Shadows over Stonewycke
Page 43
They had rigged up a false wall in the water closet of that particular car. All Jean Pierre had to do was step inside, where even the S.S. might give him a few moments of privacy. A few seconds later he would step on to the outside platform of the car, and thence into the adjoining baggage car, where he would be as good as a free man.
Simple enough. But the timing had to be precise. He had to start for the W.C. no sooner than five minutes before the train made its brief stop at Coulommiers. They would have about three minutes to get Jean Pierre out of the bathroom and off the train before the guards would get suspicious. Once he made it to the baggage compartment, there would be a crate awaiting him that would be unloaded with all the other cargo scheduled for the little village located seventy kilometers east of Paris.
Logan hoped that by the time the Gestapo were alerted, there would be so much confusion that the simple crate would go unnoticed until Jean Pierre could be removed. There were risks everywhere; Logan fully realized that. But then, every escape plan carried with it the imminent risk of failure. It was part of this business.
But in this present instance, Logan had tried his best to cover every angle: he and Paul would oversee the car; there were two men in the baggage compartment, and he had two other men stationed at the depot in Coulommiers. Besides these, a conductor and a coalman were patriots who would be willing to run interference in a pinch. Each man was under strict instructions that if the thing went sour, they were to scatter everyone on his own; one agent alone was harder to track down than a hoard of eight.
That final injunction against disaster had been fairly routine, not given out of some sense of premonition. But now Logan wondered. He didn’t like starting out on the wrong foot. It wasn’t as if the switched cars were an insurmountable barrier—he had already thought of a remedy. But it just did not set well.
He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes until Coulommiers.
He rose and made his way slowly down the aisle, taking awkward, careless steps, playing his role of absent-minded bookworm to the hilt.
He reached the water closet and entered. Now came the risky part. To jam the door’s lock effectively, he would have to do so from outside. Most of the passengers would all be facing the other direction. But if someone chanced by, or some stray eyes fell his way, his innocent little act of sabotage would be undone.
Logan grabbed a small piece of the waxed onion-skin they tried to pass off as toilet paper, crumpled it into a tiny wad, reopened the door a crack, threw the lock shut, then removed a small tool from his pocket. With it he proceeded to stuff the wad of paper into the lock mechanism from the inside, as well as a small piece into the keyhole on the outside of the door.
So far so good. No one had come by.
Now he walked back out into the aisle, pulled the door to him and closed it with a quick jerk, which made more noise than he was comfortable with. But the lock had engaged! Just a few seconds more! Another tiny wad of paper jammed into the lock! He tried the door. It was shut fast!
The job was done. The door would not budge. Whoever tried to make use of this W.C.—including Jean Pierre—would have to go on to the one in the next car. He hoped Jean Pierre picked up the improvisation in the plan!
Slowly Logan turned and ambled the few steps toward the rear of the car, opened the door, stepped onto the landing outside, crossed into the next car—number 7—and continued through it, past the W.C. in which they had installed the false wall, and outside onto the landing. There he paused. Jean Pierre would soon be following right in his footsteps, through car 6, where he would try the disabled W.C. door, on into car 7—no doubt by this time with his guards growing touchy—and into the bogus bathroom there. The plan was admittedly thin, but it was all he had.
Logan waited. In a few moments, even over the racket of the train clacking down the tracks, he should hear Jean Pierre enter the tiny stall on the other side of the wall. From where he stood between the cars, his visibility was limited, but the station could not be much farther. Yet the cold November wind stung through the thin fabric of his cheap suit, and the minutes dragged by.
At last he heard the sound of the door opening, followed by sounds from inside.
All at once Logan realized a minor flaw in his carefully thoughtout plan. He had devised no way to insure that it was in reality Jean Pierre in the W.C. If he opened the false door at the wrong time, it would prove not only highly embarrassing, but would also destroy the rescue. Furthermore, what if his attendant guard took it in his head to get some fresh air while waiting and joined Logan on the platform?
Well . . . so far there was no sign of a guard. Logan decided to try one of the signals they had used to indicate friendly callers at safe houses. Two long, followed by three short knocks. If it was Jean Pierre, he would surely catch the signal and make himself known.
Logan knocked, and waited but a moment until he heard another of their codes in response—very light, to be sure, but recognizable.
Quickly Logan opened the false door, Jean Pierre stared at him, a bit incredulous. But he wasted no precious time with talk. He hurried out onto the landing. Logan quickly refastened the door; then they hastened into the baggage car, just as the engine sounded its whistle and began to slow for Coulommiers.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” Jean Pierre said, speaking for the first time.
“This is not the place to argue,” replied Logan. “Besides, you are practically free now. Get in here.” He lifted the lid to a large wooden crate.
Realizing the futility of a protest at such a point, the priest obeyed. While his two men closed and re-nailed the top, Logan tore off his professor’s garb and hitched on a worn pair of overalls and wool coat to look the part of a freight loader.
