What might the general possibly know? Channing never could come up with any details on the Lisbon meeting—both men were prime intriguers and knew how to keep quiet. And Channing didn’t want to risk spooking any potential leads, so he adopted a wait-and-see posture. Then other priorities occupied his attentions for a while—after all, he still did have a business to operate. The Führer demanded his presence in Berlin for some time, and he could not think of refusing the man whose war was so nicely lining his pocketbook.
But the incident with the Macintyre girl did not cease to churn about in the recesses of his warped brain. He’d followed the society pages enough—and kept his subscription to an Aberdeen paper open for just such a purpose—to keep limited track of the whole brood of them, including that ne’er-do-well husband of hers. He had been troublesome during the whole episode with that fool Ross Sprague. Luckily, it had all turned out satisfactorily in the end. Channing would get to the bottom of this new development at the first opportunity, and then use whatever information he gained to bring down that whole arrogant family.
Getting the Ramsey treasure wasn’t enough. It hadn’t even bothered them that it had been found and lost again so quickly. Confound those people! What could you do against idiots who didn’t even care about money? They were impenetrable, like that spy Gunther! And for all the good that big heavy box had done him, he might as well have left it at the bottom of the drink. It certainly hadn’t improved his fortunes much!
Oh, he had been able to gloat for a time in that small victory. But without her to know he had won, it was a hollow triumph, indeed. And from a monetary standpoint, it was no easy thing turning a profit from a cache of thousand-year-old relics. He’d no doubt have more luck fencing the stuff after the war.
In the meantime, there they sat in their castle on that blasted hill covered with ridiculous and useless heather. They acted as if they were as impregnable as their feudal ancestors. But this German connection—it could be their Waterloo. And even if it meant nothing, he might still be able to parlay it to his own advantage.
First, he’d pump von Graff. The general no longer had any loyalties to the Abwehr. He might be more willing to divulge some of their more minor secrets. Such as, who was this Gunther? What was his connection to MI5? Who were some of his contacts? And what could he possibly have to do with young Allison Macintyre? Was there any chance her husband was involved somehow?
If the general was reluctant to talk, Channing could always utilize his close relationship with the Führer to loosen him up.
The train whistle sounded a shrill note. Channing caught a glimpse of the Marne outside. He would soon be in Paris.
63
A Visit With Henri
A gusty autumn wind accompanied Logan as he walked down the rue de Varennes. He remembered the first time he had made his way down this very street, so confident, so untried. Lise had said that first day they had talked, “You are so naive! But you will learn your lessons soon enough.”
Three months ago in Vouziers he had passed through the graduate school of his brutal underground education. Had it really been that long? It hardly seemed possible! Already three months since he had snuffed out the life of that German, and held his dying brother-in-law in his arms.
After such a hideous experience, how had he managed to continue?
He’d been given the opportunity to go back to London. Atkinson had offered.
But Logan held on. Perhaps it was wrong of him to do so. He knew a part of him had lost heart, and thus the danger of becoming sloppy was even more possible. Not only did it place him in more danger, it endangered the lives of others as well. Now Logan knew beyond a doubt that he did not belong here.
Yet something else kept him. It had to do with his conversation with Atkinson before he came to Paris.
“You lack discipline,” the major had said. “And you lack staying power. According to your record, the only thing you’ve ever done that’s lasted longer than a year is to get married—and now it appears as if that is failing also. . . .”
A year ago Logan had bought into France’s cause. To abandon it now that it had soured for him would be in the act of the old Logan Macintyre—the man who thought nothing of walking out on a marriage the moment it failed to suit his fancy. If I am going to learn the kind of commitment necessary for a marriage, he thought, what better place to start than right here and now? If he ever did make it out of France, and Allison would still have him, she would deserve some assurance. Maybe he needed that, too—needed to know that he had it in him to weather it when life got rough.
So here he was walking again down the rue de Varennes, still in France, still playing his double and triple roles, still helping escapees get safely to Britain. Sometimes he seemed merely to be going through the motions. But he was trying to be faithful to the commitments he had made, yet now looking forward to the day when it would end.
How long would he need to remain to prove his commitment? Logan didn’t know. But he had been praying about it. He had been spending a lot more time in prayer these days. And he felt an assurance that God would direct him, that somehow the Lord would let him know when the time was right.
Logan arrived at the bookstore, opening the door to the familiar clang of the overhead bell. He had been looking forward to this meeting with Henri—there had been too few since he had become Trinity again. He liked the man, and enjoyed their time together whenever circumstances would allow. He had gradually established himself at several bookstores around Paris, so an occasional visit to La Librairie would not be suspicious.
An old gentleman was browsing among the stacks. When Henri entered from the back, both men deliberately down-played their greetings.
“Ah, Monsieur Tanant,” said the shopkeeper politely, “I have the books you ordered in back. I’ll be but a moment; they are still packed.”
“Merci,” replied Logan. “Can I be of assistance?”
“If it is no trouble—the boxes are rather cumbersome.”
They retreated to the back room where, though keeping their voices subdued, they were able to greet one another properly.
“How good it is to see you, Michel!” said Henri, giving Logan an affectionate embrace.
