seen services like these provided by the local Assistance Publique volunteers in poor districts. The long sleeves and full skirt the woman wore under the apron looked hot. But the woman was doing a better job controlling the street urchins than Kate had done the cart.

  The rundown street was lined with assorted barn-like sheds and warehouses. She turned into the stable, which smelled of fresh hay. Two men were playing cards at a table bearing a wine bottle and glasses.

  “Please, where’s Dr. Ramou?” She dismounted, her legs shaking.

  “Doctor?” one said, irritated at the interruption of his card game.

  “He’s expecting . . . me.”

  “Ramou, you’ve got a customer,” the man said, raising his voice.

  In the back stable doorway, a barrel-chested man loomed, wearing an apron stained with blood. She noticed his drooping mustache, and small feet that surprisingly supported his girth. Dédé called this a doctor? More like a butcher.

  He jerked his thumb. “Louchébem.”

  What did that mean?

  The man at the table put down his cards, grabbed the reins and led the horse and cart to the back.

  Alarm bells jangled in her head. “Look, I think there’s a mistake.”

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  Kaserne near Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris

  4:30 p.m. Paris Time

  In the lab, Volke turned the radio’s volume knob down and handed Gunter the phone, a tight look on his face. Gunter braced himself.

  “The Führer’s displeased, Gunter,” said Jäger. “The Englanders are all dead? You questioned none of them? This looks extremely careless of you.”

  Gunter tried to quell the sense of dread bubbling in his gut. “Herr Gruppenführer, I’d take full responsibility. However, the SD were in charge of the prisoners. You wouldn’t find four men hiding a cyanide pill in their molars on my watch, sir.”

  “For God’s sake, you’ve got a force at your disposal.”

  He wished that were true. Jäger didn’t seem to want to remember that he’d instructed Gunter to report only to him and to work alone.

  He looked at the clock in the lab.

  Twenty-eight and a half hours.

  “Herr Gruppenführer, the ballistics lab is testing a modified Lee-Enfield rifle I believe was fired this morning.”

  “Another one? What are you saying, Gunter?”

  Gunter shot at look at Volke. “So far, the evidence I’ve collected points to two separate assassination attempts.”

  Silence, then the sound of a door closing. Gunter imagined Jäger in his office, his hawk eyes narrowing over his long nose. “Explain, Gunter.” He sounded interested.

  “One moment, sir.” Gunter put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I need privacy. Is this line secure, Volke?”

  “Should be, but who knows?” Volke took the hint and left.

  Gunter took out his notebook. “Sir, in my notes . . .”

  “You alone, Gunter?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe logistically it’s unlikely the British snipers we arrested at le Bourget were involved in the assassination attempt at Sacré-Cœur.”

  “If that’s so, Gunter, why would they commit suicide?”

  “Most agent provocateurs have orders to bite a cyanide pill if caught,” said Gunter, “to avoid revealing information. As you so wisely pointed out, sir, a woman’s involved.”

  “I did, ja . . . But how? Give me a rundown. The Führer wants an update. Quickly.”

  Gunter thumbed through the pages, rustling them in his haste. “We know the English radio operator had a rendezvous at thirteen hundred hours in Café Littéraire by the Sorbonne—that would have been approximately four and a half hours after the assassination attempt. A woman in the café would signal with a lipstick. But the rendezvous never happened. I’ve questioned an Alsatian girl who was at the scene because she’d been hired to help trap this woman.”

  “Hired by whom?”

  “A man named Verdou, a Reich sympathizer, who has infiltrated the underground group I believe may be involved in the attempt on the Führer’s life. Now we have the woman’s description and a sketch of her, sir.”

  “A likeness? Excellent, Gunter. Go on.”

  He could hear Jäger’s pen scratching as he wrote this down.

  Gunter wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “After questioning the café staff, I managed to track down the woman’s bike, which contained evidence that brought me to le Bon Marché, where she’d checked a recently fired Lee-Enfield rifle in the cloakroom. Volke’s examining the rifle now.”

  Gunter knew Verdou had hired Jeanne to do his dirty work outing the female spy so he could lay low and keep his cover. It made sense Verdou acted alone to claim the bounty.

  Loud knocks came over the line.

  “So is she the shooter? Or an accomplice?”

  The shooter, but he’d keep that to himself until he got proof. “To be determined, sir. The group is meeting tonight, according to the informer, Verdou.” Gunter paused, leaving out that he distrusted his source. From his attaché case he took out the report he’d skimmed on the way over. “Call it my policeman’s nose, but what if the High Command visit that was scheduled for noon today was the focus of the British snipers? The attempt on the Führer was separate. Maybe even a smoke screen.”

  “How do you know about the High Command?”

  “I read the latest report, sir. I’m a policeman. That’s why you put me in this job.”

  Pause. “We discovered radio codes were compromised, Gunter. The Brits knew the High Command were meeting the Führer concerning the sea invasion.”

  Jäger was telling him now?

  “You need to find her.”

  “When was the message detailing the High Command’s visit transmitted, sir?”

  “The first on Friday evening. The final confirmation went out this morning at zero six hundred hours.”

  This morning the old woman had seen parachutists falling from the sky. The British had known about the High Command’s visit and had sent the snipers to le Bourget. Hadn’t he been working on a similar scenario based on decoded British messages in Munich?

  “Find out, Gunter. And inform me of the ballistics results. The Führer wants an up-to-the-minute report. Now.”

  Jäger hung up.

  Gunter turned the faucets on the lab’s sink. Cupped his hands, drank, then splashed his face. Wetted his handkerchief and dabbed his neck. Refreshed, he dried off, making a mental note to question Verdou thoroughly.

  Through the glass pa
rtition he motioned to Volke.

  “Anyone you trust here?”

  Volke shook his head.

  How could he mount the surveillance team he would need for tonight with damned SD idiots like Roschmann? He grabbed his attaché case.

  “I’ll check in with you later.”

  Volke wrote a name on a lab slip. Set it in Gunter’s pocket and put a finger to his lips.

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  Communications Center under King Charles Street, London

  4:00 p.m. Paris Time

  Worried, Stepney read the latest decryption from the Alpha network. He saw no mention of his agents or the snipers’ mission. He should have heard something by now.

  “You’ve double authenticated this message, Billy?”

  “Per your instructions, sir. Comes up viable. Alpha’s window for response ends in two minutes.”

  This decoded message contained an urgent request for agent extraction with the code name Swan. Good, the SIS mission problem solved.

  Yet he’d heard nothing from Kate Rees via Y sector. He’d given her up for dead since Martins’s body was found. Still . . . he’d inquire.

  “Respond agreeable. Extraction tomorrow. Details coming. Request an update on Cowgirl.”

  By the time Stepney tracked down Cathcart in this warren of tunnels, he had a plan.

  “Alpha’s asking for urgent removal of Nigel Swanson.”

  Cathcart’s neck craned looking over Stepney’s shoulder, then behind him. No one. “Correct. We’ll arrange a Channel extraction.”

  “Why not send a Lysander?” said Stepney. “Tomorrow night should be perfect flight conditions.”

  “We want him taken to the coast. Any word from your agent, Rees?”

  Stepney doubted there ever would be word of her, but Cathcart didn’t need to know that.

  “Not yet. But why use a Channel extraction with the rough seas forecasted?”

  Cathcart hesitated.