by Cara Black
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
Was that almost admiration in Philippe’s voice?
“Five brothers. So don’t get any ideas,” she said, holding the pistol.
“Oh, but I have.”
“Wake me in an hour.”
She put her head down and was out.
Sunday, June 23, 1940
Grand Palais, Paris | 10:45 p.m.
Oberleutnant Wiesen’s adjutant, Joachim Heller, stood at attention, sweat beading his forehead. His full cheeks were flushed and he held his cap under his arm. He looked about eighteen.
It had taken fifteen minutes to locate Heller on duty—he’d been accompanying Oberleutnant Wiesen’s party at the Café de la Paix at la Place de l’Opéra. They called that duty? Gunter had also summoned Oberleutnant Wiesen.
“You followed procedure filing your report,” said Gunter, consulting his notebook. He and Niels stood with the two soldiers on the gravel path beside Grand Palais. “Commendable. However, your report indicates she had no papers. Can you explain that?”
Heller’s cheeks blushed even brighter red.
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. The woman was suffering from an epileptic fit, sir. The doctor insisted she needed treatment and he’d deal with that later.”
Convenient.
“You will follow up on that and inform me after we’re finished, Heller,” said Gunter. “Now please talk me through the events.”
With a worried blink, Joachim did. The Oberleutnant corroborated.
“However, I didn’t accompany my driver to the clinic,” said Weisen with a clipped Hamburg accent. “I had an appointment.”
An appointment at the Café de la Paix.
“Think back, both of you please, to what happened prior.”
“What do you mean?” asked Wiesen.
“I mean before you heard noises and investigated. Had you seen the woman in the apron before? Around here, talking to someone?”
Joachim’s brow furrowed as he concentrated. “I was waiting for the Oberleutnant by the door. He was in a meeting. I had a smoke.”
He paused.
“Go on.”
“I heard a woman, but I’m not sure it’s who you mean, sir. Could have been a cleaning lady or part of the staff.”
“Continue, Adjutant Heller.”
“I just heard a woman’s voice.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t speak French. Never saw her. But I remember Antwann.”
Gunter rolled that in his mind. “Antoine?”
“Possibly, it sounded like that, I’m not sure. But she said it several times.”
Oberleutnant Weisen took off his hat, revealing prematurely white hair over his young face. “Not Antoine Doisneau?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“He’s an engineer attending the conference here with École Polytechnique.”
“Can you explain this participation? What it’s concerning?”
“It’s technical work. Classified,” said Wiesen. “But now that I think about it, I recall Antoine was talking to someone.”
Could this mean the woman was in contact with this Doisneau? Gunter took this idea down in his notebook.
“You mean the woman wearing an apron?”
“No idea,” said Weisen. “They were somewhere over here by the trees. I couldn’t see.” Weisen, his face flushed from drink, seemed anxious to return to his party. “If that’s all?”
“One more thing, Oberleutnant. What’s this conference concerning?”
“As I said, it’s classified.”
Gunter took the Oberleutnant aside. “I appreciate that it’s sensitive.” He showed his RSD badge. “I’m investigating on the Führer’s orders, verstehen Sie?”
They both knew the Führer’s orders superseded any rank.
Weisen debated. Gunter recognized the nervous shift in his eyes. Then he glanced around and lowered his voice. “Directive 17. It’ll be your neck, not mine, if this gets out.”
“Doubtful. I have no idea what that means.” Gunter smiled. “But I’ll have to ask you to elaborate or I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
Weisen scowled. Then he leaned and spoke into Gunter’s ear. “French scientists from the École Polytechnique attended and submitted classified material. That’s all I will say.”
“So Directive 17 involves material presented at this conference?”
“As I told you, it’s classified. Pursue your enquiry with Kommandant Kostoff.”
He’d follow up with Kostoff. For now his gaze took in the hedge, the cypress tree which would provide a screen. A scene always spoke to him if he listened and paid attention. His shoes crunched on the gravel and he surveyed the dimly lit ground. He bent down to pick up a cigarette butt with his handkerchief. “Does Antoine smoke?”
“A Frenchman? Of course. He was smoking and speaking with someone right here.”
But neither could identify this person as the woman wearing an apron Joachim had driven to the clinic.
After the Oberleutnant and his helpful adjutant left, Gunter took one last look around, then joined Niels.
“Any luck, sir?”
“It makes me wonder, Niels. Let’s say it was her.” They headed back to the Mercedes under a star-studded sky. The Champs-Elysées where Niels had parked looked like a thick black velvet ribbon, empty and discarded. “Why would a sniper disguised in an apron appear at the classified meeting with top French scientists from the École Polytechnique?”
“Hard to say, sir.”
Gunter opened the car door.
“She’s got contacts, a network. And time’s running out.”
For both of them. He glanced at his watch.
Twenty-two hours.
“Drop me at le Meurice.”
Sunday, June 23, 1940
Near Place de l’Opéra, Paris | 11:30 p.m.
Kate battled awake through a fog of fatigue. Her jaw hurt and her bones were achingly tired. A telephone was ringing somewhere.
Where was she?