“Likewise, Henri.”
Still in his reflective mood, Logan recalled the day Henri had promised him a peaceful cup of real coffee when the war ended. He longed for the fulfillment of that invitation now more than ever.
Before they could continue, the customer from the front called to Henri.
“Help yourself to some coffee,” said Henri as he ducked out through the curtained doorway.
Logan took a cup from the rack on the wall and poured the coffee. He had just settled himself on one of the crates when he heard the bell sound. He hoped it wasn’t a new visitor. But in a moment Henri reappeared.
“We are alone now, mon ami,” he said, “so we must use the precious time judiciously. Though I would rather chat,” he added with a laugh. “At the very least, I must know—are you well, Michel?” The question held in it more than the mere exchange of pleasantries.
“Yes, Henri,” Logan replied in the earnest tone that was becoming more characteristic of his speech lately. “We survive . . . we must. Have you heard the latest news, that the Boche have moved in to occupy all of France?”
“Oui. Their way of retaliating for the invasion of North Africa. Let them have it. It won’t be theirs for long!”
“True, Henri,” said Logan, thoughtfully sipping his coffee. “But even if the war lasts only another year or two, they can—and will—make those final years ones of living hell for us. Already the execution posters have become a more frequent sight. Arrests are increasing, and I recently heard a rumor that a French militia is to be formed—blokes that will make Arnaud Soustelle look like an angel. These Frenchmen will be able to spy on and ferret out their countrymen like no German ever could. And if they can’t, then the new Family Hostage Law will—”
“Inhuman!” exclaimed Henri
bitterly. “Executing male relatives and condemning females to hard labor if so-called terrorists do not surrender themselves. I do not like to even consider the possibilities for betrayal this brings to the entire underground movement. But, Michel, what are you getting at?”
“Just because the Boche seem to be losing the war at the moment,” replied Logan, “we cannot think we can just relax. It can only make everything worse—bring out the latent beast in our enemy.”
“Latent!” spat Henri. “Ha! it has always been visible enough.”
“Well,” sighed Logan, “I suppose it makes little difference. It will not alter what we must do—except that we must be all the more careful.”
“Oui.”
The conversation lagged a few moments as the two men drank their coffee and pondered their unpredictable futures.
“We can only be thankful, Michel,” said Henri at length, “that our families are safely away from here. I feel for those who will have to make such a choice.”
He set down his cup. “But we must get to business—perhaps we can shave a few months off this war.”
“Even a few days might be worth our efforts.”
“I have the report from Claude that London wanted on the drop sites,” Henri went on.
“Good. I’ll get that to Lise immediately.”
“Now . . .” Henri hesitated a moment before beginning again with more resolution in his voice. “I have a task for L’Escroc.”
“I thought we had put him to rest.”
“We may have our chance to get Jean Pierre,” said Henri.
Logan leaned back. He remembered his confident declaration about freeing the priest on the night when he had been arrested. But his words had turned out to be impotent thus far. The S.S. were not about to let their prize slip easily through their fingers. Logan had worked on von Graff as much as he dared to learn anything that would help them get to him, but to no avail. The general was especially tight-lipped about his captive. Trinity got nowhere. And L’Escroc had had no luck either.
Jean Pierre was being kept in solitary confinement under special guard. He’d been locked in Cherche-Midi for about a month, and Logan hadn’t been able to get near him, using any personality or disguise—though he had made some gallant, and as it turned out, humorous efforts.
He did manage to learn that Jean Pierre had not broken under interrogation and, to his relief, that the Nazis were exercising restraint in their handling of this particular prisoner, whether out of respect for his priestly collar or because of the influence of his brother, no one knew. Logan remained constantly on the alert for some breakdown in the general’s guard, but when his only opportunity came, he missed it. He knew a transfer would have been the perfect moment, but when they moved him to Fresnes, it had been cloaked in such secrecy that Logan did not learn of the action until after the fact.
As time passed, Logan’s interest did not so much flag, but the desperation of the situation seemed to lessen. This, coupled with the fact that they had tried without result, gradually lowered the priority in their minds of making an all-out escape effort. Jean Pierre would not be shot, and he was not going to talk. Moreover, the Germans seemed to be satisfying themselves with the mere victory of having him under lock and key. At this point it seemed the risks of rescuing their comrade outweighed the risks of capture and certain death. For whatever leniency they demonstrated toward the priest would certainly never carry over to anyone caught trying to spring him.
There was more to it than that, however. Logan knew it would take nerve to walk into Fresnes and extract their prize catch. Risk was one thing, and he had always been willing to take certain risks. But with his mind more and more on getting back home, on Allison, on his real life, he wasn’t sure he had what it took to put it all on the line many more times. He did not think it had as much to do with courage as it did with that élan Lise had once spoken of.
Logan looked up toward Henri. He had to listen to the proposal.
“They are going to transfer him again,” Henri began.
“How did you manage to learn that?”
“Straight from von Graff’s desk,” grinned Henri. “Sometimes a janitor is more effective than a double agent, eh?”
“I have no argument there,” said Logan.
“We have people in high and low places,” Henri went on.
