“Like picking a pocket or cheating at cards,” quipped Kramer.
“Whatever . . . But afterward something must have gone sour and he saw the resurrection of his old Trinity identity as a way to cover his tracks.”
“Actually,” said Kramer, a sly gleam creeping into his eyes, “if we could pull this off, it could prove quite to our advantage. What a boon to have an inside man in Paris!”
“You’re a crass opportunist,” grunted Atkinson with disgust. “You’d be asking him to walk a dangerous tightrope. If we can clear him with the Germans, I want him pulled out of France at the first opportunity.”
“Sure, Ray, sure.”
But as he said the words, Kramer’s tone was not at all convincing. The gleam was still in his eye. I knew Logan was made for this business when I brought him in, he thought to himself.
38
An Elite Soirée
Logan was reading his third back issue of The Signal, France’s collaborationist magazine. It was revolting fare, but since he was forced to play the part of a Nazi, it could do no harm to keep abreast of the latest propaganda.
Neumann had provided the reading material to keep Logan amused during his enforced stay at S.S. headquarters. Technically, so he was told, Logan was not a prisoner. But the room remained faithfully locked nevertheless. He had not laid eyes on von Graff since they had parted late yesterday morning. He did not know if Gunther had been contacted, but he assumed that since his status had not changed, he must still be in limbo. There was a good chance they had not been able to reach him yet, but if they had, he hoped Gunther was quick on his feet.
It was only a matter of time before the jig was up, however, if he didn’t succeed in getting word to somebody on the outside. But how could he get a message to Henri? By now they probably assumed him captured and would have already begun to break up the network. The rule for a captured agent was to make every effort to give his comrades forty-eight hours to disband before breaking down. It had now been well over thirty. But even if La Librairie still were intact, how could he get word to them from this prison?
The real question, however, echoed in Logan’s mind: Will Gunther have enough wits about him to give me the kind of support I need? Gunther had never respected Logan or been friendly toward him. But just good sense ought to tell him that more was at stake than Logan’s life. In the Abwehr’s eyes, Gunther was Logan’s mentor. If Logan became discredited, Gunther could be blown as well.
The uncertain waiting was hardest of all to bear. If only he could be sure of his status so he would know how to play himself. Then he might formulate some plans. If he was blown, then he ought to be thinking about an escape. If by some miracle they had bought his story, he should be thinking more definitely how to use it to his advantage.
What wouldn’t he be able to do for the Resistance effort from inside the S.S.! He grinned to himself. What a coup that would be!
Absently his eyes turned to the magazine lying in his lap. Suddenly the grin on his face faded. There on the page was a grotesque drawing of a hideous ghoul digging his fingernails into the world globe. Underneath read the caption, “Le Juif et la France.” The accompanying article raved about evil Jewish global intentions, accusing the Jews of having started the war, and rallying the French people to take strong and determined action against this dangerous threat.
Logan’s mind turned to the honorable Poletski. He had brought with him reports of dire atrocities committed against Polish Jews by the Germans. Thousands had disappeared without a trace. He had used a term unfamilar to Logan. Surely Poletski is an alarmist, he thought at first. Yet how could a man exaggerate unless he had seen something with his own eyes to start the tale growing?
Logan shook his head. The article and the thought of Poletski reminded him what a deadly business this was. Too often he tended to think of it as a mere lark. He was glad for the sobering look at the article.
“Lord,” he prayed, not caring that he hadn’t offered a prayer in months, “let me make it through this. Let me have this victory. I’ll do anything just to be allowed one more crack at helping to defeat these evil Nazis!”
At that moment a knock on the door interrupted him.
When Captain Neumann entered, he made no mention of communication with London. Logan could hardly ask, thus risking the appearance of being too anxious. Yet by Neumann’s polite demeanor, it seemed that his cover was probably still holding up. And he also might have read a positive message in Neumann’s greeting.
“Heil Hitler!” said the captain with the customary salute.
Caught off guard, Logan gaped silently for a moment until it dawned on him that he was meant to return the blasphemous greeting. Cringing inside he forced out the words.
“Heil Hitler,” he said with nominal enthusiasm, raising his arm partially in salute. He pretended to have just been awakened from a brief nap, and Neumann appeared satisfied.
Neumann addressed Logan in French, either because he knew no English or von Graff had not informed him of the “guest’s” true nationality.
“The general,” began Neumann, “wishes you to accompany him to a function this evening.”
“A function?”
“Yes. A birthday party for a local personage.” Neumann held out his arm, over which were draped several items of clothing. “The general sent this evening attire for you to wear.” He laid the items over the back of a chair. “He hopes the fit is correct.”
“I’m sure it will be,” said Logan, strolling to the chair and fingering the fine fabric.
“I will return for you in an hour, then.”
Logan nodded.
Neumann departed, locking the door obediently behind him. Logan went to the adjoining bathroom to wash, then changed into the black tuxedo.
As he stood before the mirror combing his hair, Logan was suddenly reminded of another tuxedo he had worn many years ago. At first it seemed completely incongruous that such a memory should assail him at this particular moment. But he had been playing a part then too—until the drive home, that is.