Her feet wiggled, hitting the frame of an old-fashioned sleigh bed surrounded by threadbare tapestries in candlelight, ghostly wall hangings showing dead animals. The warm, wax-scented air felt tomb-like.
Then she remembered. Felt for the pistol. Her hand came back only with a rucked-up linen sheet.
Panicked, she bolted upright.
Where was the pistol?
She wobbled off the bed, still in Gilberte’s dress, stiff with dried perspiration. Seconds later, she found the pistol under the blanket. Sighing in relief, she rubbed her eyes, then staggered, barefoot, pistol in hand, to the front of the apartment.
Philippe looked up from the chair where he sat reading by candlelight. He wore an old silk robe, his clothes hung over the back of a chair.
“I heard the phone ring,” she said, suspicious. “Who was it?”
Philippe stood and parted the blackout curtain, glanced out, then replaced the curtain. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“For where?”
“London, I hope. I can’t risk staying in Paris.”
“How are you getting out?”
“I don’t know.”
That put a new spin on everything. Or did it?
“Look, I need to get to London,” she said. “It’s dangerous for me here, too.”
“You’re not the only one. Bad news.” Sadness filled his eyes. “Gilberte was arrested.”
Kate shook her head. Didn’t want to believe it. Was it her fault somehow? She thought of the Bon Marché claim check for the rifle, Max’s appearance at Gilberte’s building, the shoot-out she had caused.
Only a matter of time until they were all caught. Heartsick, her thoughts went to Ramou, Dédé, the sewer worker . . .
�
�Were others arrested, too?”
Philippe averted his eyes. “Probably. No details yet.”
Her heart thumped. She’d let her guard down, gone to sleep and now was a sitting duck.
“Who’s to say the doctor hasn’t informed on you or me? He gave us this address. It’s time to go.”
Pause. “He’s not a doctor.”
“What do you mean? His office smelled like a clinique, I saw medicines in the cabinet and he wore a stethoscope.”
Was this a trap?
Idiot. Again. “You’ve been lying to me.” She raised the pistol at Philippe.
“Aim that somewhere else. Look, Luc’s an actor. Comédie Française,” said Philippe. “The real Dr. Nicot died in the exodus. Alors, the clinique’s been convenient for operations. But now Luc’s left. We can’t use that place for a while.”
Philippe wasn’t the man she’d first thought. At first he’d been a Casanova, a Gallic seducer; now he seemed more like . . . what? A spy? A patriot with personal convictions? There were layers upon layers she didn’t understand.
“You’re telling me about this Luc for a reason,” she said. “Why?”
“He hid people. But he’s gone and people in London want Antoine Doisneau’s information. You’ve turned up, so I’m supposed to assist you.”
“That’s a different tune than you sang tonight. You told me there could be no replacement for the engineer. Why should I believe you?”
“The message said I’m supposed to say cowgirl.”
Her code name. Which meant Stepney had gotten her message from the sewer work. That was fast. What about her evacuation? How was Philippe in contact?
“Prove it.”
“The less you know the better.”
“Don’t give me that. How are you in contact with Stepney?”
“I’m not and I don’t know anyone in London,” he said. “There was only one transmission. All the relayed messages go through several channels for security. The exit plan is still up in the air. Might not happen.”
She desperately needed to sleep. To digest this. “I’m meeting Antoine tomorrow.”
“Bon. Tomorrow we’ll go our separate ways. You meet Antoine; I’ll dispose of the gangster, then set up a letter drop at Place de la Concorde to communicate.” Philippe set down his book—Rimbaud’s verse. “I’m going to help you, okay? Right now you look awful.” He blew out the candles. Took her shoulder.
She wanted to shake him off. But her legs wobbled and she grabbed the chair for support.
The next moment he’d picked her up in his arms.
He set her in the bed, then plopped down next to her. “Tomorrow’s busy. Sleep while you can.”
Sunday, June 23, 1940
Le Meurice, rue de Rivoli, Paris | 11:30 p.m.
“Directive 17? That’s an open secret, Gunter,” said Kostoff.
Kostoff, the Kommandant of Gross-Paris, sat back in his striped pajamas in the hotel suite of le Meurice. “It’s one of our imminent plans to invade Britain.”
Plans to invade Britain?
“Britain’s petrified,” Kostoff said. “The little island’s preparing. They’ve always had a fortress mentality. Read the paper, it’s all there.”
Kostoff pushed a British newspaper across the inlaid marquetry side table. A copy of the Evening Telegraph with bold typeface headlines france gives up. Underneath this an article titled invasion this month or the next by sir nevile henderson.
Gunter wished his rudimentary English were better. But he understood.
Kostoff eyed him over a cup of warm milk. He smiled in amusement. “I’m surprised you didn’t know this, Gunter.”
Gunter’s RSD job gave him little time to ponder the European war theater. His world was crime. Catching criminals was what he did best.
“I’m a policeman, sir.”
Kostoff added a shot of brandy to his milk. Offered a shot to Gunter.
He shouldn’t, but . . .
“Danke, Kommandant.” He accepted and felt the liquid amber soothe his scratchy throat.