The instant the train stopped, Logan pushed open the baggage door about a foot. He quickly scanned the depot area. His two other men were not immediately visible; perhaps they were still inside. Then he saw Paul step off the train from the door to car 7. But the lad froze the instant his feet touched the ground. Logan snapped his gaze to his left.
Gestapo! He could see them inside the depot; several appeared to be searching those inside. They would have his own men there in custody within moments and be heading for the loading dock.
Logan groaned inwardly. They had walked into a trap!
Paul caught his eyes for a brief moment and Logan answered his questioning look with a sharp jerk of his head. Paul got the message—they were all going to have to clear out as best they could. Paul headed in the opposite direction.
Don’t break into a run! Logan silently cried, as if Paul might be able to hear his thoughts.
But he couldn’t tarry watching Paul. There were others whose safety he also had to worry about. He turned back into the baggage car and closed its door.
“Gestapo!” he said. “Let’s get the priest out and then we’ll have to make a run for it through the rear door and hope to get away from the station through those fields.”
In a moment they were outside crowded on the small platform between cars. The first man jumped from the train toward the depot. The Gestapo were still inside and his disguise was good. He walked straight toward them.
What are you doing? Logan wanted to yell after him. But he soon knew well enough. The man had always been a devil-may-care sort, and this was his way of insuring the escape of his comrades. If anything went wrong, he would figure out some way to detain the Gestapo.
But there was no time to waste! His other companion stepped off the train platform in the other direction, and hurried off to the right and into the large field that bordered the station.
Jean Pierre was next, but his cassock caught on a broken metal fitting as he made his leap. The fabric tore, but not in time. It threw off his landing and his foot twisted painfully under him. Logan jumped down and straight to where his friend lay on the ground next to the track.
“Come on, I’ll lift you,” he said, grabbing Jean Pierre under his arms and shoulders.
“But—”
“Now it’s you who must do as I say. You have no time to argue,” countered Jean Pierre. “It is important you get away. I will be all right, but they will kill you. Your danger is far greater.”
“I won’t leave you.”
“You must, Michel! I will always appreciate what you have tried to do here, but the game is up.”
“No! We can still make it!”
“You can still make it! But not with a crippled escapee hobbling behind you. Now go! Don’t despair, Michel! I am content. God has me where He wants me, and He will use this time—that is what matters. I will not be harmed, of that I am certain. Now go! Hurry!”
Logan hesitated, then dropped to the ground and embraced Jean Pierre.
“I am so sorry,” he said as the sting of tears filled his eyes. Jean Pierre kissed his cheek tenderly. “Go with God, my dear son.”
“Au revoir!” said Logan, meaning the words in the depth of their literal sense—Until we meet again!
Suddenly shouts and the sounds of Gestapo boots broke from the depot area. In the distance Logan could see one of his comrades three-quarters of the way across the field and beating his way for the woods that lay about half a kilometer from the tracks. In the other direction, walking casually along a country road as if he hadn’t a care in the world, was the man whose escape had taken him through the depot and under the very noses of the Boche. He saw no sign of Paul.
Logan jumped up and headed for the field.
“Au revoir, mon ami!” came Jean Pierre’s voice behind him.
Logan could not even turn to take one last look at his friend. But somehow, perhaps it was in the sound of the priest’s voice, Logan was certain they would meet again.
Each of Logan’s companions had taken off in separate directions, and Logan too shot off on his own. He hoped the men in the depot, as well as Paul, hadn’t been taken. But now all he could think of was making it to those woods! One of his companions, several hundred yards to the south, had just made it to the protection of the trees, and now Logan saw that the other had veered off the road he had been strolling along and was heading for cover as well.
Suddenly a barrage of Gestapo gunfire erupted behind him. Logan flew toward the woods, all but certain that the next shot would end his frenzied retreat.
Miraculously, he was still alive when he reached the leaves of the overhanging trees forty seconds later. He stopped for a moment to glance behind him. The shooting had stopped, but he could see a half dozen S.S. soldiers starting out across the field toward him. Behind them, two or three others appeared to be helping a black-robed figure to his feet.
Logan turned back into the forest, and though tears and sweat mingled in his eyes to blur his vision, raced away as fast as he could run.
65
Unexpected Encounter
“A glass of schnapps, mein Herr?”
“Thank you, General. The offerings of your hospitality have certainly changed since our last meeting on the submarine.”
Von Graff took a bottle and two crystal glasses from the antique liquor cabinet behind him and poured out two generous measures.
“I hope you are finding Paris pleasant, Herr Channing,” he said as he handed a glass to his guest and then resumed his place.
Both men were seated comfortably in tapestry chairs in von Graff’s office. Channing brought his glass to his lips and sipped the strong liquor. He had already been in Paris two days—he hadn’t wanted to appear overzealous in looking up von Graff. He was glad he had waited, for von Graff had changed from those days when he had commanded a Reich U-boat. He seemed more deliberate now, with perhaps a cunning edge. He would take careful handling. But nonetheless, Channing was certain he could be handled. Time and power had made him both vain and greedy for still more power—or at least to hang on to what he had. Power was what drove him—one of those twisted human thirsts for which there is no quenching.
