by Cara Black
The old man left her to go back to the lecture in the amphitheater. She swallowed the rest of the water. So welcome, so cold.
She had to reach this Antoine. Now. Kate didn’t know how long she could keep us this charade.
She continued along the landing to a side corridor. Here a metal staircase wound up like a snail shell. Voices of students reached her ears. Men in white lab coats directed them as they climbed on ladders toward the glass panes of the roof. She wondered what they were going to do.
To the right in a side corridor were double doors, a red velvet rope strung across it to prevent entry.
A whiskered porter blocked her way to the side corridor. “Interdit, désolé.”
The blue cape of a French policeman hung from the hook in the hallway. In a glass reception area, she spotted the policeman speaking on the phone. Careful—she needed to watch every move.
“But, monsieur, I must get word to someone.” She put her head down. “There’s been an accident.”
“Closed session, mademoiselle,” he said. “Try at the reception.”
Should she put the scarf of diamonds in the envelope she’d prepared, hand it to the porter and trust him to give it to a man whose last name she didn’t even know? If anything went wrong, she’d have no bargaining chip left. No escape on that barge.
“Understood, monsieur.”
She thought of the poor engineer. His pain. Her throat caught.
Believe.
A sob escaped her. “Please, it’s important.”
The porter hesitated.
“May I leave a message, monsieur?”
“Be quick about it, then,” he said.
“Merci.”
Instead of leaving the scarf, she borrowed a pen and paper and wrote a note: Important message from Swan, meet outside.
If this was intercepted, it shouldn’t compromise him, she hoped. She folded that paper, stuck it in the envelope the porter furnished and addressed it to Antoine who studied at Birmingham.
“Give him this, monsieur, please.”
“Mais alors, there’s only his prénom and there’s a roomful of men in there.”
She reached in her bag and handed him ten francs. “You’ll find him.”
The porter shook his head.
“It’s life or death, monsieur.” She sniffled and pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. “That’s all I have.”
The policeman hung up the phone.
“Please, monsieur.”
The porter nodded. Kate melted behind a pillar, then flew down the narrow metal stairway.
Sunday, June 23, 1940
Near Canal Saint-Martin, Paris | 8:15 p.m. Paris Time
Gunter had surveilled Gilberte Masson’s apartment for more than half an hour and had seen no one go in or out. He hadn’t wanted to tip Gilberte off or frighten the Englishwoman away. Yet he couldn’t twiddle his thumbs any longer.
Gunter motioned Karl to stand guard by the apartment’s service stairs in back. He gripped his Luger. With Niels following, he padded up stone stairs grooved with age.
Gunter paused, listening at the faded maroon door. Low, indistinguishable conversation. He peered at the shuttered windows facing the courtyard, the wilting potted plants on the landing, and hesitated. A trap?
How many dicey situations had he walked into in his rookie days? He and his first partner had followed an informant’s tip into a back-alley shoot-out. They’d been set up. He’d survived, but his partner hadn’t. He’d learned the hard way to stay wary, keep his eyes open and head down.
With a loud click, Gunter turned the key.
In the apartment a portly man in SS jackboots, suspenders over his undershirt, stood uncorking a bottle of champagne. He looked up in irritation. The whole place—wallpaper, furniture—was a riot of pink, red and gilt. Some high-class bordello?
“What’s the meaning of this?” the SS officer said.
Flustered, Gunter took in a woman in a peignoir. The pink silk slid off her shoulder, revealing alabaster skin. She smiled, holding an empty waiting flute in her hand.
“It’s good manners to knock first, monsieur,” she said.
A private flophouse?
“Who gave you the right to burst in here?” said the German—a colonel, by the stripes on the uniform jacket thrown over a chair.
Gunter showed his RSD badge, pointed Niels down the hallway to check the bedrooms. “The Führer.”
Fear puddled in the colonel’s eyes.
“We’re looking for this Englishwoman, who was seen entering this apartment.”
The colonel stared at the drawing Gunter brandished. “Her? No idea.”
Gunter quickly searched the front room, checking behind the recamier, under the table, for anyone hiding. “Put your shirt on, colonel. The party’s over.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sputtered.
“There’s a mix-up, some confusion,” said the woman. She looked amused, gave a little laugh. “This apartment’s—well, we rent it by the hour, if you know what I mean.”
Hookers who used plush apartments instead of hotels for their business. Or so she wanted him to believe.
“Who knows who was here before us,” she was saying
Niels returned from the hallway. Shook his head.
“You’re lying, Gilberte Masson. The apartment’s in your name. I’m afraid you’ll need to clear it all up for us at headquarters.”
As the woman set down her flute, it tinkled on the glass-topped table. Her hands were shaking.
Nerves.
While they dressed, Gunter searched the bathroom. A fogged-up mirror, makeup, photos of film stars, the scent of perfume. In a bedroom, he noticed several empty hangers in the armoire. In the kitchen, he searched the trash bin. Raked through the potato peelings and empty wine bottles.
A blue sweater.
