by Matt Killeen
The Captain looked over his shoulder and leaned in.
“Bofinger—”
“No. How do we,” she interrupted, wagging a finger between them. “How do we proceed? What can I rely on you to do?” Again, it sounded like an attack. “I mean, what are you physically capable of? Do I need to care for you?”
“You don’t need to do anything,” he said flatly.
“No, don’t be mysterious or enigmatic,” she snapped. “I want to know what we can reasonably do.”
“I’m still in withdrawal. I can’t hold a gun straight. I cannot lift anything or run.”
“You can walk?”
“Just about.”
Sarah closed her eyes and screwed up her face, before becoming aware she was echoing Lisbeth’s expression.
“Fine. Now we can talk about the mission.”
“They’re looking for a ship to Germany,” the Captain began. “They haven’t found one yet, but they might get to Vichy-controlled West Africa. Spanish territory probably means internment.”
“Their blood samples last just two weeks, according to Clementine. Bofinger can’t have anything left to use, can he?” Sarah asked.
“He’s acting as if he has. It’s possible he has nothing, but thinks I can still get him home. And they can’t stay. The Free French are coming, and any German citizens will, no doubt, be locked up. Certainly their work would be over.”
“So if they have nothing . . . Canaris sent us to stop their work, right? So all we need to do is to make sure they’re here when the Free French arrive?”
“I suppose. Means we fail to uncover the American connection . . .” he thought out loud. Sarah shook her head and shrugged. He continued. “But I want to know for sure what they still have, what they might smuggle out. You’ve formed a bond with Dr. Fischer. It’s probably down to you.”
Sarah felt a tension, a conflict in that request. Like she would be being disloyal to use the . . . relationship, friendship . . . call it what you will.
Whose side are you on?
Not Bofinger’s.
“She wouldn’t have anything to do with that,” Sarah said softly.
“I’m sure she’d be uncomfortable, but her father has no such scruples.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sarah said. She looked at her hands in her lap and fidgeted, rubbing them together like she was washing. “Did it ever occur to you, how . . . what might happen . . . when . . . a little girl in your employment stopped being a girl?”
“You’re still a brilliant diversion. When you keep your mouth shut, people still underestimate you—”
“That’s not what I meant. When I’m no longer a girl—”
The questions came from a raw, vulnerable place that Sarah could not hold open for much longer. Step up. Be a parent. Please.
“You’ll be a different kind of spy, that’s all,” interrupted the Captain.
“That’s not—” Sarah stopped and sat back. “Did you have a sister?”
“No.”
“Have you . . . lived with a woman?”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” he said testily.
“No, obviously not.”
TWENTY-NINE
November 8, 1940
IF YOU WERE French, wherever in the world you were, the capitulation of their army left you with two choices—to get on with life as an ally of Germany under Vichy, or gamble everything for a piece of self-respect. In l’Afrique Équatoriale Française, where no foreign troops walked the streets, the decision had been about trade and an excuse to settle old scores.
Now that the Free French army was coming for Vichy-controlled Gabon and its ports, the civil war was a real, tangible thing. Paranoia consumed Libreville. Everyone accused one another of being a traitor, and fingers were being pointed across dinner tables and desks. People were reconsidering hasty words, or making a hasty exit.
The rain didn’t stop. It just kept falling, trapping everyone in the hotel, just as the approaching army was trapping people in town. In this atmosphere of humid, saturated anxiety, Bofinger decided to host a dinner at the hotel and invite the great and good of Libreville. The great and good of Libreville were much too preoccupied to consider attending but were polite enough to ensure that the vaguely substantial and average attended on their behalf.
There were three ship captains present, and Sarah presumed they were the real guests of honor. One was almost comatose drunk and another, an unshaven Liberian with only the vaguest grasp of French, seemed happy just to be there. He nodded and smiled and said yes to everything.
It was stuffy and unpleasant, like being under a warm, wet blanket and unable to emerge for air. Sarah marveled at the staff who, like the guests, were in the most formal of garb and gloves, yet couldn’t fan themselves or loosen their collars.
Clementine had not been invited, despite Sarah’s efforts, and this had drawn the deepest scowl of their journey so far. But Sarah was actually the tiniest bit grateful for her absence, as it meant she could concentrate on Lisbeth, a relationship about which Clementine had been showing signs of faint disapproval, or even jealousy. For days Sarah had tried to turn conversations with Lisbeth to the disease, to the existence of samples, to the American friends, to anything truly useful—and failed. She feared risking the friendship, losing the closeness.
Now Sarah was standing in Lisbeth’s borrowed cream evening dress, her hair shining in what Lisbeth had called loosely brushed pin curls and a small pompadour. She also had newly applied makeup and was beginning to regret that choice, as the Captain entered the room.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
“Something more suitable to a woman of my age,” Sarah said icily.
“A woman of twenty years ago,” he grunted. “And you’re only fifteen. I’m not sure this works.”
“What does a sixteen year old look like, Captain Floyd? Do you know?”
The Captain opened his mouth, but they were interrupted by Lisbeth approaching.
