Three Hours in Paris

by Cara Black

  “This is what you do, Antoine,” she said. “Tell them you’ve returned to follow up on certain documents to make sure they’ve arrived. You need a receipt, you’re cataloging the documents list at their location in case further action’s needed.” He was listening. “Let me see the official pass you used.”

  He showed her an entry pass stamped by the Kriegsmarine. It was written in German and French.

  “Looks valid.”

  “I’m a scientist, not an a-actor. They’d s-s-see through me in a second.” He bit his lip and looked away.

  She wanted to seize his jacket lapels and shake him. So much was at stake.

  At least she sensed that it was fear holding him back, not a double cross.

  Hadn’t Stepney said, Make them want what you’re selling? Or was that her pa?

  “Antoine, Swan meant these diamonds for you. His widow would believe you can do this. With them you can keep your family safe, help your group.”

  Muted voices came from across the hallway.

  “That’s my colleague. We’ve got a meeting.”

  She wouldn’t let him weasel out on this.

  “Postpone the meeting, Antoine.”

  She could feel every diamond in the scarf safety-pinned to her bra strap under the nurse’s uniform.

  He nodded. “Give me a minute.”

  “Hurry,” she said, afraid he’d chicken out. “Then we’ll go to the Kriegsmarine together.”

  Beads of sweat trickled down her neck. She reached to wipe them away but her hands shook. A long minute passed. Outside the window a green parakeet swooped through the tree branches—one of the growing flock who’d escaped their cages in the Parisian exodus from the Germans. She wished she could escape, too.

  She rooted through the drawers of the lab desk but found nothing useful. In the adjoining cloakroom she found a lab coat with a badge: A. Medan, assistant de laboratoire. A good disguise change. She stuffed the lab coat in the case, the badge in her pocket, and took a deep breath.

  A troop truck of soldiers idled in the courtyard.

  Fear weighed like a brick on her chest. This was all taking too much time.

  By the time Antoine returned, having furnished satisfactory excuses to his colleague, she’d taken the first aid kit off the lab wall. It was small and of red metal, a white cross painted on one side. Handy.

  “We’ll go out the b-back after the trucks leave.”

  She had to control her fear, keep her mind thinking. “How did the Germans prepare the invasion so quickly?”

  “Quickly?” He snorted. “Over the last d-decade Germans collected postcards, English phone directories, employed c-c-cartographers and even consulted Swan’s and my . . . our u-university proposal to map out the invasion. It m-makes me angry.”

  Good, angry enough to do something. He was getting back.

  “The Germans p-planned this for years,” said Antoine. “They’re g-going to invade, it’s only a matter of when.”

  “The when is . . . ?”

  The troop truck engine rumbled.

  “Ask the planets,” Antoine said. Gestured to the photo of Hitler, black and white and with that pretentious mustache. “He does everything by astrology.” Antoine opened a drawer. “But this is real.”

  Inside were booklets titled Militärgeographische Angaben über England.

  “M-military geographical information about England,” he translated for her. “These b-booklets are broken down into eight regions of Britain, incredibly detailed, highlighting strategic attack information, from the locations of train stations and industrial areas to soil composition.”

  Kate thumbed open the booklet with photos and diagrams.

  “You speak German, Antoine?”

  “One of seven languages I speak.”

  Wasn’t he working for them? Selling out his bosses?

  “But why contact Swan now?”

  “I tr-trust-trusted him. My w-w-wife’s pregnant.” Antoine lowered his voice. “She’s J-Jewish. There’s wr-wr-writing on the wall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s not safe. Or my b-baby. I need to get her from Lyon out of France. C-can’t wait any longer.”

  She believed at least some of what he’d said. Maybe she wanted to believe him and this clouded her thinking.

  “You need to give me the diamonds,” said Antoine. “Now. Or m-my comrades won’t believe me.”

  Kate felt almost a physical punch in the gut. Playing hardball.