“Paris is an entertaining city,” replied Channing broadly. “I really must consider opening a branch office here. The Führer may have his cultural center, but there is no reason for not developing the industrial potential of the Rhine and the rest of France.”
“How is the Führer these days?”
“Optimistic.”
“Aren’t we all?” Von Graff’s question carried with it a definite probing quality.
“Are we, General?” countered Channing. “It’s not an easy mentality to maintain these days, what with Churchill prattling on about the end of the beginning and the turning of the hinge of fate, or whatever he calls it.”
“So you agree that the Reich is doomed, Herr Channing?”
“I prefer to remain a neutral spectator in these matters.”
“But a man who hobnobs with Adolph Hitler can hardly be considered neutral, especially—God forbid!—should the war turn against us.”
“I’ve never been one to back myself into corners,” replied Channing. “It’s a smart man who keeps his options open, wouldn’t you agree?”
An ironic smile flickered across von Graff’s face. “As a general in the S.S.,” he said, “I am hardly the man to talk to about keeping out of corners. I, too, have a duty to remain optimistic.”
“But supposing Germany did lose the war?”
“Such a statement could be construed as seditious.”
“Do you think the Führer sent me here to trap you, General?”
“It might be an interesting possibility.”
“Come, General,” said Channing, leaning forward confidentially, “can’t we talk off the record for a moment? Surely you have given the question some thought. Or at least you must have considered your own future. The war cannot last forever.”
“Am I mistaken, Herr Channing, or are you not building up to some kind of proposition?”
The man is definitely shrewd, thought Channing. He could be useful in more ways than one.
“Channing Global Enterprises is growing rapidly, General,” replied Channing, “and after the war I am going to want some good men in the operation. To be quite honest, I’ve had my eye on you since that first time we worked together—remember?”
“You commandeered a German U-boat for some urgent mission off the coast of Scotland,” said von Graff. “Your contact’s boat, as I recall, sank and he was lost.”
“Well, no matter. It all turned out successfully in the end. But that is neither here nor there.” Channing leaned back and drank from his glass. “I sensed even then that you were a man I could use.”
“Use?” repeated von Graff, his eyebrows arched with deep implications.
“In my company,” returned Channing quickly. “You’d have no argument against a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year job after the war—twelve thousand pounds, a hundred fifty thousand marks—I’ll pay you in whatever currency you like. Of course, your mark may not be worth much by then,” added Channing almost as an aside.
“But if our cause is doomed, as you so subtly imply,” said von Graff, “I may well be occupied less pleasantly after the war.”
“I never took you for the bullet-in-the-head type, General.”
“It might be better than the other options, like rotting in some British or American prison.”
Channing did not respond immediately, but instead nursed his drink. Then he continued. “No one need be caught in the debris and wreckage of a falling Reich. I plan on protecting my own.”
“Your family?”
“I have only a six-year-old daughter who is quite safe somewhere in America. I was thinking more in terms of my friends.”
“I see . . .” The general drew out the word with deliberate extravagance. “And you are offering me your friendship?”
“For a price, of course.”
“Of course.”
At that moment the intercom on von Graff’s desk buzzed. He rose, went to it, and flipped the switch.
“Have him wait,” said von Graff. “I’m with someone.”
He paused, and was about to flip down the switch when he changed his mind and added, “On second thought,” he said, “send him in.”
He then turned off the intercom and said to Channing, “I hope you don’t mind the interruption. I think you might find it a stimulating interlude. I have the feeling my caller is your kind of man.”
Von Graff strode to the door just as Logan was about to reach for the handle.
“Good afternoon, Herr MacVey,” said the general. “Do come in.”
“Good afternoon, General,” replied Logan. “Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“Not at all. I have someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Von Graff directed Logan to the sitting area of his office. “Jason Channing, please meet Lawrence MacVey . . .”
Von Graff had not the vaguest idea of what hornet’s nest he was stirring into life with his seemingly benign introduction. The two men shook hands, neither betraying even the faintest hint of recognition.
Logan knew the name Jason Channing instantly. Joanna’s stories about first coming to Stonewycke were well-recounted family lore. Though he had never seen the man’s face and could not be positive this was the same Channing, his inner ears perked up and the rest of the interview took on heightened significance. Joanna’s Channing would be somewhere in his late sixties, maybe seventy by now. This man looked younger, and extremely fit . . . but he could be about the right age. Such were Logan’s thoughts in the brief seconds following von Graff’s introduction.
On Channing’s part, his keen eye had recognized the face before him the moment Logan walked in, even if the name that fell from the general’s lips was an unfamiliar one. He had seen photos of the new young graft into the Stonewycke line, and would not easily forget the man Ross Sprague had shadowed for him ten years ago. He would especially not forget a man who had almost gotten the better of him. He wondered if this Macintyre knew him or had heard of him. It was doubtful. Best keep his own counsel for the time being; no telling how a chance meeting like this could be of use in his machinations against the Scottish family he had come to despise.