Coming home from the party in the rain that morning had been magical. He and Allison had muddied themselves in the rain and rising floodwaters, and in the process had become friends and put their incessant feuding behind them. At the moment he had seen beyond her hard veneer and had glimpsed instead into the heart of a vibrant, loving young woman. He had come to discover both vulnerability and tenderness there, and had determined to know more of that side of Allison MacNeil. Now, so far removed from everything but such sweet memories, it seemed inconceivable that they could be separated by such vast distances, distances not measured only in miles. Where had they gone wrong? What, or who, was to blame? Was it really over between them?
That morning in the pouring rain everything had seemed so right. If only they could go back.
But here he was stuck in Nazi headquarters, so up to his neck in deceit that he wondered if there would ever be a way out. With every twist he only got in deeper. What would Allison think of him going to a Nazi birthday party! Her doubts and misgivings about him certainly appeared well-founded now. No matter how much he told himself that his actions were justifiably necessary in order to counter the evil of the enemy, there were times when he could begin to understand her confusion. He got confused at times himself. What worried him most was that he did this kind of thing so well. He was, he had to admit, a born con man. He enjoyed it! Yes, he had winced at the “Heil Hitler.” But he had done it, and convincingly. And tonight he could attend the party and be the best Nazi there!
Why? Because his life depended on it. But there was more to it than that, and he knew it. And there was more to it than his revulsion toward the Nazis. He could play out the charade with his best flair and style because it was a challenge. Even if this double life was confusing with all its gray areas, he still had to admit that he loved the challenge.
That’s what he had been searching for all those years in London. That’s what Allison had never
been able to understand. And the real irony was that probably on that rainy day in Scotland ten years ago, Allison had been a kind of challenge too.
How about that, Allison? he thought. Maybe you’re right about me. What a chump I really am. I suppose I deserve all this Nazi company!
By the time Neumann arrived for him, Logan was ready to throw himself into this latest ruse. He did not let his thoughts probe any deeper into his motives for now. Whether self-serving or noble, what did it matter now anyway? He had no choice but to go through with it.
———
Logan was driven to a stately townhouse a few miles outside Paris in the fashionable suburb of Neuilly. The moment he entered the villa, he was immediately struck with the display of wealth all about him, a stark contrast to his four months among the deprivation and poverty of wartime Paris. What he saw could best be described as a spectacle, a grand effort to prove that “gay Paree” had survived the coming of the new regime. All the men were in full black-tie dress—no frayed and mended old models, but perfectly new and stylish suits and tuxedos. The German soldiers present were in their finest dress uniforms, the officers loaded down with decorations from this and the last war. The women were outfitted in the latest Paris fashions, bedecked with mink and jewels. The effect was dazzling, combined as it was with the light from three huge crystal chandeliers.
What drew Logan’s eyes most, however, was the long refreshment tables laid out with platters of roast pheasant, duck, and beef and finished off with bowls of caviar and dozens of other rich dishes—all complimented with the finest French champagne. And to think his friends in some of the poorest sections of Paris were living on bread and cheese and turnips!
“I trust you are well rested,” said General von Graff, walking up suddenly behind him and greeting him.
“Very,” replied Logan, “enforced though it was.”
“Please, I hope you are not one to hold grudges.” Von Graff paused to respond to the friendly greeting of a passerby. “Let this evening be as a way of a peace offering.”
“I must say, you Germans know how to throw a soirée.”
Von Graff laughed dryly as if Logan’s statement had been intended as a joke. “Your host actually is a Frenchman, and the guest of honor also—Baron de Beauvoir.”
Logan restrained a reaction to the name de Beauvoir. He knew it must be Jean Pierre’s brother. But before he had time to think through the implications further, von Graff spoke up again.
“I shall introduce you if you wish. However, for the present I would like to keep your British origins under wraps.”
“I should think it would be quite a feat for you to introduce a British convert to your friends.”
“Perhaps; but if you’ll indulge me this evening,” said the general, adding cryptically, “It may be more advantageous to keep it quiet for now.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Apparently your French is quite good. So I thought I would say you are a merchant from Casablanca, Monsieur Dansette.”
Logan nodded his consent, though inwardly balking at yet another identity to keep straight.
They approached a small knot of people and von Graff introduced Logan. Common pleasantries were exchanged and soon the conversation turned into the inevitable current of war news. But Logan’s attention had wandered, finally arrested by a familiar face across the room. The man at whom he found himself staring stood holding a glass of champagne and engaged in animated conversation with a uniformed German and two ladies. Except for his clerical garb, he seemed quite in keeping with the events of the evening and perfectly comfortable with this upper-class crowd. With his tall, graceful form and handsome, distinguished features, Logan could easily see him as he once must have been—the society playboy. Logan wondered what had happened to lead him into the priesthood. But his musings were suddenly interrupted.
“I see you have noticed our resident cleric,” said von Graff with a cynical edge to his voice.
Logan hadn’t realized he had been staring so intently nor that it had been noticeable, something he would have wished to avoid. He jerked his eyes away, berating himself for his carelessness, but making the most of his indiscretion.
