Three Hours in Paris

by Cara Black

  “Not exactly. Older. But same eyes.”

  “You’re positive?”

  The guard and cleaning woman nodded. “Sir, Captain Hinzer was standing there by the roses . . . I thought you saw her, sir.”

  Hinzer’s mouth pursed. “I saw you pinch a woman’s rear end.” He shook his head. “I should have followed up but Luftwaffe general Göring needed my unit . . .” He clicked his heels. “My fault. I take full responsibility, sir.”

  “Not your fault, Hinzer.”

  Privately, Gunter found the lax security untenable. A saboteur had been allowed to penetrate Naval HQ.

  She must have left via the garden service gate. Gone, evaporating in the crowds on rue de Rivoli.

  Gunter looked around the room, noting the strategic map of the coast, the diagrams and routes. This room had certainly been her target.

  “Is anything missing?”

  Before Hinzer could answer, Niels and the adjutant rushed in, breathless. “We found this in a WC on this floor.”

  A torn nurse’s uniform. A small compass. An empty first aid kit.

  Gunter turned to Hinzer. “Tell me again what Doisneau told you.”

  “He was checking on École Polytechnique documents, checking that they’d arrived. But he’s been moving documents all week.”

  “And the nurse?”

  Hinzer’s cheeks reddened. “To account for some missing first aid supplies.”

  The adjutant puffed on his cigarette. “That’s right, supplies from École Polytechnique got mixed up. It’s happened before so nothing seemed unusual.”

  Gunter hid his shock at this laissez-faire attitude. He checked the open log on the table again. “Show me the documents Doisneau checked.”

  “It’s maps, sir. Charts. Here in this cabinet.”

  Once the map—showing the coast of England and France with colored lines crisscrossing the Channel—had been unrolled over the diagram on the table, he understood it at once.

  The invasion routes.

  “Everything here is highly classified, Hinzer. Don’t civilians such as Doisneau require security clearance?”

  “Of course, sir, Doisneau’s part of the project department. He’s cleared.”

  “What do you mean by project?”

  “Directive 17, sir. That’s all I’m allowed to say.”

  Of course, and he almost smacked his head. Why hadn’t he realized this earlier? Her mission hadn’t been to assassinate the Führer; it had been to sabotage the sea invasion of Britain. First, she had killed Admiral Lindau, then she’d tried to steal the invasion plans.

  “What’s the significance of this?” Gunter pointed to oblong shapes on the diagram covering the table. “These ones marked B.”

  “It refers to Doisneau’s project B; that’s all I know. But nothing’s missing, sir, we’ve checked,” said Hinzer. “All the maps are logged here and accounted for.”

  Of course not, a professional wouldn’t let them suspect.

  No doubt she or Doisneau had had a camera to photograph the plans.

  He picked up the compass case found near the first aid kit. Thumbed a lever open and found a tiny Minox camera inside. Absent a roll of film.

  Gunter had been looking at this all wrong.

  He walked to the window and looked out at Place de la Concorde, the obelisk’s gold point shimmering in the sun. What better place for her to disappear than in this giant roundabout—she might have gone by vélo-taxi, Métro or bus lines.

  His gaze was drawn to the Métro entrance directly across the street. To a figure near a flower box.

  Monday, June 24, 1940

  Place de la Concorde, Paris | 11:45 a.m.

  Kate saw a vélo-taxi parked along the rue de Rivoli arcade. She approached the lanky cyclist whose short trousers revealed strong calf muscles. He looked capable of pedaling to Île de Puteaux.

  “I’m off duty, mademoiselle,” he said before she could speak. He took a drink from a thermos.

  “Pity,” she said. “Would fifty francs up front change your mind?”

  “Where to?”

  “Île de Puteaux.”

  “You mean across from Bois de Boulogne?” He wiped the perspiration from his brow. Thought. “Seventy francs.”

  Not unreasonable.

  “Eighty if we leave right now.”

  “In a hurry, eh?”

  She smiled. “You could say that, but I think you’ll keep this to yourself, non?”