  Well, so could she. Except she was in enemy territory, surrounded by black uniforms and jackboots that clicked with precision on the marble floors.

  If she gave him the diamonds, he could disappear or have her arrested.

  RADA. Use whatever you can and play dirty, her pa would have added.

  “No dice.”

  “C’est quoi, ça?” asked Antoine.

  “The deal is I get the film and a way out, then you get the diamonds.” She turned, about to leave. “Decide, Antoine. Now.”

  He hesitated, then reached for the telephone and made a call. A few mumbled words she couldn’t make out.

  He hung up, handed her a gas mask. “Keep your m-mouth shut.”

  Relief took over. Then nerves. They’d be walking into the lions’ den.

  Monday, June 24, 1940

  The Kommandantur, Place de l’Opéra, Paris | 9:15 a.m.

  Gunter washed himself up with Lanvin perfumed soap in the marble salle de bain adjoining his requisitioned office. He felt almost human despite his summer cold. And ten times fresher in the clean shirt Niels had scrounged up for him. His nose ran and his arms tingled. It was the feeling of expectation he got when a case started coming together.

  Antoine Doisneau was the key to capturing the English assassin. Based on what Gilberte Masson had given up, he realized that this Englishwoman had never been connected to the British snipers. She’d been operating alone. Tonight, he could be home, having dinner with Frieda and giving his daughter her Steiff teddy bear, Papa’s late birthday gift, with lots of kisses.

  “Hoffman.” Kommandant Kostoff appeared in the hallway, blocking his way. Roschmann stood beside him, arms folded. “We’re waiting for your report.”

  Caught. He’d stall. Get them off his back.

  “Of course, Kommandant. As soon as I collate the ballistic findings from the lab.”

  “Consider it a command that you attend the meeting,” said Roschmann. “Now.”

  Commanding him? Was that a leer stretching his fat lips? Gunter’s knuckles tightened on his attaché case.

  “Roschmann, need I remind you again I’m on the Führer’s express orders . . . ”

  “As we all are,” said Kostoff, his tone stiff and formal. All traces of last night’s overindulgence were gone. “And as the Führer reminded me in a phone call not two minutes ago.”

  Now these two had the Führer’s ear. Gunter’s blood boiled. The Führer interrupting again! He still had just under twelve hours to the deadline.

  “There’s a telegram for you, Gunter. Come to my office.”

  He smothered a sigh. “Jawohl, sir.”

  Gunter held back a moment in the hallway so he could motion to Niels, instruct him to find Doisneau and report back. Gunter would slip away at the first opportunity and follow his own agenda.

  Trying to hide his irritation, Gunter joined Roschmann in the Kommandant’s office.

  “You’re off the active investigation, Gunter,” said Kostoff.

  This was the meeting? They couldn’t take the case away from him. He kept his voice even with effort. “I’m following direct orders.”

  “As am I,” said Kostoff. “You bungled a simple operation in the Métro last night. The saboteur got away. It’s all in Roschmann’s report. Now you’ll furnish him with your current leads and h
and over the investigation.”

  Roschmann had sabotaged him. Engineered a SD coup—neat and bloodless.

  “My boss, Gruppenführer Jäger—”

  A telegram from Jäger was thrust at him: Roschmann now leading the investigation.

  Monday, June 24, 1940

  The Kriegsmarine, Place de la Concorde, Paris | 10:30 a.m.

  At the Concorde Métro station, Antoine handed her the pass labeled Laboratoires École Polytechnique. They had ridden over in a second-class Métro car, where Antoine had busied himself writing in a notebook—equations, it looked like. Maybe it had helped him calm his nerves.

  Kate wished she knew how to calm her own nerves now. Her eye caught on two German navy officers flanking the tall entrance doors of the Kriegsmarine. They stood at attention, holding rifles. Fear prickled up her neck. A third guard greeted and checked the passes of two arriving officers ahead of them. Would her bordello-costume nurse’s uniform and Antoine’s pass get them through?