“There’s my little star,” she cooed. Lisbeth was wearing a new brown silk dress with a more contemporary cut, something acquired at a knockdown rate from a fleeing supporter of Vichy. It seemed to elevate her presence to another level. “What do you think of your niece now, Herr Haller?”
“I think we’re Émile et Élodie Poulain from now on, Dr. Fischer.”
“Makes sense, I suppose. And who would Émile be supporting in the current crisis?”
“Whoever promised me the most money,” the Captain said.
Lisbeth laughed, then waggled a finger at the rest of the room. “You and every other bastard here.”
“That’s rather ill advised, isn’t it?” The Captain motioned to the Kaiser’s war flag that Bofinger had hung above the head table. “No chance of pretending you’re Swiss now.”
“No papers anyway.” Lisbeth shrugged. “Lieutenant La Roux won’t be returning them while we’re in Vichy territory.”
Sarah and the Captain exchanged glances.
“No, probably not a good idea.” She sighed. “But that could apply to any number of things my father insists on.”
“There may be people here who won’t take kindly to it,” he said gently. “People who fought the Boche.”
“Oh, please, some of the people here are apparently happy to live under German protection now if it means they can sell their wood and rubber. Bring on those hypocrites.”
“Any sign of an outbreak in Gabon?” the Captain inquired.
“Not that I’ve heard, but rumors persist about the Congo side. If de Gaulle isn’t careful, he’ll end up in charge of the world’s biggest mortuary.” A waiter appeared with a tray of glasses. “Oh, wine, I’ve missed you.” Lisbeth turned to Sarah. “Do have a drink, Liebchen—”
“No,” Sarah almost snapped, before adding more gently, “No, thank you.�
�� She smiled, shaking her head.
Lisbeth shrugged. “French girls drink wine . . . Think of your cover.”
Even the smell of the wine made Sarah want to flee.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she managed.
The moment was broken by an announcement.
“Madames et Monsieurs, dinner is served.”
* * *
The formality of the dinner was the same as at Bofinger’s camp, although Sarah noticed empty seats that she guessed the professor would find excruciating. However, the fare was infinitely better. This piece of Gabon believed itself French, and the food reflected the metropole and not the colonial possession.
After two weeks of illness and recovery, Sarah was ravenous. She couldn’t get enough food in her mouth, even if she found that most things tasted of lipstick.
There was an array of shellfish, mackerel, and anchovies, seasoned to perfection, with the scent of a clean sea. Next to this a pot of shredded pork, rillettes, that was not a paté or a meat paste or purée, yet it felt as if it was all those things and more. The vegetables were crisper, and the red-and-gold sauce for the mushrooms more enticing than anything Sarah had eaten in months, lighting tiny shimmers of satisfaction from her tongue down to her stomach.
There was more soup than could be eaten, a thin vegetable concoction with butter, cream, herbs, garlic, and particles of mushroom that seemed lusciously thick on the tongue. Sarah found herself unable to eat it delicately and allowed it to run down her chin, ruining her makeup.
Then la bouillabaisse appeared, with slices of Atlantic fish boiled in fennel, bay, garlic, and sumptuous saffron, served with broth-soaked breads that dissolved in the mouth. By the time the plat principal arrived Sarah was full and could do no more than pick at the salad.
Sarah wondered how a nation that gave food this amount of attention and spent so long preparing it had found time to invade and occupy anyone else’s.
Slavery, thought Sarah idly, ruining her appetite altogether. Bofinger put down his cutlery noisily and addressed those nearest to him.
“So, Haller, I’m hoping you’re in better health now? ‘Malaria’ is terrible, isn’t it?” Bofinger gave a knowing smile that made Sarah want to hurt him. “But let’s get back to business. You came to me offering a safe passage back to Germany? Well, now is the time to deliver.”
The Captain shifted in his seat. “The time to go was several weeks ago, when I could indeed have arranged it. As it is, I’m trying to get you passage to Casablanca or somewhere we can organize—”
“I thought as much. If I were that important to the Reich, you’d think someone would be here with an airplane or a naval vessel, in order to take all my work . . .” He looked at Lisbeth. “Our work,” he sneered. “Back to the Fatherland. But they sent you and this little girl instead. Why is that?”
“The political situation here was, and still is, chaotic. Can you imagine what would happen if a Kriegsmarine vessel were to steam into the harbor of a Free French port? All based on a rumor we heard in Berlin? You need to trust me now to get you home.”
“Trust you? A Suchtkranker Morphinist and a sickly little Hure—”
“Vater, enough now,” Lisbeth interrupted, slamming her fist into the table. “Herr . . . Monsieur Poulain is doing the best he can for us. There’s no need to be nasty.”
Sarah stared at her plate intently, gripping her water glass so hard she wondered if it would break.
Bofinger looked like he might surrender the point, but then his face hardened.
“Oh, we should be grateful that you’ve got some female company and a face to paint up. You could have stayed in Germany and had a child, you know . . . I didn’t need you here, ordering me around and making me do things. Although you might not have found anyone dich zu ficken, the way you really look—”
Sarah was on her feet before she thought about it, and the water from the glass was in the air before caution or regret could form.
