She hesitated only a few seconds before dropping the gown to the floor, displaying her body with haughty pride. Then she went to him, standing close to him, naked, and began once again to unbutton his tunic.
“You get into the bed, please,” said Kleist.
She did so obediently, moving with studied grace. She lay back on the bed, still posing. “You are a modest man,” she said. “You prefer not to be naked.”
“Yes,” Kleist said shyly. “Also, I prefer to talk a little first, hmm?”
She paused. “You want me to talk dirty to you, is that it?”
“You are a woman who could teach me a good deal, I’ll bet.” He smelled the wet burlap even before he noticed the corner of the burlap sack under the bed. The sack had been used to transport the equipment, Kleist reasoned. That was why it was still damp. Perhaps it had been raining in the countryside. “Ah, the scent of your glorious countryside.”
“Pardon me?”
He reached down to the floor and tugged at the burlap, pulling the neatly folded sack all the way out. “Yes, I can smell the fertile soil of the Loire Valley. The flinty clay, the limestone soil. Touraine, yes?”
She looked instantly fearful, but she quickly masked her terror with a shrug. She reached for him, placing one expert hand on his crotch. “You German soldiers have such large packages,” she murmured. “It is always very exciting for me.”
Kleist’s organ did not respond. He placed a hand on her grasping, kneading claw and lifted it away. “Speaking of packages,” he said. “The fields of Touraine make convenient drop sites for packages, do they not?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I have never been to Touraine—”
“Perhaps not, but your son, René, has, has he not?”
The whore looked as if she had been slapped. She flushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “What do you want from me?”
“Just a little information. You are a woman who knows a thing or two, as I said. I want a name from you.”
She drew herself up, folded her arms around her naked breasts. “Please, go,” she said. “You are mistaken. I am a working woman, that is all I know.”
“You believe you are protecting your only son,” Kleist said softly. “But you are in reality harming him. Him and his wife and his two-year-old son—your grandson. For if you do not tell me what I need to know, they will be shot before the sun comes up. This I can assure you.”
The whore cried out, “What do you want?”
“Just a name,” he said. “The name of the British man who picked up the equipment. And how he is contacted.”
“I don’t know anything!” she said. “They only use my apartment!”
Kleist smiled. She had cracked quite easily. “You have a very simple choice, Mademoiselle. I have no interest in the business of your son. I am interested only in the British man. You will give me the contact information for the British man, and you will save your son and grandson. Or else they will be dead within the hour. This is your choice.”
She told him everything he wanted to know. The information tumbled out of her in a terrified rush.
“Thank you,” Kleist said.
“Now get out of here, Boche!” the whore spat at him. “Get out of my apartment, you filthy Nazi!”
Kleist was not disturbed by the prostitute’s sad attempt at retrieving a scrap of dignity. She had told him everything, after all. That was not what bothered him. No, it was the certainty that she would tell her son about the visit from the SD officer. The word might get to the British man before he could be picked up, and that wouldn’t do at all.
He leaned over her, stroking her breasts, her shoulders. “You really mustn’t talk that way,” he said quietly. “We’re not as bad as all that.”
She stiffened at his touch, turning her head away. She did not see the flash of the catgut E string as Kleist whipped it from his pocket, gripping it like a garrote. When she felt it tighten against her throat, however, she attempted to scream, but no sound emerged. Mixed with the coniferous aroma of the violin string’s rosin, Kleist could smell, within a few seconds, the cloacal discharge. Sometimes his extraordinary olfactory sensitivity was a burden. When she was dead, he removed the gut string and put it back in his pocket.
Then, after washing his hands fastidiously to remove the stench, he left the whore’s apartment.
Chapter Five
There was, as Corcoran had so urgently insisted, no time to lose. There was a Soviet visa to arrange. This he could do in Paris, at the Soviet consulate on the boulevard Lannes. The German occupiers of Paris were partners with the Russians now; Moscow would be cooperative. More important, Metcalfe’s family still did a small but consistent business with the Soviet government. So the Metcalfes would be considered VIPs in Moscow. He’d be granted a visa without a problem, he was sure.
