Lucien at that moment had a very hard time accepting Armand’s reasoning on the matter. The image of the detailed pencil rendering of the finished building kept running through his mind. In peacetime it would’ve won an award, maybe even have gotten international recognition.
“Did you know that many people have died because of your architectural masterpiece in Chaville, Monsieur Bernard?”
“No…I didn’t,” answered a shaken Lucien.
“I want to show you something you may find interesting.”
The old man handed Lucien a stack of snapshots. He had a hard time making out the images in the darkness of the car.
“Here, let me help you see,” said the old man, flicking on his lighter and shining it above the photos. “Is that better?”
They were photos of dead bodies in what looked like the desert and alongside a road in the countryside.
“Let me explain. These are dead soldiers in North Africa. Notice the uniforms—Free French. They were strafed by fighter planes with Heinkel engines, which just happen to be made in that beautiful factory of yours in Chaville. And this is a picture of some French civilians who were strafed near the Swiss border, trying to get across. Guess where the engines on those planes came from?”
Lucien sat there in silence, looking out the window.
“Let me stop the car, and I’ll kill him,” the passenger said. “I know a great place to dump the body out here.”
“I told you to shut up, Remy.”
The snapshots slipped out of Lucien’s hand and onto the floorboard. He continued to look out the window. They were in the countryside somewhere just outside of Paris. As he watched the dark fields and woods whiz by, he began to think about Celeste’s parting words— an architectural Mephistopheles. Someone who sold his soul to the Germans in order to design. To design things that killed his countrymen. Celeste was right; he had crossed the line over to collaboration for the sake of his art. And he knew the old man was right. His Tremblay design could win a hundred prizes, but in the end it was his enemy’s building, not his.
Lucien rehashed in his mind the same old rationale that he had used after his first meeting with the Resistance. He was so desperate for architectural success, he didn’t care who he designed for. The war had come and his career was put on hold; it seemed he might not ever get another commission. To his bitter disappointment, the 1930s hadn’t brought the recognition he craved. He couldn’t get that breakthrough commission that would set him on the path to professional fame. So when Manet offered him the Chaville job, it was the opportunity of a lifetime he had to take.
The devil to whom he’d sold his soul was Herzog, who wasn’t your conventional Nazi devil with horns, a red suit, and a pointed tail. He was a skilled engineer who loved architecture and honestly wanted Lucien to produce great buildings. He wasn’t a barbarian like the rest of them. Herzog had shared his passion for architecture and urged Lucien to design something good because he saw that he had the ability to do it. Designing the two factories proved that he did have talent. But the rationale no longer convinced him as it had before. He realized that he knew what he was doing was wrong.
He wasn’t the least bit scared at this moment—his sense of shame erased all the fear inside him. He reached down and picked up the snapshots and flipped through them again. No soul searching was necessary.
“What do you want me to do?” Lucien asked.
“We have a very limited supply of plastique that British Special Operations have given us, so we have to place it where it will do the most damage,” the old man said. “That’s what you will tell us. But first we’ll need a set of blueprints to understand the layout of the place before we go in. We’ll turn back to Paris and go to your office. Remy will escort you upstairs to get them.”
“And if you run, you get one in the back of the head,” said Remy with a big smile.
“And when are you going to do this?”
“Tonight,” said the old man. “For a couple of hours, there’re only two guards on duty watching the whole place. And you’re coming with us to make sure it’s done right. We have only one shot.”
Lucien didn’t have the energy to protest. He was resigned to his fate.
“All right, monsieur, I’m with you.”
“That’s good. Monsieur Devereaux said you were a true patriot.”
“Devereaux, the architect?”
“A mutual friend of ours. He was the one who suggested your building and said you would know the best way to bring it down. ‘Bernard,’ he said, ‘would gladly sacrifice his building for the good of France.’”
“I bet he did,” said Lucien.
61
“Keep your head down, you goddamn idiot.”
“You know he wants to give us away. You know that, don’t you, Remy?”
“I hope he does, Albert. It’ll give me a good excuse to put one in his brain pan,” whispered Remy into Lucien’s ear.
Remy had been peeking over the top of a pallet of bricks when Lucien decided to take a look at the factory for himself. After all, it was his building. But Remy shoved him back down to the muddy ground. Seconds later, Remy crouched down next to him.
“The guard’s just finished his rounds; he won’t be back inside for another half hour,” Remy said to Albert, treating Lucien as if he were invisible, even though he was sitting between them.
“That’s not enough time to set these charges,” said Lucien.
“I told you to shut your mouth, Monsieur Architect. You’re just here to tell us the best place to set the plastique inside there,” said Albert.
Lucien was indignant; this was no way to talk to a professional man. These guys were just lower-class slum rats from Paris. No education or breeding, and stinking Communists to boot. That was the problem with the war: it had upset the social order.
“Unroll that drawing and show us those columns again,” commanded Remy, who pulled a lighter out of his jacket pocket.
Lucien had the drawing flat on the ground and pointed to the four columns he’d already indicated with a red pencil.
“Just these four columns will bring the whole structure down.”