He brushed off the potato peels, lifted the sweater to his stuffy nose.
Sweat and that faint fragrance of Pears soap.
Sunday, June 23, 1940
Grand Palais, Paris | 8:30 p.m.
Kate waited by the evergreen shrubs at the Grand Palais side exit, half-hidden in the lengthening shadows. A crowd of men had come out and several of them stopped to smoke under the dim blue globe lights. One man was speaking to a guard, who pointed at her.
Antoine, wiry black hair like a bristle brush, reminded Kate of a hedgehog: short, round and prickly. He wore small round brown glasses and continually picked at his cuticles.
They walked farther into the cypress shadows. Nervous, he looked around. He lit a cigarette before his manners kicked in. “Excusez-moi, mais . . . I don’t understand this message.”
“Are you Antoine, who studied in Birmingham?” she whispered in English.
He lifted his palm. “I’m one of many engineers and researchers who studied in Birmingham . . . but I’m French.”
Kate looked around, registering a group of Nazis waiting for Antoine. Sweat pooled in the small of her back. Think.
RADA.
She had a chance and needed to act fast. Antoine was in the company of Nazis, but Swan had specifically said he was meeting Antoine at the Grand Palais. Antoine hadn’t ignored the message, which told her he knew Swan’s name.
She’d persist. Stay alert. Reassess if it went to hell.
She made a sign of the cross as if she were pious and about to pray. Hopefully it would allay suspicion for enough time to learn something. She leaned toward him. “Swan had a message for you.”
“Swan . . .” More picking at his cuticles. “You mean . . . ?” He caught himself.
“You were the best man at his wedding.”
“But I h-h-haven’t seen him since B-b-birmingham . . . That’s a while ago. S-s-several years.”
A nervous stutter
.
“He was meeting you here tonight, right?”
Antoine moved the gravel with his toe. Exhaled smoke. “So w-why are you here?”
The engineer had been right, even in his fevered state.
“Swan died en route and insisted I meet you . . . about your project.”
His eyes, small behind the glasses, flickered. “Died . . . h-how?”
“Shot down trying to get here.”
“I d-d-don’t know if I sh-should believe you.” He was scared. “How do you know . . . h-h-him?”
“Long story. He was seriously wounded so I helped and took him to a doctor . . .” She caught his arm before he stepped away. “But before it was too late he told me about the plans.” Hoping he hadn’t been delusional, she went ahead and added, “The buoys.” The man was still listening fearfully. Sweat trickled behind her knees. “He asked me to bring you something. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
Antoine nodded.
The diamonds.
“We need to talk, Antoine.”
He glanced back at the Germans who were waiting for him. The tall one ground out his cigarette, appearing annoyed. Looked like Antoine was collaborating with the Germans—out of choice or necessity, it didn’t matter.
Everyone had a price, right?
Kate’s heart raced as one of the Nazis cast a curious look in her direction. She was placing her life in the hands of a collaborator. Trusting that Swan hadn’t died for nothing.
She pulled him deeper behind the evergreen bushes, out of their direct view.
“Swan said you’d arranged his escape on a barge.”
“He s-s-said that?”
“He died in my arms,” she said. Her voice quavered, she couldn’t help it. “He had this for you. Please believe me, Antoine.”
She’d torn off a scrap of scarf with several diamonds and she pressed it into his palm.
He blinked at the piece of the silk scarf, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Only this . . . what about the rest?”
Trust no one. If he knew the diamonds were in her pocket, he could take them and turn her into the Nazis. “They’re in a safe place.”
Antoine picked his cuticles. It drove her crazy. “Who are you?”
This was taking too long.
“That’s not important, Antoine.” She needed to find out how to escape on the boat.
“Your friend’s dying words were your name, Grand Palais, buoy, plans, a barge, Directive 17.”
Antoine glanced back at the Germans. Would he blow the whistle on her? Tension knotted her stomach.
“Look, Antoine, I need to get on the barge.”
He’d made a decision—she could see it in his eyes.
“Swan is . . . w-was supposed to take the plans to England. Directive 17.” He glanced back again. “Now you’ll have to do it.”
“Me?” Her throat went dry.
“I can’t steal the plans themselves or they’ll know. Swan was bringing me something.”
“You mean this?” She slipped the compass concealing the Minox camera into his jacket pocket. The pieces fit together. “So you’d photograph this project plan and he’d get the plans back to England? In return for the diamonds, right?”
Antoine nodded. Tossed his cigarette and stubbed it out with his foot.
“The camera’s in there. Take the photos and I’ll bring them on the barge.”
A brief nod.
He’d agreed. Relief spread through her.
“They’re sticking to me like g-glue. Meeting after m-meeting, I don’t know when I c-c-can get away.” The Germans were beckoning him. He waved back. Kate moved farther into the shadows.
Any moment they might come this way.
“My g-g-group was counting on Swan.” He took a step back. “Bring the diamonds.”
“And the barge . . . ?”
“Call me at École Polytechnique t-t-tomorrow. Ask for the engineering lab.”