  “D’accord.” He slipped his thermos in the basket, adjusted his left handlebar. “We’re only allowed to pick up passengers on that side.” He pointed to where other vélo-taxis waited by the Métro. “Meet me over there.”

  As his vélo-taxi joined traffic to loop around the obelisk, Kate crossed back over rue de Rivoli. She lingered by the Métro steps, envisioning the barge up the Seine, crossing the Channel. London.

  A curious feeling came over her. Like a dark shadow crossing the sun. Cold, foreboding. She didn’t know why. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she was being watched.

  Her gut screamed at her to move. Leave right now. She looked around quickly, trying to decide which way to go.

  There on the opposite side of rue de Rivoli, under the arcade, were several men in uniforms. One wore a rumpled linen suit.

  It was the man with gray eyes.

  The one who had almost shot her.

  And here she had the film roll with the German invasion plans stuck in her bra.

  Kate backed up, moving toward the Métro stairs. Her only option was to run and keep on running. But how far could she run? Her legs were shaking; she was lightheaded from the heat and weak with hunger. There was danger at every corner—she felt paralyzed by the fear of being caught, interrogated and tortured. Of what would happen to her if the film was discovered.

  She had to get on that barge.

  But what if she was caught?

  She had to get this film to London.

  The vélo-taxi driver was motioning to her, but Gray Eyes was crossing the street. What if he’d seen her? She quickly ran down the Métro stairs, took off the lab coat and stuck it in the nearest trash bin. With shaking fingers, she took the risk of removing the film from her bra, pulled a scarf over her head, counted to five, then tagged behind a couple and walked back up the stairs head down.

  Now clutching the film roll in her palm, she stayed close behind the couple. Made herself breathe, keeping behind them as she reached into the flower box. She put the film and her return message inside the tin for Philippe, then stuck the box back in the dirt.

  Monday, June 24, 1940

  Île de Puteaux, Paris | 11:45 a.m.

  The Dutch barge captain, moored on Île de Puteaux, read his radio operator’s latest deciphered Morse code.

  Has package arrived? Acknowledge receipt.

  He knew the waiting fishing trawler was at the mercy of the tides on the Normandy coast.

  He couldn’t moor here for much longer, anyway. A German patrol skiff made hourly passes. But he’d given his word to wait until noon. So he would, and then come hell or high water, he’d pull up anchor.

  “An answer, Captain?”

  He calculated. If he answered that no package had arrived London would order him out of the area. His package would be stranded. Too cold blooded for him. He had an idea. He’d give the poor bastard or bastards a chance. “Radio back ‘Receipt acknowledged ETA 1:45.’”

  Monday, June 24, 1940

  The War Rooms under King Charles Street, London

  11:45 a.m. Paris Time

  “Professor Fuchs’s train has been delayed,” said Stepney. “So I’ve sent a car for him. Meanwhile you have before you a brief recap.”

  Cathcart, Teague and assorted military sat at the round table.

  “Gentleman, do note the study mentioned
in the recap. Note that among the names of the authors listed on this University of Birmingham paper are those of then graduate students Nigel Swanson and Antoine Doisneau.”

  Stepney nodded to Cathcart. Damn fool had only now enlightened him on the stakes of Swanson’s mission.

  “I’ll let Cathcart proceed from here.”

  “The Jerries got hold of their rather ingenious cavity magnetron design,” said Cathcart. “It’s able to emit long-range radio waves.” Cathcart flipped some pages. “We know Doisneau returned to France in 1935 and carried on research for the French government. The Germans discovered his research at the École Polytechnique. Swanson alerted us when Doisneau contacted him a few days ago.”

  “Get to the point, Cathcart,” said Admiral Wilesdon. “I’ve got a meeting with the PM.”

  Stepney loathed the pompous man with his bulbous red-veined nose of a drinker.

  “Let me finish, please,” said Cathcart. “Doisneau agreed to exchange the information about the Germans’ technical adaptions to the cavity magnetron. Devices we believe contain an adaptation of this technology have washed up on our shores.”