“I never could read architectural plans, so you’re coming in,” said Remy.
“But Armand said I could wait outside.”
“Would you listen to this jerk, Albert? What a goddamn coward.”
“Some patriot of France. Let’s kill him after the job. We can say the Boche guard did it,” snarled Albert.
“Listen, asshole,” said Remy, grabbing Lucien by his collar. “Armand isn’t here, so I’m running the show, and you’re going in there.”
“All right, all right. I’ll go.” He wriggled out of Remy’s grasp.
“We’re wasting time; we’ve got to get moving,” urged Albert.
“Where’s the best place to enter?” said Remy.
“We can go to the left around those pallets and get through the door on the south side.”
“Is it locked?”
“None of the doors are in yet.”
“All right, get moving,” said Remy, shoving Lucien forward. The three men crawled on their hands and knees around the pallets, which Lucien thought was overly dramatic. They could have stooped over and still not be seen. Albert carried the canvas bag with the plastique, and Remy had the one containing the detonator and the spool of wire. Once inside the plant, Lucien had a hard time getting his bearings; because of the moonless night, it was pitch dark in there. It reminded him of the blackouts in the cinema, where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
“Which way?” hissed Remy, irritated at Lucien’s hesitation.
“Hold on, hold on,” Lucien said as his eyes got used to the dark. “Follow me.”
The two men followed him to the last column at the far edge of the plant.
“Right here,” said Lucien, pointing to the base of the column. Remy expertly placed the charge and set the wire from the spool into the blob of explosive. Luc
ien was greatly impressed with his speed and dexterity.
“Hey, you’re very good at this,” said Lucien.
Remy scowled at him. “What are you? My mother? I don’t need your goddamn seal of approval.”
“Which one next?” demanded Albert.
“We’ll do this in a zigzag pattern,” whispered Lucien. “Two rows over at the opposite end.”
“You’re positive this will bring it down?” asked Remy.
Lucien was insulted by such a question. “I was first in my class in structural engineering. Of course I’m sure.”
They ran the wire across the floor to the next column and set the charge, then went two rows over to the next column and then the next until all four were wired.
Albert kept looking at his watch. “Just five minutes left before he comes back, so move it, goddamn it.”
Lucien was a little surprised that Albert seemed to be losing his nerve. With Remy running the wire off the spool, they made it through the door and out past the pallets just as the wire ran out. Lucien was out of breath, and his left side began to cramp up.
“We’re too close to the building,” Albert said in a panic-stricken voice. That thought had occurred to Lucien as well.
“We’ve got no choice,” said Remy. “When it starts to blow, we run like hell toward the woods.” He quickly fastened the wire to the detonator and cranked the plunger clockwise until it could go no more.
“Here goes,” said Remy as he was about to push the plunger down.
“Wait, this is my building. Let me do it.” Lucien spoke with such authority that Remy, without the slightest bit of protest, handed him the plunger. Lucien figured that since he’d conceived the building, he alone had the right to kill it.
When Lucien pushed the plunger down, he expected an immediate bang, but it took a few seconds for the first explosion to come, then in short intervals came the other three. The columns seemed to rise up and twist in pain. Then they began to crumble, bringing down all the beautiful soaring arches Lucien had so lovingly designed. The reinforced concrete structure in turn pulled down all the brick exterior walls, sending shards of glass to the floor. Instead of running for his life, Lucien stood there mesmerized by the sight of the destruction of his creation. His heart ached at the sight of the huge pile of rubble. It was like sacrificing your own child.
“Come on, you bloody fool,” Remy screamed at Lucien from the woods. He ran back to get Lucien, yanking on his arm and snapping him out of his trance. “That’s all we need is for you to get pinched. You’d squeal your guts out.”
Lucien ran so fast that he passed both Remy and Albert on the way to the woods. When they reached the tree line, all three fell flat on their stomachs and looked back at the pile of rubble.
“You know your engineering, Bernard,” said Albert, thumping Lucien on his back.
“God, what a beautiful sight,” exclaimed Remy. “You know, Monsieur Architect, I’m so pleased with our work, I’ve decided not to kill you.”
62
“I’m sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean to do that.”
Schlegal and Major Hermann Holweig stood over the lifeless body of Aubert, the cabinetmaker. Holweig prodded him with his boot in the hopes that he had just passed out, but the man was stone dead.
“Hermann, I told you to let up on him,” Schlegal said. “He was about to crack. But you kept on beating the hell out of him with that goddamn club of yours.”
“I’m sorry; you did tell me to stop using the club. I should’ve listened,” replied Holweig, dropping his head down in embarrassment.
“Christ, you’ve killed two people with that thing. That’s why I have Voss handle these matters. He never goes overboard like you do. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“It’s just all the bad things that have been happening to me. Losing Helena, then Alain’s murder. I just took it out on the old man,” Holweig said.
In an uncharacteristically compassionate gesture, Schlegal put his hand on Holweig’s shoulder.
“Yes, I’m sorry about your nephew. He was killed and robbed just down the block, in a call box, right?”
