His focus refined, Fontine concentrated on the man across from him. He wore a black suit; around his neck was a white collar. The man was a priest.
He was bald, but not from age. The head was shaved; the man was no more than forty-five or fifty, the face ascetic, the body slender.
Beside the priest was the guard in the Wehrmacht uniform. The two Greeks impersonating German officers stood by an iron door in the left wall facing the tunnel. The priest spoke.
“We’ve followed you since Montbéliard. You’re a thousand miles from London. The English can’t protect you. We have routes south they know nothing about.”
“The English?” Fontine stared at the priest trying to understand. “You’re from the Order of Xenope.”
“We are.”
“Why do you fight the English?”
“Because Brevourt’s a liar. He breaks his word.”
“Brevourt?” Victor was stunned; nothing made sense. “You’re out of your mind! Everything, everything he’s done in your name! For you.”
“Not for us! For England. He wants the vault of Constantine for England! Churchill demands it! It’s a more powerful weapon than a hundred armies, and they all know it! We would never see it again!” The priest’s eyes were wide, furious.
“You believe that?”
“Don’t be an ass!” spat the monk from Xenope. “As Brevourt breaks his word, we broke Code Maginot. Messages were intercepted; communications between … shall we say, interested parties.”
“You’re crazy!” Fontine tried to think. Anthony Brevourt had faded away; there’d been no word from him—or about him—in months. “You say you’ve followed me since Montbéliard. Why? I don’t have what you want! I never did have it! I know nothing about that goddamned train!”
“Mikhailovic believed you,” said the priest softly. “I don’t.”
“Petride—” The sight of the child monk taking his own life on the rocky ledge in Loch Torridon came back to Victor.
“Petride was not his name—”
“You killed him!” said Fontine. “You killed him as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself. You’re insane! All of you.”
“He failed. He knew what was expected. It was understood.”
“You’re sick! You infect everyone you touch! You can believe me or not, but I’m telling you for the last time! I don’t have the information you want!”
“Liar!”
“You’re mad!”
“Then why do you travel with Lübok? Tell me that, Signor Fontini-Cristi! Why Lübok?”
Victor recoiled; the shock of Lübok’s name caused him to arch his back against the stone. “Lübok?” he whispered incredulously. “If you know his work, you know the answer to that.”
“Loch Torridon?” asked the priest sarcastically.
“I never heard of Lübok before in my life. I only know he does his job. He’s a Jew, a … he takes great risks.”
“He works for Rome!” roared the priest of Xenope. “He conveys offers to Rome! Your offers!”
Victor was silent; his astonishment was so complete he had no words. The monk of Xenope continued, his voice low, penetrating. “Strange, isn’t it? Of all the escorts in the occupied territories, Lübok is chosen. He just shows up in Montbéliard. Do you expect us to believe that?”
“Believe what you will. This is madness.”
“It is betrayal!” the priest shouted again, taking several steps away from the wall. “A degenerate who can pick up a telephone and blackmail half of Berlin! And most outrageous—for you—a dog who works for the monster of—”
“Fontine! Dive!” The piercing command came from the black hole of the tunnel. It was screamed in Lübok’s high-pitched voice, the sound bouncing off the receding walls of rock, overriding the shouts of the priest.
Victor reeled and sprang forward, rolling down the stone wall, crashing from the platform to the hard ground by the old rusted track. Above him he heard the spits of bullets shattering the air, followed by two thunderous explosions of unsilenced Lugers.
In the flickering light he could see the figures of Lübok and several others lurch out of the darkness, angling their weapons, taking rapid, accurate aim; firing and spinning back into the protection of the rock.
It was over in seconds. The priest of Xenope had fallen; he was hit in the neck, his left ear blown off his head. He had crawled to the ledge of the platform, dying, staring down at Fontine. In imminent death his whispered voice was a rasp.
“We … are not your enemies. For the mercy of God, bring the documents to us—”
A final, muted spit was heard; the priest’s forehead exploded above his staring eyes.