  Wilesdon leaned forward. “I see the implications of espionage devices washing up on our shores, Cathcart. What have you done about it?”

  “Due to the situation in Paris, we didn’t have much time. We parachuted Swanson into France to obtain the invasion plans highlighting the deployment of the devices.”

  “Parachute an engineer into an occupied country?” Wilesdon shook his head. “I can’t believe this was sanctioned.”

  “Doisineau was skittish,” said Cathcart. “Through connections at the Portuguese embassy he relayed the information to Swanson via diplomatic pouch. Of course, we saw it first. He was clear he would only deal with Swanson. Insisted we fund his underground connections so he could send his pregnant Jewish wife out of France.”

  “That’s blackmail, sir,” said the SIS assistant.

  Stepney agreed.

  Cathcart tsked. “If we’d known about his role and information, we’d have offered him an incentive before,” he said. “He’s risking his life, remember. However, Swanson succumbed to wounds sustained in an ambush. Now, according to an Alpha network operative, it’s all in place. Stepney’s Yank is meeting Doisneau.”

  “And how’s she getting Doisneau’s wife out?”

  “She furnishes the diamonds to pay their way, the rest is up to him. We sent Swanson in with diamonds, one-carat stones embroidered on a scarf. According to the contact who buried Swanson, it didn’t get buried with his corpse so we’re assuming she’s got it.”

  “I fail to see how this prevents the invasion.”

  “We believe these buoy signal devices are part of an all-forces attack.”

  Wilesdon stood. “Why not disable the damn things?”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Stepney, cutting in. “We need Professor Fuchs’s advice for how to stop this. So far intelligence report buoys have been discovered in Ramsgate, Dover, Bexhill, Brighton, Portsmouth, Ventnor and Lyme Regis.”

  After Wilesdon left, Cathcart cleared his throat, rustled papers together. “A word, Stepney.”

  On his aching legs he followed Cathcart outside to the hallway. Cathcart handed him a file.

  “Tough news, I’m afraid. Bletchley decoded this during the past hour.”

  The four snipers’ dog tag numbers showed up on the saboteur list transmitted to Berlin. Dead. Men he’d trained, on the mission that could have changed the course of the war.

  “They didn’t talk, Stepney. Bit the pill. They went out honorably.”

  Tell that to their widows.

  Monday, June 24, 1940

  Place de la Concorde, Paris | 11:50 a.m.

  Kate trembled, eyeing the crowd in the late morning light that haloed the statues of Place de la Concorde. Summer-suited men with dogs on leashes, women in light frocks, children clutching a grandmother’s hand.

  No gray-eyed man.

  Had she imagined seeing him? Reacted in panic? This awful lightheadedness made her prone to mistakes.

  Big ones.

  As she got in the vélo-taxi, she kept watching the faces. Humidity blanketed the air—not even a breath of wind.

  Just then she recognized Philippe, wearing a blue cloth cap, standing by the flower box. Hurry, she had to hurry and catch him. She’d recover the film, stick to her first plan.

  “Stop!” she shouted at the driver. “Let me out.”

  “Aren’t you in a hurry?” said the vélo-taxi driver, braking hard.

  “Wait for me.” By the time she jumped out of the uncomfortable pod-like box, she had lost sight of Philippe. Heat simmered off the colonnaded facade of the Kriegsmarine and arcaded rue de Rivoli.

  Then a firm hand gripped her shoulder. Before she could turn, metal clinked as heavy handcuffs encircled her wrists. Her knees trembled; her thoughts went wobbly. In this heat, all she could register was a weary accented voice in almost pleasant-sounding English. “So we finally meet, mademoiselle.”

  The man with the gray eyes turned her around to study her.

  She stumbled. Strong arms caught her.

  “Put her in the car, Niels . . .” was the last thing she heard.

