The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  Yet there was a creepy quality to it, too. Splats or droplets marked the creamy luster of the page—some of wine perhaps, some of tea, some of whatever else one might have at the board in the eighteenth century. Some of the lines were crooked, and the page itself felt off-kilter, as though a taint of madness had attended, or perhaps drunkenness, for in his dotage old MacBurney was no teetotaler, it was said.

  More psychotic still were the drawings. As the librarian had noticed in his published account of the volume in Treasures of the Cambridge Library, the reverend occasionally yielded to artistic impulse. No, they weren’t vulvas or naked boys or fornicators in pushed-up petticoats or farmers too in love with their cows. MacBurney’s lusts weren’t so visible or so nakedly expressed. But the fellow was a doodler after Jesus. He could not compel himself to be still, and so each page wore a garland of crosses scattered across its bottom, a Milky Way of holiness setting off the page number, or in the margins, and at the top silhouetted crucifixions, sketches of angels, clumsy reiterations of God’s hand touching Adam’s as the great Italian had captured upon that ceiling in Rome. Sometimes the devil himself appeared, horned and ambivalent, just a few angry lines not so much depicting as suggesting Lucifer’s cunning and malice. It seemed the reverend was in anguish as he tried desperately to finish this last devotion to the Lord.

  Basil got to work quickly. Here of all places was no place to tarry. He untaped the Riga Minox from his left shin, checked that the overhead light seemed adequate. He didn’t need flash, as Technical Branch had come up with extremely fast 21.5 mm film, but it was at the same time completely necessary to hold still. The lens had been prefocused for 15 cm, so Basil did not need to play with it or any other knobs, buttons, controls. He took on faith that he had been given the best equipment in the world with which to do the job.

  He had seven pages to photograph—2, 5, 6, 9, 10, 13, and 15—for the codebreaker had assured him that those would be the pages on which the index words would have to be located, based on the intercepted code.

  In fact, Sade’s Justine proved very helpful, along with a first edition of Voltaire’s Pensées and an extra-illustrated edition of Le Decameron de Jean Boccace, published in five volumes in Paris in 1757, Ah, the uses of literature! Stacked, they gave him a brace against which he could sustain the long fuselage of the Minox. Beneath it he displayed the page. Click, wind, click again, on to the next one. It took so little time. It was too sodding easy. He thought he might find an SS firing squad just waiting for him, enjoying the little trick they’d played on him.

  But when he replaced all the documents in their proper spots, retaped the camera to his leg, and emerged close to an hour later, there was no firing squad, just the nervous Marque, le directeur, waiting with the tremulous smile of the recently violated.

  “I am finished, monsieur le directeur. Please examine, make certain all is appropriate to the condition it was in when I first entered an hour ago. Nothing missing, nothing misfiled, nothing where it should not be. I will not take offense.”

  The director entered the vault and emerged in a few minutes.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  “I noted the Sade. Nothing else seemed necessary to our study. I am sure copies of it in not so rare an edition are commonly available if one knows where to look.”

  “I could recommend a bookseller,” said le directeur. “He specializes in, er, the kind of thing you’re looking for.”

  “Not necessary now, but possible in the future.”

  “I had my secretary prepare a document, in both German and French.”

  Basil looked at it, saw that it was exactly as he had ordered, and signed his false name with a flourish.

  “You see how easy it is if you cooperate, monsieur? I wish I could teach all your countrymen the same.”

  By the time Macht returned at four, having had to walk the last three blocks because of the traffic snarl, things were more or less functioning correctly at his banquet hall headquarters.

  “We now believe him to be in a pinstripe suit. I have put all our watchers back in place in a state of high alert. I have placed cars outside this tangled-up area so that we can, if need be, get to the site of an incident quickly,” Abel briefed him.

  “Excellent, excellent,” he replied. “What’s happening with the idiot?”

  That meant Boch, of course.

  “He wanted to take hostages and shoot one every hour until the man is found. I told him that was probably not a wise move, since this fellow is clearly operating entirely on his own and is thus immune to social pressures such as that. He’s now in private communication with SS headquarters in Paris, no doubt telling them what a wonderful job he has been doing. His men are all right, he’s just a buffoon. But a dangerous one. He could have us all sent to Russia. Well, not me, ha-ha, but the rest of you.”

  “I’m sure your honor would compel you to accompany us, Walter.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Didi.”

  “I agree with you that this is a diversion, that our quarry is completing his mission somewhere very near. I agree also that it is not a murder, a sabotage, a theft, or anything spectacular. In fact, I have no idea what it could be. I would advise that all train stations be double-covered and that the next few hours are our best for catching him.”

  “I will see to it.”

  In time Boch appeared. He beckoned to Macht, and the two stepped into the hallway for privacy.

  “Herr Hauptmann, I want this considered as fair warning. This agent must be captured, no matter what. It is on record that you chose to disregard my advice and instead go about your duties at a more sedate pace. SS is not satisfied and has filed a formal protest with Abwehr and others in the government. SS Reichsführer Himmler himself is paying close attention. If this does not come to the appropriate conclusion, all counterintelligence activities in Paris may well come under SS auspices, and you yourself may find your next duty station rather more frosty and rather more hectic than this one. I tell you this to clarify your thinking. It’s not a threat, Herr Hauptmann, it’s simply a clarification of the situation.”