“Yes,” he replied. “He’s rather out of place here, isn’t he?”
“He is, but not because of his collar or cassock.”
“How cryptic of you, General,” chuckled Logan. “Why, my imagination soars with the possibilities inherent in such a statement.”
“The good priest is a member of the Resistance,” elaborated von Graff. However, he did not join in Logan’s amusement.
“You must be jesting!” exclaimed Logan, appearing genuinely surprised with such a far-fetched statement.
“But it is true.”
“Why isn’t he in chains?” asked Logan. “Or do you make it a policy to invite the Resistance to your soirées?”
“It is only a matter of time before Monsignor de Beauvoir will have his prison quarters.”
“De Beauvoir?”
“He is our host’s brother.”
“Ah . . . I see,” said Logan, nodding his head. “How intriguing. Blue blood blinds the Nazis to a man’s affiliations.”
“Nothing of the sort!” snapped von Graff. “I’d put him in irons this instant if I could get some concrete evidence against him. He’s a thorn in our flesh. And look at him! He shows up at these gatherings as if to flaunt his impervious position, and no doubt to gather what intelligence he can for his Resistance friends.”
“A crafty devil . . . for a holy man,” said Logan admiringly.
“Even Satan fell from grace,” replied von Graff caustically, “as will this priest—sooner or later.”
Logan couldn’t help thinking of the old Genesis dodge he and Skittles used to run in London, and wondering how the scheme might go off in a setting like this. But to von Graff he said, “What about his brother, the baron? Is he also a patriot?”
“Baron de Beauvoir is much too pragmatic for such folly—he’s making far too much money off the Germans to be able to afford patriotism. But regardless, he’d not wish to see his brother shot, if he could help it—which, believe me, he can.”
“Well, General, I’m thoroughly absorbed. Could you manage an introduction?”
“Of course.”
As they approached, Logan was the only one who noticed the brief flicker of consternation that passed across the priest’s face when he saw him at von Graff’s side. But he betrayed no other indication of his surprise at seeing his former colleague in these surroundings.
“Enchanté, Monsieur Dansette,” he said graciously, extending his slim cultured hand to Logan. “How is Casablanca these days? It has been years since I was there.”
“Dirty and crowded as always,” replied Logan. “Paris is a refreshing breath of air by comparison.”
“Yes, even despite our Teutonic guests.”
Von Graff rankled at the slur, but Logan only smiled.
“You are bold, Monsignor,” said Logan.
“Priests and old men can get away with anything,” laughed Jean Pierre.
“But not for long, de Beauvoir,” seethed von Graff. “Not for long . . .”
“Oh, General,” countered the priest good-naturedly, “I hope your contact with the French will, if nothing else, serve to improve the dour German sense of humor. Or should I say lack of it?” He paused, took a breath, and began again in a new vein. “And your manners, too. Look, poor Monsieur Dansette, a guest to our country and to my brother’s home, and he does not even have a glass of champagne in his hand. Nor, I suppose,” he added, turning toward Logan, “have you partaken of the fine table my brother sets?”
“As a matter of fact I have not,” replied Logan, more interested, however, in what might be in store for him at this gathering other than food. “I did only just arrive, though,” he added.
“Then come along, let me be your guide.”
“You need not trouble yourself, Monsignor,” put in von Graff.
“I will see to Monsieur Dansette’s comfort.”
“I insist,” said Jean Pierre, taking Logan’s arm. “I’m sure it has been a long enough time since Monsieur Dansette has been treated to true Parisian hospitality.”
He whisked Logan away, keeping up a stream of trivial chatter until they reached the table. There was no one close-by, but as he spoke he retained the light, social timber to his voice, though lowering its volume, smiling and chuckling at appropriate intervals. Logan responded in kind, as if they were still talking about the weather or the food.
“You don’t know how glad I am to find you here,” said Logan.
“Nor you, how surprised I am to find you,” replied Jean Pierre. “We thought you had been arrested, and here I find you on the arm of an S.S. officer, a general no less—and looking well and fit, I might add.”
“I was arrested,” said Logan, defensiveness creeping into his disguised tone. Despite Jean Pierre’s social tone, he could sense the accusation in his words.
“The Nazis have changed their style, then.”
“How do you mean?”
“Wining and dining their prisoners.”
“It’s a long story and there is not time for it now—”
At that moment a couple strolled up to the priest’s elbow.
“You must try the paté,” said the priest to Logan, slicing off a slab and laying it on the plate Logan had picked up. “It’s delightful. My brother employs the finest culinary staff in Europe.”
“You are most kind,” exaggerated Logan.
“But stay away from the caviar,” rejoined Jean Pierre. “All the skill in the world cannot disguise the fact that it’s not Russian. Alas, for the ravages of war!”
As the couple moved away, Logan took up the previous conversation where it had been interrupted.
“You must get a message to London for me,” he said.
“How can you ask such a thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“What am I to think?” said the priest, a sadness suddenly entering his voice. “You are quite friendly with the Nazis—even a magician could not have performed such a feat in such a short time. You have had previous association with them, that is obvious. Perhaps even in the last four months.”
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