The liquid did not miss Bofinger entirely. It splashed onto his dinner jacket as it hit his empty plate. He flinched in surprise, then he looked amused.
“You shut your mouth,” she growled. Her sweat felt cold on her back, even as her face flushed red and painfully hot.
The room was silent. All eyes in the room were on the exchange.
The Captain placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder and pulled her gently but firmly back into her seat, wincing with the effort. He leaned forward, a darkness in his eyes, and whispered.
“And what exactly am I supposed to be bringing back, Bofinger? News of a disease, one that’s behind enemy lines. What use is that to anyone? If you don’t have something to show me, there’s really no need to help you at all.”
“Is that so?”
The Captain waited until conversations restarted around the table. The drunk ship’s captain seemed to come to life.
“Tensions running high,” he slurred. “Let’s avoid politics, shall we?”
Both Bofinger and the Captain ignored this interjection.
“What do you have? We left that village two weeks ago. How long do your samples last?”
Bofinger leaned forward and tapped his nose. “I have the weapon—”
“Father, no—” Lisbeth cried.
“But who to give it to, that’s the question . . .”
Bofinger looked up, and a wide smile slithered across his face. A loud voice broke across the room.
“I’m so sorry to be late. I know you hate tardiness, Herr Professor.”
Standing at the door, in the dress uniform of the Schutzstaffel, was a beaming Kurt Hasse.
THIRTY
“WHO IS THIS, Father?” Lisbeth demanded in a fierce whisper. “What is going on?”
The professor said nothing, but his sickly, triumphal smile became a smirk.
Even Sarah could see that the uniform had caused a ripple of distaste and resentment among the French. It was bringing home the reality of their new allegiance. As Hasse pushed past the guests to take a seat next to Bofinger, one elderly trader stood, flung his napkin on the table, and walked out.
“Ah, Haller, what a wonderful surprise to see you,” Hasse cried out. “And young Ursula, how delightful. Fancy meeting you here!”
“Indeed. I thought you were going to Abyssinia?” the Captain replied with forced levity.
“Well, you know,” Hasse said with a sigh, settling into his chair. “It turned out I already knew everything there was to know about gassing savages. Besides, some fool shot down my plane!”
He laughed. Not in a drunken or excitable way, it was an aggressive, foghorn-like bark of humorless noise, wearing the coat of laughter. Outside thunder broke and made the shutters rattle.
“That sounds less than ideal,” the Captain managed quietly. “Do you know each other?” He gestured between Hasse and the professor.
“Oh, yes, Haller. Very much,” said Bofinger.
“Father, who is this?” Lisbeth asked again, with an edge of anger that Sarah had not heard before. Bofinger shushed her before continuing.
“In fact, the Obersturmbannführer has proved to be an excellent correspondent and, it turns out, a much better servant of the Fatherland than you are.”
“Well”—the Captain smiled—“it’s not a contest. We’re all serving the same master, aren’t we?”
“Are we now?” Hasse commented and wagged an admonishing finger. “Sometimes I don’t know about you Abwehr types. It seems like you’ve got your own agenda. I think you’ve been dragging your feet just a little bit, like you’re not sure what to do. But now is the time for decisive action.”
Thunder rolled in the distance. The drunk sailor stirred. “Did anyone hear that?” he said.
The others ignored him and carried on.
“I have an aircraft on its way to Libreville right now,” Hasse continued.
“Ready to take the professor and his whole team back to Germany, where the weapon he has developed will be tested and readied for use.”
“Whole team?” Lisbeth cried.
“We don’t have the technology to deliver such a germ weapon, even if it were ready,” the Captain responded.
“Oh, I have a special friend in the Imperial Japanese Army,” Hasse said. “He’s been working on this since 1932. Now that we’re formal military allies, he’ll be quite happy to share all the fruits of his labor.”
“I’m not sure the Führer will welcome a germ weapon,” the Captain said quietly. “And where would you test it?”
Hasse waved a hand dismissively. The wine glass in front of him vibrated, and he looked at it before continuing.
“Oh, the Führer welcomes all Wunderwaffe, as he welcomes anyone who brings him a radical solution to a problem.”
“And what problem is it that requires such a solution?”
Hasse leaned in, as if he was to reveal a confidence. “The Führer is going to insist that we turn our attention to Bolshevik Russia very soon, whether we break the British or not. That’s thousands of miles of land and millions of Untermenschen to get rid of. Herbert Backe has his Hunger Plan—he wants to starve them all to death by taking all their food—but we don’t have time for that. Even if the whole rotten structure comes crashing down when we kick in the door, as our leader is so fond of saying, that will tie up millions of troops for months, years even. This weapon is a gift.”
“So not for the British, then?” the Captain inquired.
“I wouldn’t want to risk their sense of fair play. You bowl the ball at the batsman and not the wicket, they’re inclined to get upset . . . and both teams have to bat.”
The thunder broke again, louder this time.
“And the Russians will just let you do it?”
“These are not sophisticated people we’re talking about. Slavs with eggs filled with cattle pox. There’s no need for us to concern ourselves on that score.”
Sarah noticed some of the waiting staff—