  One of the officers, his naval trench coat slung over his arm in the warm morning, noticed Antoine.

  “More problems, Doisneau?” he said, a frown under his pink cheeks. His French bore almost no German accent.

  Antoine Doisneau’s lips parted. Don’t freeze, she prayed. Remember the plan.

  “I hope not, Captain Hinzer,” said Antoine, with no noticeable stutter. “My department asked me to check that our latest documents arrived in order.”

  Kate had been holding her breath. Relieved, she let it out.

  Hinzer raised his gloved hand. “I’m teasing you, Doisneau.” He swiveled his attention to Kate as if registering her for the first time. She didn’t think he was, though. From his behavior, control was Hinzer’s game. “Someone injured?”

  They’d prepared the story. Yet Antoine hesitated. Her throat caught.

  Why didn’t he spit it out?

  “Remember those boxes that got mixed up in transit, Captain Hinzer?” said Antoine. “Those contained first aid supplies from the École Polytechnique.”

  Antoine was in charge of the bomb shelter under École Polytechnique, including its first aid supplies, so if Hinzer checked, their ruse would hold up—although not under serious scrutiny.

  “Was that on some list, Doisneau?”

  “Exactly, sir. The discrepancy stood out on yesterday’s log. It needs rectification and Sister Marie is going to help me sort the first aid supplies.”

  “Carry on,” said Hinzer, his tone dismissive.

  He strode ahead to join his colleague.

  One hurdle crossed.

  Hinzer turned back. “See me on your way out. Both of you.”

  Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

  The naval guard handed back her pass. She wished her knees weren’t trembling.

  They entered the rectangular courtyard. The German-language building directory smelled freshly painted. At the far end sailors unloaded supply trucks. Cleaning women dusted the bannisters and mopped the staircases. The place buzzed like a well-organized beehive. No one paid attention to them.

  For now.

  Hurriedly, she noted the side exits, the front and rear staircases. Where was the service exit?

  “We’re going right, then upstairs to the first floor,” said Antoine under his breath. “Stay with me. It’s important we look like we know where we’re going.” Antoine stopped speaking to let two sailors hurry past with boxes. “We’ve got ten, fifteen minutes before Hinzer will check. Pokes his nose everywhere. That’s the way he is.”

  “We can do this, Antoine,” she said, steeling herself.

  “Keep your eyes down.”

  Antoine was right. Best not to invite attention.

  Despite his earlier protests, Antoine acted with purpose, moved quickly. Two hallways and a staircase later they stood in front of a door labeled kommunikation.

  Antoine rubbed at wiry wisps of hair that had stuck under his collar.

  “Do as I say; k-keep your mouth shut.”

  His stutter had returned.

  Nervous, she nodded as he opened the first double door into an anteroom choked with the haze of cigarette smoke. To the left a typewriter and teletype machine sat on an exquisite rococo desk of inlaid wood. On the right, beyond another open double door, she glimpsed the salon adjoining: the crystals from a dripping chandelier catching the morning light, blond wood panels lining high walls.

  She heard intermittent conversations in German through the half-open door to the office next door. Antoine motioned for her to wait. Clutching the Red Cross case, she stepped out of view.

  He spoke in German. A perfunctory conversation, from what she gathered. All she could make out were the spitting clicks of the telex. A phone rang.

  “Danke,” said Antoine, emerging with a black log book.

  She trailed him to the salon. Her eyes popped seeing a wall covered with charts, a large map of the northern French coastline. The map was pierced by colored stickpins. She recognized labels with the insignia of the different branches of the German occupying forces, the Luftwaffe, Kriegsmarine, Abwehr. She felt glad Stepney had made her memorize them.

  Kate followed Antoine to the side salon, looking at her watch. Already three minutes.

  The army-green metal cabinets lining the salon’s intricate woodwork wall spoiled the classic charm. What appeared to have once been a dining table had a large diagram spread across it. Rulers and magnifying glasses littered the surface. Reflections from the crystal chandelier created dancing prisms of light on the table.