But he’d have to contact his brother, Howard, in New York. Since Howard was in charge of the family business operations, it would have to be he who made arrangements with the Soviet government to send his brother over. Howard would no doubt be surprised at his younger brother’s request. He knew that Stephen was now working for the government, in some undercover capacity, but for reasons of security he hadn’t been told much more than that.
By the time Metcalfe left the Cave, the bar upstairs had quieted down. A few people remained at the bar, the more subdued sort of drunks who sat by themselves and medicated themselves into a stupefied, quiet oblivion. Only the bartender, Pasquale, noticed him coming up. Pasquale was bent over an abacus and a stack of receipts, tallying the evening’s business. He looked up when he heard Metcalfe’s footsteps, gave him a wink. Pasquale made a quick gesture—finger and thumb together at his lips, pantomiming a smoke—and Metcalfe nodded. The bartender hadn’t forgotten about the cigarettes he so desired, and wordlessly Metcalfe had indicated he hadn’t forgotten, either. Metcalfe patted the bartender’s arm as he passed wordlessly through the bar and out onto the street.
He glanced at his watch: a little after one in the morning.
At this time of night, the streets of Paris were deserted. Metcalfe was weary and could use a good night’s sleep, but at the same time the meeting with Corky had energized him, pumped him full of adrenaline. No matter how much he needed his rest, he couldn’t possibly sleep now.
It was late, certainly, but was it too late? There was a woman he knew: one of his most important sources, in fact. She was a code clerk . . . a night owl, she liked to stay up late, even though she was required to be at her desk by nine o’clock in the morning.
She’d welcome his presence no matter what time of night; hadn’t she often said so? Well, a visit at this time of night would certainly put that to the test.
Flora Spinasse was a rather plain woman indeed, but a dear woman: a bit mousy and reticent at first, yet when she began to open up, she became playful, then passionate. Before the German occupation five months ago, she’d been a code clerk at the Direction Générale de la Sûreté Nationale, the French office of national security. When the Nazis moved in, the Gestapo seized control of the Sûreté, and the Sûreté headquarters, at 11 rue des Saussaies, just around the corner from the Palais de l’Élysée, became Gestapo headquarters. After a purge of those deemed unreliable, la Gestapo kept as many of the French-speaking employees as they could, since they were short on French speakers. Most of the secretaries and file clerks remained. The Frenchwomen didn’t like their new bosses, but those who stayed were smart enough to keep their mouths shut and keep their jobs.
But they all had their personal lives, their family backgrounds, and Flora Spinasse had her own little tragedy. Her beloved grandmother had died when the Nazis invaded. The nurses at the Paris hospital where her grandmother had been at the time had been in a hurry to escape Paris, and some of their patients had been too ill to move. Those—including Flora’s adored grandmère—were administered fatal injections. Flora had grieved in silence, but her anger at what the Naz
is had done to Paris, and in effect to her grandmother, continued to burn deep inside.
Stephen knew all this about Flora—Corky’s network had done its prep work, collating hospital records with lists of employees at sensitive offices throughout Paris—even before he “happened” to meet her at the Parc Monceau. She was flattered and embarrassed by the attentions of this handsome, rich Argentine, and they both found themselves joking about the stupid, freshly painted German signs that had suddenly been put up all over the park: RASEN NICHT TRETEN—keep off the grass. Before the Germans moved in, you could picnic anywhere in the Parc Monceau. But now? It was so . . . so German!
The Nazi-imposed curfew was midnight, so anyone with an ounce of brains in their heads was at home or at least inside somewhere and not walking around. Violation of the curfew could mean a night in jail. Curfew violators were sometimes made to polish German soldiers’ shoes all night or peel potatoes in the military kitchens.
It was a long walk to Flora’s apartment on the rue de la Boétie. He had left his powerful old Hispano-Suiza near his own apartment, on the rue de Rivoli. Just as well: if he’d driven to the party, he’d have had to abandon it near the avenue Foch anyway. He heard the throaty rumble of an automobile. A black Citroën—a Gestapo car, for sure—roared by. But its occupants were too busy to stop and harass the lone pedestrian who should have been at home, not wandering about.