“Some French bastard murdered him, just for a few francs in his pocket. If I ever catch that frog, I’ll make him pay a thousand times over for what he did.”
Schlegal lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Your nephew—Alain—didn’t he work for Bernard, the architect?”
Holweig sat down in the chair in the far corner of the room and put his head in his hands.
“He was his right-hand man. A talented boy, right out of college. What a future that kid had before him.”
“So who found him in the call box?”
“He was found the next morning by someone wanting to make a call.”
“So he was killed at night?”
“That’s what the coroner said.”
“So what was he doing around here so late at night? Coming to see you, you think?”
“I’ve no idea. I got a strange telephone call that night. When I answered, nobody was on the other end.”
This last bit of information piqued Schlegal’s interest. He stamped out his cigarette next to Aubert’s body and walked over to Holweig.
“No one was on the other end, you say? And you got the call the same night Alain was killed?”
“Yes, the same night.”
“Do you think it was Alain?”
“I told you there was silence on the other end.”
“Go on home and rest, Hermann; no nightclubs for you tonight. I want you to relax. And don’t worry about Aubert.”
“He was a tough old bird. Imagine snipping off all ten fingers and still not talking,” said Holweig as he stepped over to the body. “You know damn well he was involved in hiding those kikes. To suffer that much pain just for a bunch of filthy Jews. I can’t understand it. I just can’t understand it, Colonel.”
The major walked dejectedly out of the room, leaving Schlegal all alone with the dead body, but he acted as though it wasn’t there. Aubert could have been a rug on the floor. He lit another cigarette and walked over to the window and opened it. It was a cool crisp December afternoon, and the sun was beaming down on the rue des Saussaies, covering the buildings across the street with a warm golden glow of light. Schlegal returned to his desk and mulled over his predicament. He had really expected Aubert to finally talk, to give him some lead to follow up. Now, he was back to square one with Lischka breathing down his neck. He had no choice but to round up more suspects from the building trades and interrogate them. The way this was heading, there sure as hell would be no generalship for him. The whole prospect greatly depressed him, and he stared out the open window in front of him.
A bright glint of light from across the street caught his attention. The afternoon sun had struck something very shiny on the balcony railing almost directly in front of him. Schlegal stood up slowly from his chair. He could plainly see that the double windows, which had their curtains drawn, were slightly apart, and there was a hand resting on the wrought-iron balcony railing. On the hand was an enormous ring that was catching the light. He could just make out a wisp of smoke coming from between the windows. Schlegal’s back stiffened and all of a sudden there was a tightness in his stomach. His eyes widened in disbelief as he saw the hand pull back and the windows close tight. He sat back down and tried to gather his thoughts. His adrenaline started pumping, and a great feeling of elation rose within him. He began to laugh, slapping his sides in glee. Schlegal ran to the doorway and starting shouting orders to whoever was nearby. Officers came racing down the hall to him. Marie, who was mopping the floor, was almost knocked down. They all gathered around Schlegal, who was now waiting in the hallway.
“Voss, I want you to send a detachment of plainclothes men to the streets behind and to the side of number 12 rue des Saussaies. Hold anyone who exits from the front or the rear of the building. Send some men to watch the roof, but keep them out of sight. Ryckel, get
me at least a dozen men and have them wait for me downstairs in the foyer, not outside. They’ll need sledgehammers, axes, pry bars, and hand saws. Now, move!” Schlegal still couldn’t stop laughing. Voss and Ryckel looked at each in astonishment and ran down the hall. Marie was now flat up against the wall to stay out of their way.
“And, Voss, send a man to pick up the architect, Lucien Bernard. If he’s not in his office, then he’s over in Colonel Herzog’s office at the Wehrmacht armaments section. Whatever you do, find him and bring him to me.”
As Schlegal watched Voss tear off, he noticed Marie.
“Marie, you old wench. I’m going to buy you the finest Parisian dress to stuff that beautiful ass of yours in,” said Schlegal as he trotted past her.
“A size twelve will do just fine, Colonel. In cornflower blue, that’s always been my color,” she called out after him. “It goes well with my eyes.”
“You got it,” he yelled over his shoulder.
Marie watched him disappear down the hall, then, with no one in sight, she slipped into the office. Without raising an eyebrow at the sight of Aubert’s dead body, she calmly picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a number, letting the phone ring four times before hanging up. She walked over to the window and stared out at number 12 rue des Saussaies.
63
Schlegal felt an incredible sense of exhilaration as he dashed up the stairs of 12 rue des Saussaies, like he was leading a cavalry charge in those American westerns he’d enjoyed so much before the Fuehrer declared war on the United States and banned their movies. He especially missed the ones with John Wayne.
“Voss, bring up the concierge, then round up all the residents in the lobby,” he yelled down into the stairwell.
A dozen soldiers with submachine guns slung from their shoulders carried an assortment of tools and were right behind Schlegal. They knew what to do. The lock was smashed to bits, then they all rushed in. One man fired a few bursts from his weapon into the walls of the salon. Schlegal walked in behind them, carefully looking around for any sign of his prey.
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