  None of the diagrams meant anything to her.

  She glanced at the door, afraid someone would walk in.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Gathering for some big shot’s visit, I h-heard. But Hinzer will be here any moment.”

  Crazy, she’d been crazy to push Antoine, to even think they could—

  Footsteps sounded in the outer office. Her heart jumped in her chest. She didn’t know which would be more dangerous, to hide, which would out her immediately if she was caught, or to let herself be seen accompanying Antoine, which might raise questions.

  She ducked behind the door, but the footsteps receded. A false alarm.

  She joined Antoine at the table. He set down the log book and opened the metal cabinets. Inside were rolls of paper banded with numbered labels. He scanned the shelves, business-like. Looked back at the log book as if matching entries to the rolls of paper.

  “Where is it, Antoine?”

  “Here. It’s the Channel map.”

  “Is that Directive 17? You’re sure?”

  “Shh, come closer.”

  She did and took the unwieldy roll from him while Antoine fiddled with the Minox camera.

  “I’ll spread it out,” she said, “it’s faster.”

  Kate unrolled the crinkling sheet. A grid overlaid a map recognizable as the northern coast of France, the Channel and the southern English coast. To her untrained eye, the red and blue lines and arrows showed routes, coastal landing sites and troop advances through Kent and Sussex.

  “See,” whispered Antoine. “Ship routes over the Channel, land forces and troop emplacements.” Antoine clicked the shutter, emitting a barely audible ratchet sound as he advanced the tiny Minox’s film roll.

  The pine furniture polish mingled with smoke and the odor of a half-eaten sausage left in a bin. The smell made her want to gag. Antoine methodically photographed the map’s sections. It seemed like hours but it took only seconds. “Done.”

  Kate rolled up the sheet. Pointed to the table diagram. “Photograph this, too.” Little bell-shaped figures—buoys?—dotted the British coastline. That had to be important.

  “Why?”

  “It’s dated this morning. Could be an update. Just do it.”

  But Antoine was closing the log book. She
took the Minox from the table, fumbled with the tiny shutter. Her damn nerves made her hands shake.

  Voices came from the office. Antoine replaced the paper roll in the file cabinet. Kate focused on the curious diagram, taking photographs from top to bottom.

  “H-Hinzer’s coming.”

  Stuttering again. Not a good sign.

  “Keep him occupied, Antoine.”

  “You c-can’t be found in here.” His voice vibrated with fear.

  “I won’t. I’ll go out that side door.” She paused, took the rest of the diamond-studded scarf and slipped it in his pocket. “Good job, Antoine. Now how do I escape?”

  “You’ve had the d-diamonds all along?”

  “I lied.”

  He met her gaze.

  “So did I. Diamonds in exchange for the film. We’re done.”

  Her heart cramped. “What?”

  “The rest doesn’t involve me. I’m a scientist . . . d-d-d-don’t you understand?”

  “But there has to be a barge, a way out—or you wouldn’t have asked your friend and former colleague to risk his life, right?”

  A quick nod. His lip quivered and he looked away. She grabbed his elbow. “Tell me so I can get this to England.”

  “The c-contact was supposed to handle all that—getting Nigel out safely. His job was to meet him last n-night.”

  “You mean at the Grand Palais?”

  “T-talk to him.”

  She put it together. Philippe.

  Then Antoine was hurrying out of the salon with the log book. Trying to control her shaking hands she snapped the last shot. She hoped the effort was worth it. It had to be.

  But did she really trust Antoine? He had the diamonds, could turn her in and rise in Hinzer’s estimation.

  Kate closed the side door without making a sound. Seeing no one in the corridor, she ran.

  Monday, June 24, 1940

  The Kommandantur, Place de l’Opéra, Paris | 10:30 a.m.

  Back in his office, Gunter twisted the phone cord while he waited for Jäger to answer.