The night had gotten colder, the wind gusty. Metcalfe felt his ears, his fingers, go numb. He half-wished he’d gotten his topcoat before he left the party, then realized that was impossible.
A minute or so later, a Black Maria passed by—a panier à salade, the French called it, a salad basket—bearing prisoners. Metcalfe felt a twinge of paranoia, then remembered that most of the vehicles out this late at night were Nazi ones. Spotting a telephone booth, he crossed the street. As he approached the booth, noticing the sign the Germans had posted on the glass, thoughtfully in French—ACCES INTERDIT AUX JUIFS, Jews not allowed—he heard a shout, and footsteps coming his way.
“Hey! You! Arrêt!”
Metcalfe glanced up casually, saw a flic, a French cop, running toward him. He kept going toward the booth.
“Hey! You! Let me see your papers.” The policeman was in his early twenties and didn’t look like he shaved yet.
Metcalfe shrugged, smiled pleasantly, and handed him a carte d’identité in the name of Daniel Eigen, issued by the Préfecture de Police. The Frenchman looked it over suspiciously. When he realized he’d stopped a foreigner, he straightened visibly.
“The curfew is midnight,” the young man scolded. “You’re not allowed to be out; you know that.”
Metcalfe pointed backhandedly at his dinner jacket, gave a crooked smile. I’m a lousy drunk, a reprobate, he implied by his stance, his rueful grin. He was grateful he hadn’t had time to change into street clothes. His tuxedo was a good alibi, a kind of proof that his reason for violating the curfew was fairly innocent.
“No excuse,” the flic snapped priggishly. “The curfew hours are posted everywhere. You are in violation. I’m going to have to keep this, and you’re going to have to come in to the station for questioning.”
Oh, great, Metcalfe groaned inwardly. Just my luck. He’d been stopped for curfew violations countless times since the rules had gone into effect, but never had he been taken in. This was trouble. He was reasonably certain his forged papers would withstand close scrutiny, and he certainly had plenty of people of influence who’d vouch for him. Hell, he could call any number of powerful friends in Paris who could get him released in an instant. But that was only if he got to that point. If this fellow dug too deep into his records . . . Metcalfe couldn’t be sure how thorough the backstopping had been, how many layers of validating records existed to back up the Daniel Eigen identity. He might not withstand an interrogation. . . .
The best weapon against an authority figure was authority, Metcalfe knew. Rule number one, Corky had often told him, when challenged by authority, you must always lay claim to a greater authority. If you learn nothing else from me, learn this.
He drew closer to the policeman, scowling. “What’s your number?” he said in French. “Come on; let’s have it. When Didier hears about you, he’s going to go apoplectic.”
“Didier?” the young cop said suspiciously, his brow furrowed.
“I suppose you don’t even know the name of your own boss, Didier Brassin, the chief of the Préfecture de Police,” replied Metcalfe, shaking his head in disbelief and taking out the velvet pouch of cigars from his breast pocket. “And when Didier hears that one of his own men—a mere patrolman—attempted to prevent the delivery of these Romeo y Julietas to his home on the Quai des Orfèvres, cigars needed for an urgent late-night meeting, you will be out of a job. And that’s if Didier’s in good spirits. Now, your number, please.”
The cop stepped back a bit. His expression was transformed: now he was genial, wreathed in smiles. “Please, sir—don’t take offense. Go on, sir. My apologies!”
Metcalfe shook his head as he turned and walked away. “Don’t let it happen again,” he said.
“Of course not, sir. It was entirely a mistake!”
Metcalfe strode on past the phone booth, deciding against stopping to place a call. He would just show up at Flora Spinasse’s flat unannounced.