Boots clomped in the shrubbery.
“Now make the sign of the cross with me,” she said. “As if we’ve been praying over tragic news.”
“I’m an atheist.”
“Do it.”
Together they each made the sign of the cross.
A second later she’d ducked behind the cypress tree.
Kate felt as if encased in a straitjacket in the heavy skirt, long apron and long sleeves of the volunteer uniform. The collar felt damp enough to ring out. She’d ditched the bag and crammed her few things, along with Swan’s diamond-studded scarf, in the deep pockets.
But her outfit did provide anonymity. She hoped no one would pay her any attention. While she’d been waiting for Antoine in the shadows, she’d used her cracked mirror and applied collodion, given herself a scarred upper lip, darkened her eyebrows and shaded under her eyes to change her look. She now walked with a limp courtesy of the pebble in her shoe.
The Nazis would recall a limping older servant with a scar.
And for a moment she wondered when Stepney would find out that there was a traitor in the underground network. That she’d survived.
But Swan hadn’t.
She’d been set up at the café. With Germans hunting her, everything happening so fast, she hadn’t had time to figure out why.
What would Stepney tell her to do?
Improvise—well, she had. Get creative—she’d done that, too, but maybe not creative enough.
Keep your goal front and center, he’d said.
Swan’s mission. She’d agreed to take what the nervous Antoine photographed to get herself on the barge. Tomorrow was a long way off.
Why hadn’t Stepney trusted her with her own escape plan?
Had he in fact been the one who set her up?
Her shoulders ached; the sore muscles in her calves protested. About to pop another pink pill from the packet in her bra, she realized her supply was almost out. She’d need more later, so she bit off a quarter of a pill, downed it and hiked up the skirt and apron, ready to mount the beat-up bike. Jittery, she saw a shadow move behind a tree. She leaned the bike against a bench and slowly crept toward it. It was nothing. A twig cracked. She whirled around and saw a squirrel.
She listened and only heard the sound of the leaves playing in the wind. But every fiber told her someone was watching her.
Sunday, June 23, 1940
Near Canal Saint-Martin, Paris | 8:30 p.m.
Gunter showed the colonel out, motioned for Gilberte to sit back down and closed the door.
A knowing look painted Gilberte’s face. “All you had to do was ask for a rendezvous.”
Nice try.
“The building’s surrounded.”
Gilberte’s creamy white shoulders shuddered but she tamped down her reaction so quickly that if Gunter hadn’t been looking for it he would have missed it.
“Be helpful, Gilberte, or I arrest your friends, family and everyone you know.” Gunter sat down next to her. “I’m only interested in her. This woman.” He showed the drawing. “I know she was here.”
“No doubt. But as I said, monsieur,” she said, tugging at her bra strap, “people come here on an hourly basis.”
“Not according to my investigation,” he said, lying. He hadn’t asked the concierge what time she’d seen the woman. He would.
If he had rattled her, the only evidence was a tightening of her lipsticked mouth.
Gunter flashed the photograph he’d found wedged in the bottom of the drawer. A family scene of a younger Gilberte, fresh faced, a man with his arm around her shoulder holding a baby. A dog and toddler at their feet. Happy and smiling. A cake on a picnic blanket. Mountains behind them.
“My daughter just turned two,” said Gunter. “I missed her birthday.”
No response.
“Tha
t’s because I was ordered here to find this woman, Gilberte. And at any price I will. That’s my job.”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me.”
“Is that what you will say after we find your children?”
Her eyes glittered. “You think I trust you Germans? My husband died two weeks ago in a POW camp. He’s gone and I’m alone.”
Did she think she’d elicit his sympathy?
“All the more reason to protect your children.”
Gunter saw no evidence children lived here. His instinct told him she’d sent them away to family or the countryside. Did she “work” to feed them?
He tried a hunch. “The concierge says you send money to the countryside. For them, eh?”
Anger flashed in her eyes.
Niels, whom Gunter had sent to retrieve Gilberte’s mail from the concierge, returned and handed him a postcard.
Gunter nodded. “Why don’t you read it out loud, Niels.”
“‘Paul and Lisette send Maman hugs and warm wishes. They’re so happy Auntie got them a kitten.’ Sir, it’s postmarked in the Savoie. See.”
Gilberte’s mouth quivered. Her eyes never left the postcard in his hands.
“All I need to do is call the préfecture in Savoie—”
Gilberte slammed the table. “You can’t prove anything.”
Gunter held up the damp blue sweater. “We know she was here. Start talking or Auntie goes to prison and your children to an orphanage. You don’t want that, do you?”
“Leave my children out of this.”
“Cooperate, Gilberte, and I will. That’s the price.”
A knock sounded on the door. Niels answered and returned in a few moments motioning Gunter to the hall. “Karl reports people entering through the back of a shop in the courtyard, lots of activity going on.”
Gunter mulled that over. “Activity as in workers stocking merchandise?”
“He managed to see through a slit in the blackout curtain. People talking in low voices and no work was going on. He thinks it’s a meeting.”