Victor felt a grip on his left arm; it caused shooting pains throughout his shoulder and chest. He was being yanked to his feet.
“Get up!” was Lübok’s command. “The shots may have been heard. Run!”
They raced into the tunnel. The beam of a flashlight pierced the black, held by one of Lübok’s men up ahead. The man whispered his instructions in Polish. Lübok translated for Fontine, who ran beside him.
“About two hundred yards down there’s a monks’ cave. We’ll be safe.”
“A what?”
“Monks’ cave,” answered Lübok, breathing heavily. “The history of the Casimir goes back centuries. Escapes were needed.”
They crawled on their hands and knees through a narrow, dark passageway cut out of rock. It led to the depths of a cave. The air was instantly different; there was an opening somewhere beyond in the darkness.
“I have to talk to you,” said Victor quickly.
“To answer your questions, Captain Hans Neumann is a devoted officer of the Reich with a cousin in the Gestapo. Oberst Schneider wasn’t on the roster; that was sticky. We knew it was a trap.… In all honesty we didn’t expect to find you in the tunnel. That was a stroke of luck. We were on our way to Block Seven.” Lübok turned to his comrades. He spoke first in Polish, then translated for Fontine. “Well stay here for a quarter of an hour. That should be time enough. Then we’ll proceed to the rendezvous in Seven. You’ll conduct your business on schedule.”
Fontine grabbed Lübok’s arm and led him away from the podziemna men. Two of the men had turned on their flashlights. There was enough light to see the middle-aged courier’s face, and Victor was grateful for that.
“It wasn’t a German trap! Those men back there were Greek! One was a priest!” Fontine whispered, but there was no mistaking his intensity.
“You’re mad,” said Lübok casually, his eyes a perfect blank.
“They were from Xenope.”
“From what?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Goddamn you, Lübok! Who are you?”
“Many things to many people, thank heavens.”
Victor grabbed the blond-haired Czech by the lapels of his jacket. Lübok’s eyes became suddenly distant, filled with cold anger. “They said you worked for Rome. That you would convey offers to Rome! What offers? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” replied the Czech slowly.
“Who do you work for?”
“I work for many people. Against the Nazis. That’s all you have to know. I keep you alive and see that you complete your negotiations. How I do it is none of your business.”
“You know nothing about Salonika?”
“It is a city in Greece, on the Aegean Sea.… Now, take your hands off me.”
Fontine relayed his grip but still held on. “Just in case—in case—the many people you speak of include men interested in that train from Salonika. I know nothing. I never did.”
“If the subject ever comes up, and I can’t imagine why, I’ll convey the information. Now may we concentrate on your negotiations in Warsaw? We must complete them tonight. In the morning arrangements have been made for two couriers to fly out on the Berlin military shuttle. I’ll check
the airfield myself before daybreak. We’ll get off at Müheim. It’s near the Franco-Swiss border, a night’s trip to Montbéliard. Your business in Europe is finished.”
“Fly out?” Victor removed his hands. “On a German plane?”
“Courtesy of a very distraught Warsaw commandant. He’s seen too many motion pictures in which he was a prominent player. Sheer pornography.”
11
AIR CORRIDOR, MUNICH WEST
The trimotored Fokker was stationary as maintenance crews checked the engines and a fuel truck filled the tanks. They were in Munich; they had left Warsaw early in the morning with a stop at Prague. Most of the passengers had gotten off at Munich.
Müllheim was next, the last leg of their journey. Victor sat uncomfortably beside a seemingly relaxed Lübok in the quiet cabin of the aircraft. There was one other passenger: an aging corporal on leave to Stuttgart.
“I’d like it better if there were a few more hitchhikers,” whispered Lübok. “With so small a number, the pilot may insist everyone stay on board at Müllheim. He could gas up quickly and be on his way. He takes on most of his passengers in Stuttgart.”
He was interrupted by the sound of clattering footsteps on the metal stairs outside the aircraft. Raucous, uninhibited laughter accompanied the unsteady clattering and grew louder as the new passengers approached the cabin door. Lübok looked at Fontine and smiled in relief. He returned to the newspaper provided by the attendant and sank back in the seat. Victor turned; the Munich contingent came into view.