“The Englanders know we’re going to invade. A matter of time. So they better start learning German, ja?” Kostoff poured them both another shot. “You’re awfully quiet, Gunter.”
“My investigation is ongoing, sir,” he said. “Have you gotten an update on Roschmann’s progress with the Métro search?”
Kostoff waved him off. “Don’t worry about that,” he said, his voice slurring.
“Worry, sir? This is my investigation.”
“It’s under control.”
“Roschmann doesn’t know about the assassination attempt, does he?”
“Course . . . not.” Kostoff emitted a loud belch.
Drunk.
Before Gunter could press him for details, Kostoff’s phone shrilled. He answered it and a lengthy conversation ensued. For the second time today Gunter sat listening to Kostoff drone away on the phone.
His mind began to wander. Maybe it was the brandy but this morning’s scene on the steps replayed in bright color in his mind—the toddler’s yellow dress, the bullet hole in Admiral Lindau’s forehead, the rifle he caught glinting among the green leaves as he looked up to the sniper’s window. Directive 17, a sea invasion—what if Lindau had been the intended target instead of the Führer?
Kostoff hung up, yawned. The next moment he was snoring.
Gunter poured himself another shot of brandy, downed it and left.
Outside in Kostoff’s salon office, he saw reports and telexes in the in tray. He caught the attention of the aide standing at a file cabinet.
“Has the Feldgendarmerie report on the search at Métro Station Louis Blanc come in?”
“Half an hour ago, sir.”
Why hadn’t he been alerted? Frustrated he thought of the delay, time lost and the actions he would have taken,
Gunter showed his RSD badge. “Of course, a duplicate report has been sent to my office at the Kommandantur, correct?”
“I have no orders to that effect.”
That damn Roschmann should have sent it there immediately.
Gunter nodded. “An oversight. I’ll take this for now. Kommander Kostoff instructed me to bring this to the Kommandantur.”
The aide sat down, swiveled in his chair and thumbed through the papers. Pulled several from near the top.
“Has any follow-up action been initiated from this report?”
“None that’s come into the office, sir.”
So Roschmann hadn’t caught her.
The aide handed the report to Gunter. Pointed to a log.
On purpose Gunter scribbled something indecipherable. “Danke.”
A drunk Kostoff wouldn’t remember and the aide would be off duty in an hour.
Gunter put his legs up on the desk in his temporary office in the Kommandantur at Place de l’Opéra. He pulled out the photo of Frieda he carried in his wallet, kissed it and propped it on the desk to keep him company. She’d be asleep; he wouldn’t call her and disturb her.
He adjusted the Anglepoise lamp to read the message from Wiesen’s adjutant, Heller. Heller reported returning to the clinic to follow up on the woman’s missing papers. He’d searched the clinic and the living quarters but the doctor had gone.
Of course he had. Gunter doubted he’d even been a doctor.
He positioned the Steiff teddy bear between his shoulder and neck as a pillow and began reading Roschmann’s report.
Monday, June 24, 1940
124 rue de Provence, Paris | 2:00 a.m.
Kate snuggled into a familiar warmness, the cocoon of Dafydd’s arms, nuzzling his bristly chin. A candle burned, suffusing the room in a yellow glow. Secured with Dafydd in a pillowy softness, her legs wrapped around his, that heat rose in her. He rubbed her nose against his, pulling her closer. Her breath qu
ickened.
Her eyes blinked open.
It wasn’t Dafydd she held, nor his scent, nor his warm legs sliding against hers. That old aching sliced through her. She doubled up, tight with pain.
She remembered the flames of the inferno. Her family gone.
The revenge in her heart.
Beside her in the bed, Philippe lay propped on his shoulder, watching her.
“Who is Dafydd?”
“Why?”
“You kept calling out to him. To a Lisbeth.”
Her hands went cold.
“My husband and baby . . . They’re dead. There was a terrible explosion. Because of the Germans . . .” Her throat caught. If today was the last day of her life, she’d make it worth it. “I will make them pay.”
Philippe’s legs still entangled with hers.
“So that’s why you’re fighting the Brits’ war for them?”
“It’s my war now.”
The cold shell inside her cracked. For the first time since Margo, the woman she’d trained with, she’d told someone the truth.
She’d wanted to give up so many times, to die.
In Orkney, the constant reminders of Lisbeth and Dafydd had almost driven her to throw herself off the munitions factory roof. She’d wanted to slit her wrists the day she found Lisbeth’s rattle in the burned rubble.
On the run here in Paris after her botched mission, she’d felt the urge to end the struggle. Last night she’d contemplated throwing herself on the Métro’s third rail—a quick death. Yet she’d fought through the hurt, determined to get her revenge.
Her time was running out. She had to make it count.
Our last two agents didn’t make it.
Philippe pushed her damp matted hair from her cheek.
“You’re tough on the outside, chérie, and soft inside,” said Philippe. “Comme un bonbon.”
“Bonbon?” She stared in his wondering eyes. “I learned from my father if you fall down, you’ve got to get up. You either die or you fight and get even.”