  Kate wasn’t in a cell. Wasn’t handcuffed. Whispers reached her ears but made no sense. She lay bathed in streaming sunlight and reeking of antiseptic. Delicious cool air from an open window ruffled her hair and Gilberte’s floral dress, the thin silk slip.

  Her arm stung when she tried to sit up. There was a needle in her vein hooked to an intravenous solution. Light danced and prismed through the glass bottles of medicine at her bedside.

  Where was she?

  “Feeling better?” That same accented English.

  Kate registered the man leaning into her view. His gray eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his dark blond hair parted messily on the side. His rumpled brown linen suit looked mismatched with the starched dress shirt he wore underneath.

  “Who are you?”

  He showed her his badge. “Gunter Hoffman, RSD. And you?”

  Fear clamped her heart. Next was a firing squad. But she wouldn’t show fear.

  Never.

  She’d go down fighting.

  “I’m an American citizen and demand you notify the embassy. Right now.”

  He rubbed his neck. “Excuse my bad English, but you’re a British national.”

  “Do I sound English?”

  He cocked his head. Grinned. “More like what I’ve heard in the movies. In cowboy Westerns.”

  A friendly Nazi? A technique to trick her into lowering her guard? She wouldn’t let him see how she quaked inside.

  “No doubt. I’m a ranch woman from Oregon. Can’t get more Western than that, Mr. Gunter.”

  “Excuse me, please.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his runny nose. Sounded like he had a cold. Good.

  “Fascinating,” he said. “Like a cowboy ranch, roping cattle, shooting Indians? A real Annie Oakley, eh?”

  Sly. He wasn’t stupid. But he seemed genuinely interested, like she was a specimen he wanted to figure out.

  “Cookin’ chow for ranch hands and cowboys more like it.”

  Could she charm him with country-isms while she figured out what he knew?

  Face it. She was caught and soon to be quartered no matter what.

  A doctor was listening to her chest with his stethoscope.

  “Stable,” he said in French-accented English. “You’re lucky.”

  He called this luck?

  With a deft movement the doctor removed the needle, applied pressure and taped on a bandage. Then he went to the window to stab out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  So she was in a French hospital. Everything felt very wrong.

  “Now, Doctor, please rol
l up her right sleeve exposing her shoulder.”

  Warm fingers probed her upper arm.

  “Please note the bruise here.” Gunter picked up the Lee-Enfield, which had been reassembled—where had he gotten that? “If I measure the buttstock, like this.”

  The cold metal brushed her bruise.

  “Ach ja, the measurements match. Telltale marking of this rifle recoil. A unique piece with a modified telescopic sight.” His warm fingers probed her armpit. Kate realized another man was in the room. A youngish soldier, dark haired, with a clipboard and camera slung from his uniformed shoulder. “Niels, photograph this.”

  A flashbulb went off, blinding her. She had to admire him. The German was damn good. He’d recovered the Lee-Enfield and tracked her down. Disheartened, she realized Philippe must have betrayed her.

  “Please swab her hands for gunshot residue in case any remains. Then, Niels, take a full set of fingerprints to match those we’ve analyzed from the rifle.”

  What kind of charade was this? How did her fingerprints even matter? The next stop would be the firing squad.

  Her anger burned. She had nothing to lose now. Would bang her head against the hospital bed rails before she let him see her scared.

  “The methodical type, eh? A German Sherlock Holmes. Only Sherlock Holmes never tortured people.”

  The man’s mouth tightened. “I was a homicide detective in Munich. No case goes to trial without solid evidence; it’s the rule of investigation that I was trained on.”

  Right.

  “You call a bruise evidence?”

  Gunter consulted a worn brown leather notebook. Thumbed a few pages. “We have two witnesses who saw a woman similar to you in appearance at Sacré-Cœur, where a naval officer was murdered. A building concierge and a melon seller recognized you from this drawing.”

  The drunken concierge, the terrified melon seller? But she blinked seeing the skillful drawing of her in a blue sweater, her hair clipped by a tortoiseshell comb. Her neck tingled.

  Deny. The first rule for a prisoner. Deny everything.