There were three Wehrmacht officers and a woman. They were drunk. The girl was in a light-covered cloth coat; she was pushed through the narrow door by two of the Wehrmacht and shoved into a seat by the third. She did not object; instead she laughed and made funny faces. A willing, participating toy.
She was in her late twenties, pleasant-looking but not attractive. There was a frantic quality in her face, an intensity that made her appear somehow frayed. Her light-brown, windswept hair was a little too thick; it had not fallen free in the wind. The mascara about her eyes was too pronounced, the lipstick too red, the rouge too obvious.
“What are you looking at?” The question was shouted above the roar of the revving motors. The speaker was the third Wehrmacht officer, a broad-chested, muscular man in his thirties. He had walked past his two comrades and addressed Victor.
“I’m sorry,” said Fontine, smiling weakly. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
The officer squinted his eyes; he was a brawler, it was unmistakable. “We’ve got a fancy one. Listen to the lace-pants!”
“I meant no offense.”
The officer turned to his comrades; one had pulled the not-unwilling girl over on his lap, the other was in the aisle. “The lace-pants meant no offense! Isn’t that nice?”
The two fellow officers groaned derisively. The girl laughed; a little too hysterically, thought Victor. He turned front, hoping the Wehrmacht boor would go away.
Instead, a huge hand reached over the seat and grabbed him by the shoulder blade. “That’s not good enough.” The officer looked at Lübok. “You two move up front.”
Lübok’s eyes sought Victor’s. The message was clear: Do as the man ordered.
“Certainly.” Fontine and Lübok rose and walked swiftly up the aisle. Neither spoke. Fontine could hear the uncorking of bottles. The Wehrmacht party had begun.
The Fokker sped down the runway and left the ground. Lübok had taken the aisle seat, leaving him the window. He riveted his eyes on the sky, withdrawing into the cocoon of himself, hoping to produce a blankness that would make the journey to Müllheim pass more swiftly. It could not pass swiftly enough.
The blankness would not come. Instead, involuntarily, he thought of the Xenope priest in the underground tunnel of the Casimir.
You travel with Lübok. Lübok works for Rome.
Lübok.
We are not your enemies. For the mercy of God, bring the documents to us.
Salonika. It was never far away. The vault from Constantine was capable of violently dividing men who fought a common enemy.
He heard laughter from the rear of the cabin, then a whispered voice behind him.
“No! Don’t turn around. Please!” It was the flight attendant, barely audible through the narrow space between the seats. “Don’t get up. They’re Kommandos. They just let off steam, so don’t concern yourselves. Pretend there is nothing!”
“Kommandos?” whispered Lübok. “In Munich? They’re stationed north, in the Baltic zones.”
“Not these. These operate across the mountains in the Italian sectors. Execution teams. There are many—”
The words struck with the impact of silent thunderbolts. Victor inhaled; the muscles of his stomach hardened into a wall of stone.
… execution teams.…
He gripped the armrests of his seat and arched his back. Then, pressing his back into the seat, he stretched his neck and turned his eyes toward the rear of the cabin, over the metal rim of the headrest. He could not believe what he saw.
The wild-eyed girl was on the floor, her coat open; she was naked except for torn undergarments, her legs spread, her buttocks moving. A Wehrmacht officer, his trousers and shorts pulled down to his knees, lowered himself on her, his penis stabbing. Kneeling above the girl’s head was a second Wehrmacht, his trousers removed, an erection protruding from the opening in his shorts. He held the girl by the hair and lanced his erection around the flesh of her face; she opened her mouth and accepted it, moaning and coughing. The third Wehrmacht was sitting, bent over on the armrest above the rape. He was breathing in gasps through parted lips, his left hand extended, rubbing the girl’s naked breasts in a rhythm that matched the masturbating motions of his right hand.