  “Thank you for the update, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I will take it under advisement and—”

  But at that moment Abel appeared, concern on his usually slack, doughy face. “Hate to interrupt, Herr Hauptmann, but something interesting.”

  “Yes?”

  “One of Unterscharführer Ganz’s sources is a French policeman on duty at the Bibliothèque Mazarine, on Quai de Conti, not far from here. An easy walk, in fact.”

  “Yes, the large complex overlooking the river. The cupola—no, that is the main building, the Institut de France, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir. At any rate, the report is that at about three p.m., less than twenty minutes after the bomb blast—”

  “Flare is more like it, I hear,” said Macht.

  “Yes, Captain. In any event, a German official strode into the library and demanded to see the director. He demanded access to the rare book vault and was in there alone for an hour. Everybody over there is buzzing because he was such a commanding gentleman, so sure and smooth and charismatic.”

  “Did he steal anything?”

  “No, but he was alone in the vault. In the end, it makes very little sense. It’s just that the timing works out correctly, the description is accurate, and the personality seems to match. What British intelligence could—”

  “Let’s get over there, fast,” said Macht.

  This was far more than monsieur le directeur had ever encountered. He now found himself alone in his office with three German policemen, and none were in a good mood.

  “So, if you will, please explain to me the nature of this man’s request.”

  “It’s highly confidential, Captain Macht. I had the impression that discretion was one of the aspects of the visit. I feel I betray a trust if I—”

&n
bsp; “Monsieur le directeur,” said Macht evenly, “I assure you that while I appreciate your intentions, I nevertheless must insist on an answer. There is some evidence that this man may not be who you think he was.”

  “His credentials were perfect,” said the director. “I examined them very carefully. They were entirely authentic. I am not easy to fool.”

  “I accuse you of nothing,” said Macht. “I merely want the story.”

  And le directeur laid it out, rather embarrassed.

  “Dirty pictures,” said Macht at the conclusion. “You say a German officer came in and demanded to check your vault for dirty pictures, dirty stories, dirty jokes, dirty limericks, and so forth in books of antiquarian value?”

  “I told you the reason he gave me.”

  The two dumpy policemen exchanged glances; the third, clearly from another department, fixed him with beady, furious eyes behind pince-nez glasses and somehow seemed to project both aggression and fury at him without saying a word.

  “Why would I make up such a story?” inquired le directeur. “It’s too absurd.”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the third officer, a plumper man with pomaded if thinning hair showing much pate between its few strands and a little blot of moustache clearly modeled on either Himmler’s or Hitler’s. “We’ll take ten of your employees to the street. If we are not satisfied with your answers, we’ll shoot one of them. Then we’ll ask again and see if—”

  “Please,” the Frenchman implored, “I tell the truth. I am unaccustomed to such treatment. My heart is about to explode. I tell the truth, it is not in me to lie, it is not my character.”

  “Description, please,” said Macht. “Try hard. Try very hard.”

  “Mid-forties, well-built, though in a terrible-fitting suit. I must say I thought the suit far beneath him, for his carriage and confidence were of a higher order. Reddish-blond hair, blue eyes, rather a beautiful chin—rather a beautiful man, completely at home with himself and—”

  “Look, please,” said the assistant to the less ominous of the policemen. He handed over a photograph.

  “Ahhhh—well, no, this is not him. Still, a close likeness. Same square shape. His eyes are not as strong as my visitor’s, and his posture is something rather less. I must say, the suit fits much better.”

  Macht sat back. Yes, a British agent had been here. What on Earth could it have been for? What in the Mazarine Library was of such interest to the British that they had sent a man on such a dangerous mission, so fragile, so easily discovered? They must have been quite desperate.

  “And what name did he give you?” Abel asked.

  “He said his name was…Here, look, here’s the document he signed. It was exactly the name on his papers, I checked very closely so there would be no mistake. I was trying my hardest to cooperate. I know there is no future in rebellion.”

  He opened his drawer, with trembling fingers took out a piece of paper, typed and signed.

  “I should have shown it to you earlier. I was nonplussed, I apologize, it’s not often that I have three policemen in my office.”

  He yammered on, but they paid no attention, as all bent forward to examine the signature at the bottom of the page.

  It said, “Otto Boch, SS Hauptsturmführer, SS-RHSA, 13 rue Madeleine, Paris.”

  ACTION THIS DAY (CONT’D.)

  The train left Montparnasse at exactly five minutes after five p.m. As SS Hauptsturmführer Boch, Gestapo, 13 rue Madeleine, Paris, Basil did not require anything save his identification papers, since Gestapo membership conferred on him an elite status that no rail clerk in the Wehrmacht monitoring the trains would dare challenge. Thus he flew by the ticket process and the security checkpoints and the flash inspection at the first-class carriage steps.