Her apartment house on the rue de la Boétie was shabby and in poor repair. The little foyer, like all the walls in the building, was painted a hideous mustard-yellow, and the paint was peeling. He let himself in—she’d given him a key to the front door—and took the self-service elevator to the fifth floor. He knocked on her door, using their secret code: three quick raps followed by two. A dog yapped somewhere inside. It was a long while before the door opened. Flora gasped when she saw him.
“Daniel!” she said. “Why are you here? What time is it?” She was dressed in her long cotton nightgown, her hair in curlers. Her poodle, Fifi, ran in circles at her feet, growling and yapping.
“May I come in, Flora dear?”
“Why are you here? Yes, yes, come in—good heavens! Fifi, down, my little toutou!”
Flora was not looking her best, but then, few did at this hour of the morning. She was embarrassed; her hands fluttered up to her curlers, then down to her nightgown, not knowing what to conceal first. She shut the door quickly behind him. “Daniel!” she said again, but he kissed her at once, on the mouth, and she kissed him back with growing urgency.
“Is everything all right with you?” she said at last when they had pulled apart.
“I had to see you,” Metcalfe said.
“But . . . but Daniel, you should have called me first! You know that! You can’t simply show up unannounced at a woman’s flat, when she is unprepared!”
“Flora, you don’t need preparation. You don’t need to paint your face. You look loveliest in your natural state, I’ve told you that.”
She blushed. “You must be in trouble, that’s all there is to it.”
He looked around her tiny, forlorn apartment. Her windows were draped in black satinette for the blaqueoute, the blackout. There was even a blue shade on the standing lamp in the corner of the living room. Flora was a young woman who did everything by the book, observed all the rules. Her greatest transgression was her dalliance with a foreigner—and the information she provided him. It was the single act of naughtiness in a life of orderliness and respectability. And it was no small violation.
But then, it was always the plain women, Metcalfe had learned, who made the best agents. They were paid less attention, assumed to be dutiful and hardworking. While secretly deep in their hearts lurked the spirit of rebellion. In the same way, it was always the plainer girls who were the most ardent, most inexhaustible lovers. The beautiful girls like Geneviève, vain and self-absorbed, tended to be far more nervous and self-aware in bed. Whereas Flora, who was no beauty queen, had a voracious appetite for sex. Metcalfe sometimes found her demands exhausting.
No, Flor
a was happy to see him anytime. That he was sure of.
“It’s ice-cold in here, darling,” he said. “How can you sleep?”
“I have just enough coal to heat this one room for a few minutes a day. I save it for the mornings. I’m used to sleeping in the cold.”
“I think you need a warm body next to you in the bed.”
“Daniel!” she said, shocked but pleased.
He kissed her again, a quick, affectionate peck. Fifi the poodle had settled down on the threadbare rug near the couch and was watching the two with interest.
“I think you should get me some extra coal,” Flora said. “You can do that, I know you can. Look at what I have to burn.” She motioned toward her fireplace, in which were half-burned balls of paper pulp, made from newspapers and cardboard boxes, even books, soaked in water until they turned back into pulp, then molded into balls. All over Paris the French were burning these paper balls for heat, since hardly anyone had enough coal anymore. Often they burned their own furniture. “My friend Marie is lucky—a Gestapo agent moved into her building. Now the whole building gets enough coal to keep everyone warm.”
“You shall get your coal, my pet.”
“What time is it? It must be two in the morning. And I have to work tomorrow morning—no, this morning!”
“My apologies for disturbing you, Flora, but it’s important. If you’d rather I leave—”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “So I will be a wreck tomorrow at work, and the gray mice will make fun of me.” That was what everyone called the Nazi women auxiliaries of the Gestapo, the Blitzmädchen, who wore gray uniforms and seemed to be everywhere. “I wish I had some real tea to give you. Can I offer you some Viandox?” Metcalfe was heartily sick of Viandox, a kind of beef tea made of some mysterious meat extract, which was served all over Paris. Some people made a whole meal, these days, of a cup of Viandox and some crackers.
“No, thanks, I don’t need anything.”
“I’m sure you can get me some real tea, and you must get me some at once.”
The Tristan Betrayal Page 6