“Animali!” Fontine lunged from the seat, ripping Lübok’s fingers from his wrist, hurling himself forward. The Wehrmacht were stunned beyond movement, their shock total. The officer on the armrest gaped. Victor’s open hand gripped his hair and crashed the man’s head into the steel rim of the seat. The skull cracked; an eruption of blood sprayed the face of the Wehrmacht lying between the spread legs of the girl. The officer caught his knees in his trousers; he fell forward on top of the girl, his hands lashing out to grab support. He rolled on his back, crushing the girl in the narrow aisle. Fontine raised the heel of his right boot and propelled it into the soft throat of the Wehrmacht. The blow was pulverizing; the veins in the German’s neck swelled into huge tubes of bluish-black under the skin. His eyes rolled up into his sockets, the eyeballs white gelatine, blank and horrible.
The screams of the girl beneath were now mingled with the cries of agony from the third officer, who had sprung forward, propelling himself off the Fokker’s deck toward the rear bulkhead. The man’s underwear was matted with blood.
Fontine lunged; the German rolled hysterically away. His bloody, trembling hand reached under his tunic; Victor knew what he was after: the four-inch Kommando knife, strapped next to his flesh beneath his armpit. The Wehrmacht whipped out the blade—short, razor sharp—and slashed it diagonally in front of him. Fontine rose from his crouch, prepared to leap.
Suddenly an arm was lashed around Victor’s neck. He struck back with his elbows, but the grip was unbreakable.
His neck was yanked back and a long knife sped through the air and imbedded itself deep in the German’s chest. The man was dead before his body slumped to the floor of the cabin.
Abruptly Fontine’s neck was released. Lübok slapped him across the face, the blow powerful, stinging his flesh.
“Enough! Stop it! I won’t die for you!”
Dazed, Victor looked around. The throats of the other two Wehrmacht had been cut. The girl had crawled away, vomiting and weeping between two seats. The flight attendant lay sprawled in the aisle—dead or unconscious, there was no way to tell.
And the old corporal who had stared at nothing—in fear—only minutes ago, stood by the pilot’s cabin door, a pistol in his hand.
Suddenly the girl started screaming as she got to her feet. “They’ll kill us! Oh, God! Why did you do it?”
Stunned, Fontine stared at the girl and spoke quietly with what breath he had left. “You? You can ask that?”
“Yes! Oh, my God!” She pulled her filthy coat around her as best she could. “They’ll kill me. I don’t want to die!”
“You don’t want to live like that.”
She returned his stare maniacally, her head trembling. “They took me from the camps,” she whispered. “I understood. They gave me drugs when I needed them, wanted them.” She pulled at her loose right sleeve; there were scores of needle marks from her wrist to her upper arm. “But I understood. And I lived!”
“Basta!” roared Victor stepping toward the girl, raising his hand. “Whether you live or die is immaterial to me. I didn’t act for you!”
“Whatever you did is done, Captain,” said Lübok quickly, touching his arm. “Snap out of it! You’ve had your confrontation, there can be no more. Understand?”
Fontine saw the strength in Lübok’s eyes. Breathing heavily, Victor pointed in astonishment at the fortyish corporal who stood silently by the cabin door, his weapon drawn. “He’s one of you, isn’t he?”
“No,” said Lübok. “He’s a German with a conscience. He doesn’t know who or what we are. At Müllheim he’ll be unconscious, an innocent bystander who can tell them whatever he likes. I suspect it will be nothing. Stay with the girl.”
Lübok took charge. He went back to the bodies of the Wehrmacht and removed identification papers and weapons. In the tunic of one, he found a hypodermic kit and six vials of narcotics. He gave them to the girl, who sat by the window next to Fontine. She accepted them gratefully and without so much as looking at Victor, she proceeded to break a capsule, fill the hypodermic, and insert the needle into her left arm.
She carefully repacked the kit and shoved it into the pocket of her bloodstained coat. She leaned back and breathed deeply.
“Feel better?” asked Fontine.
She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were calmer now, only contempt showing in them. “You understand, Captain. I don’t feel. There are no feelings. One just goes on living.”
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