  The train eased into motion and picked up speed as it left the marshaling yards resolving themselves toward blur as the darkness increased. He sat alone amid a smattering of German officers returning to duty after a few stolen nights in Paris. Outside, in the twilight, the little toy train depots of France fled by, and inside, the vibration rattled and the grumpy men tried to squeeze in a last bit of relaxation before once again taking up their vexing duties, which largely consisted of waiting until the Allied armies came to blow them up. Some of them thought of glorious death and sacrifice for the fatherland; some remembered the whores in whose embraces they had passed the time; some thought of ways to surrender to the Americans without getting themselves killed, but also of not being reported, for one never knew who was keeping records and who would see them.

  But most seemed to realize that Basil was an undercover SS officer, and no one wanted to brook any trouble at all with the SS. Again, a wrong word, a misinterpreted joke, a comment too politically frank, and it was off to that dreaded 8.8 cm antitank gun facing the T-34s and the Russians. All of them preferred their luck with the Americans and the British than with the goddamn Bolsheviks.

  So Basil sat alone, ramrod straight, looking neither forward nor back. His stern carriage conveyed seriousness of purpose, relentless attention to detail, and a devotion to duty so hard and true it positively radiated heat. He permitted no mirth to show, no human weakness. Most of all, and hardest for him, he allowed himself to show no irony, for irony was the one attribute that would never be found in the SS or in any Hitlerite true believer. In fact, in one sense the Third Reich and its adventure in mass death was a conspiracy against irony. Perhaps that is why Basil hated it so much and fought it so hard.

  * * *

  —

  Boch said nothing. There was nothing to say. Instead it was Macht who did all the talking. They leaned on the hood of a Citroën radio car in the courtyard of the Bibliothèque Mazarine.

  “Whatever it was he wanted, he got it. Now he has to get out of town and fast. He knows that sooner or later we may tumble to his acquisition of Herr Boch’s identity papers, and at that point their usefulness comes to an abrupt end and they become absolutely a danger. So he will use them now, as soon as possible, and get as far away as possible.”

  “But he has purposefully refused any Resistance aid on this trip,” said Abel.

  “True.”

  “That would mean that he has no radio contact. That would mean that he has no way to set up a Lysander pickup.”

  “Excellent point, Walter. Yes, and that narrows his options considerably. One way out would be to head to the Spanish border. However, that’s days away, involves much travel and the danger of constant security checks, and he would worry that his Boch identity would have been penetrated.”

  They spoke of Boch as if he were not there. In a sense, he wasn’t. “Sir, the breech is frozen.” “Kick it! They’re almost on us!” “I can’t, sir. My foot fell off because of frostbite.”

  “He could, I suppose, get to Calais and swim to Dover. It’s only thirty-two kilometers. It’s been done before.”

  “Even by a woman.”

  “Still, although he’s a gifted professional, I doubt they have anyone quite that gifted. And even if it’s spring, the water is four or five degrees centigrade.”

  “Yes,” said Macht. “But he will definitely go by water. He will head to the most accessible seaport. Given his talents for subversion, he will find some sly fisherman who knows our patrol boat patterns and pay the fellow to haul him across. He can make it in a few hours, swim the last hundred yards to a British beach, and be home with his treasure, whatever that is.”

  “If he escapes, we should shoot the entire staff of the Bibliothèque Mazarine,” said Boch suddenly. “This is on them. He stole my papers, yes, he pickpocketed me, but he could have stolen anyone’s papers, so to single me out is rather senseless. I will make that point in my report.”

  “An excellent point,” said Macht. “Alas, I will have to add that while he could have stolen anyone’s papers, he did steal yours. And they were im
mensely valuable to him. He is now sitting happily on the train, thinking of the jam and buns he will enjoy tomorrow morning with his tea and whether it will be a DSC or a DSO that follows his name from now on. I would assume that as an honorable German officer you will take full responsibility. I really don’t think we need to go shooting up any library staffs at this point. Why don’t we concentrate on catching him, and that will be that.”

  Boch meant to argue but saw that it was useless. He settled back into his bleakness and said nothing.

  “The first thing: which train?” Macht inquired of the air. The air had no answer and so he answered it himself. “Assuming that he left, as le directeur said, at exactly three forty-five p.m. by cab, he got to the Montparnasse station by four-fifteen. Using his SS papers, he would not need to stand in line for tickets or checkpoints, so he could leave almost immediately. My question thus has to be, what trains leaving for coastal destinations were available between four-fifteen and four forty-five? He will be on one of those trains. Walter, please call the detectives.”

  Abel spoke into the microphone by radio to his headquarters and waited. A minute later an answer came. He conveyed it to the two officers.

  “A train for Cherbourg left at four-thirty, due to arrive in that city at eleven-thirty p.m. Then another at—”

  “That’s fine. He’d take the first. He doesn’t want to be standing around, not knowing where we are in our investigations and thus assuming the worst. Now, Walter, please call Abwehr headquarters and get our people at Montparnasse to check the gate of that train for late-arriving German officers. I believe they have to sign a travel manifest. At least, I always do. See if Hauptsturmführer—ah, what’s the first name, Boch?”

  “Otto.”

  “SS Hauptsturmführer Otto Boch, Gestapo, came aboard at the last moment.”