“And sometimes equally effective! But are you sure it’s reliable? We were so blind last time—could this be some sort of trap?”
“That is always a possibility.”
Henri sighed, then reached for the coffeepot and refilled their cups. “Perhaps it is wrong of me to take this so personally, but Jean Pierre is a special man and a dear friend. I cannot bear to see him in their hands.”
“I’m sorry, Henri. I suppose all these months have finally dulled my sensitivities. Though the very thought of it appalls me, too.”
“You are troubled, mon ami. Might it help to talk about it? I have not Jean Pierre’s wisdom, but I am able to listen.”
“Time is too pressing,” hedged Logan.
“I think it is a necessary risk.”
“Like rescuing Jean Pierre?”
“Perhaps.”
Henri paused, then said softly, “Sometimes, Michel, all the secrecy drowns us. But we each have our own personal breaking point.”
“I don’t think I’m quite there . . . yet,” replied Logan, then stopped. He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Henri.
Henri studied it a moment, then looked up at Logan. “Congratulations!” he said. “But you do not seem overjoyed.”
Logan took the paper and glanced at it again. It was from London, Atkinson in particular. It read:
———
HAVE YOUR CAPTAIN’S PIPS IN DRAWER STOP PROMOTION JUST CAME THRU TODAY STOP KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK END
———
“No . . .” said Logan slowly. “I’m not overjoyed, though I know I should be. Here I never thought I’d get into action at all, and now suddenly I’m a captain! But I guess what really matters to me has changed recently.”
“Perhaps you just need a furlough—you have been under much pressure.”
“If I went now, Trinity would be blown. There is no way I could go to London and cover my tracks.”
“Trinity cannot go on forever. Maybe it would be best for you to eliminate him before the Boche do. Drop out of sight and leave von Graff forever wondering who you were and where you have gone. A satisfying final move, it seems to me.”
“Except not being able to see his face when he knew—that would be a great sacrifice.”
“Ah, oui! That would indeed be the pièce de resistance!”
“I’ve thought of the possibility,” said Logan, “of simply disappearing. And no doubt it will have to come to that in the end. I’m trying to be attuned to the right moment to fold.”
He paused and sipped his coffee, now lukewarm. “You see, Henri, there is another reason why I must stay, and it’s in that wire. I have to prove something to the man who wrote it. Even more, I’ve got to prove something to myself. I cannot leave France until I’m certain my work here is finished. I can’t walk out on it like I’ve done with so many other things in my life. I can’t retreat when the going gets rough. I’ve got to see it out. Yet at the same time, I’m not sure I’m up to something as big as Jean Pierre’s escape.”
“You will do fine, mon ami. I am certain. And you will not be alone. You will be one of many, and together . . . you will do it!”
64
Springing the Priest
Logan caught a brief glimpse of his reflection in the window as the train sped through a short tunnel.
The image that stared back at him was momentarily startling; the disguise was certainly effective. His hair, topped with a black wool beret, was streaked with gray, as was his moustache. Wire-rimmed spectacles outlined deep-set eyes, created with the judicious application of makeup and not a few sleepless nights. He wore an ill-fitting and
frayed dark suit that might possibly have been in style twenty years ago. He appeared in every way as the venerable educator to which his papers bore witness, off for a month of sabbatical.
To his left, in the seat across the aisle, sat young Paul Guillaume, who appeared absorbed in this morning’s edition of Le Matin. Logan, however, could detect his discomfiture regardless of his extravagant attempt to mask it.
Who could blame the lad? Besides the dozen or so German soldiers scattered throughout the car, there were three extremely vigilant S.S. soldiers. There was a sufficient show of German force to daunt anyone, especially a young underground agent barely dry behind the ears. Logan had anticipated the heavy German presence; after all, the trains to and from Paris were jammed with soldiers going back to the Fatherland on leaves, or returning to their assignments.
The S.S. were different, of course. They were the ones to worry about, for it was the S.S. who were guarding Jean Pierre. It had been good to see the priest after so long, even if they had only two seconds to exchange covert glances and establish recognition.
The three months in Fresnes showed clearly on his debonair features. Logan thought his hair seemed slightly grayer and his skin was pale and sagging, especially around the eyes, which had become cavernous hollows. But despite all that, a brief smile had flickered briefly across his face as he beheld Logan’s outfit. Three months had not broken his spirit. That fact was all the more evident in the time since the train had pulled out of Paris. The suave cleric had spent a good part of the time in animated conversation with his guards. They had no idea that the coy priest was more interested in distracting them than in pleasant conversation.
Logan wondered if he had understood, or even received, the cryptic message he had managed to get to him. It merely read: “W.C. five minutes to Coulommiers.”
He had no doubts, however, in Jean Pierre’s ability to carry out his performance in this life-and-death scenario, if he had received the note. But his own part had begun to unravel the moment he had boarded in Paris. His contact in the railroad had given his word that the S.S. and their prisoner would be in car number 7, that abutting the baggage car. How he could be sure of that Logan did not know, but he had had little choice but to accept his guarantee. When the boarding was complete, however, the S.S. wound up two cars away, and Logan had to improvise some way to get Jean Pierre through to the next car.
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