Evening approached, and the lines before the food shops wouldn’t reappear until hours before sunrise. France was now on Reich time and everything opened while all was still dark. Parisians rose well before dawn to pursue rumors of butter or cheese just in from the country, or of eggs, even whispers of beets or fresh meat. Housewives bribed concierges to pass the night in hallways and porches near shops, just to be early in line. Ration coupons changed hands, deals were made, honest folk cheated.
In many Parisian neighborhoods household pets had already become rare, and cats and sewer rats were now at a premium. Hamsters were the new balcony livestock. Many citizens of Montparnasse already made do with one daily meal in the soup kitchens rather than starve before the family hearth, and few shops remained viable at all, since little sold on any market not black. The Reich was sucking all nourishment from the teat of a defeated France.
Night had yet to fall, so clubs and cabarets remained closed. Stage doors opened only to showgirls heading to dress or undress, as the case might be. In another few hours the wealthy, the well-connected, the gangsters and black marketeers would descend on Montmartre. And with them came the Occupiers, their uniform pockets stuffed with overvalued occupation marks affording them the most valued luxury goods, whether of material or of flesh variety. Nighttime Paris would soon open to the highest bidder.
Ryan followed the familiar path to la Chatte bottée. He wasn’t surprised to find no doorman at the entrance. It was early yet. He continued past the shuttered storefronts and up the alley to the side door, where a young man in leather jacket and cloth cap propped himself against the wall under the glow of a caged bulb. His right shoe was oddly distorted, a clubfoot perhaps. He’d seen no military action. The stub of a cigarette dangled from his lower lip as he studied a pornographic magazine.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur—Mademoiselle Lesney is in?” Ryan asked.
“Bientôt, monsieur.” He angled the magazine to the dim light above his head to better focus his attention. Soon. At that moment two animated young women entered the alley arm in arm, laughing and talking, and the young man quickly stashed the magazine in his jacket, pulled off his cap to run his fingers through pomaded hair, tossed the butt and assumed a most world-weary smile. He glanced at Ryan at last, anxious to send him on his way. “A little later, an hour, perhaps?”
Ryan thanked the fellow and headed back up the alley, tipping his hat to the two attractive young arrivals as they approached. They giggled in response and shared a private joke. He turned to catch both girls watching him leave, and the saucy brunette with scarlet lipstick called out: “Come back later—you’ll enjoy what’s on offer!”
“Without a doubt—un grand plaisir, I’m sure!” He didn’t catch her final reply as he reached the sidewalk.
He suspected Marita would still be at her flat, and if he hurried they could chat in private before she left for the club. On Rue Veron he headed east, remembering walking this street with her when all hope for the survival of Erika and Leo was lost and Marita had encouraged him to carry on despite all his self-blame. The concierge at the apartment house would surely allow him up the three flights to Marita’s door, and his long-time friend would give him that surprised but cynical look of hers and then embrace him in delight. He would give her money to make life easier despite the Occupation and deprivation. She had always meant more to him than she knew, but a greater commitment was never in the cards. He had known she carried a long-burning torch for him, but he wasn’t willing to break her heart. The timing had never been right.
Heady with anticipation, at Rue Aubran he turned toward her flat, then abruptly changed course and continued on down toward the next cross street. He shook his head and hurried his step, feigning the look of a man nearly making the wrong turn. Once around the corner and out of sight, he slipped into the covered entry of a closed shop to disappear in the deep shadows. He held his breath.
A disturbing reflection in a barred shop window just moments before had caught his eye—a brief memory, and then immediate recollection. A man in herringbone jacket with fedora low on his forehead. Perhaps even the thin mustache, although the light was fading rapidly and the bluish glow of the blacked-out streetlamps prevented knowing with any certainty.
Now he waited in the gloom, breathing shallowly, all senses alert for the footsteps. He extended the short blade of his pen knife, of little use for anything but scraping out the bowl of his briar pipe. But certainly this could work—a stealthy approach from behind, an arm thrust around the neck, a deep plunge, yes, an artery could be cut. He thought of how he had trained in the killing arts in Toronto, and of the Gestapo agent he and Erika had killed on the Koblenz train, the man’s struggle over in a bloody flash.
He still hoped his senses had betrayed him. But when the stranger passed, peering intently up the street ahead and unaware he strode within arm’s reach of his intended target, Ryan knew there’d been no mistake. The man seen boarding the train at Châtelet was shadowing him, and Ryan would not risk leading him to Marita’s flat. Stepping quietly from his hiding place, his eyes glued to the back of the man’s head, Ryan took several steps backward, keeping the blade of his penknife extended.
The man sped forward now, aware his prey might have eluded him, and at that moment Ryan slipped back out onto Rue Veron. As he passed Marita’s street he glanced down toward her apartment house. Only a young Wehrmacht officer strode in Ryan’s direction, disinterested in his surroundings, perhaps distracted by personal thoughts.
As soon as Ryan was sure his footfalls would go unnoticed and he was free of the tail, he took off in a run toward the Abbesses subway station.
Who would want him followed, and, more important, why? For God’s sake, only those associated with the exchange program even knew he was in Paris! Only a very few at the embassy in Vichy, and, of course, Edward. And, of course, Kohl. That son of a bitch!
Surprising Marita would have to wait until after Gurs.
CHAPTER NINE
Paris, Occupied France
12 August 1941
Rolf von Haldheim had truly found paradise. Compared with the horrors of the Polish invasion and a long year stuck in Krakow with the SD he now thoroughly-despised, Paris was indeed heaven. Jeder einmal in Paris was Hitler’s slogan, Everyone in Paris once, and unlike the steady stream of German enlisted men arriving on leave to experience the Führer’s most prized conquest, Rolf was a permanent resident of the lovely city on the Seine. Even now, with the war against the Bolsheviks and troop transfers to the new eastern front underway, he was here to stay, for Admiral Canaris had his back. Paris for Rolf von Haldheim, forever.
The summer day was turning warmer as he strolled down the Champs Élysées for a rendezvous with his favored agent. The role of spymaster suited him, especially under the loose leash of the admiral. As long as his people brought interesting information, no one questioned his methods. And for Rolf this assignment could not have been more appropriate. He had spent the last year inhabiting a comfortable suite of rooms in the 16th arrondissement with a balcony view across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower and Dôme Church, courtesy of the Abwehr budget office. Most evenings he made optimal use of the city’s renowned nightlife, all in the name of intelligence gathering. When he needed a break he settled in with a glass of champagne and a good book to watch the hazy skies dim to rose and then to black. This was the life.
Canaris had offered him something impossible to refuse—a directive to mingle with those rich or famous, in command or influential. He was to dine at hotspots like Maxim’s and Le Pré Catalan on caviar and lobster and champagne before trolling the famed brothels and cabarets of the city looking for recruits. The lovely girls at the officers-only Le Chabanais bordello now called him Uncle Rolf, and knew ways to indulge his disparate tastes in pleasure, for Rolf enjoyed life in all its diversity.
His task was to assemble and maintain a small coterie of reliable agents. They in turn would contact and recruit disgruntled, angry, patriotic or
just plain avaricious types willing to undermine those standing in the way of German honor and destiny. And honor was the key word, for honor played no role under the current Reich leadership, as Canaris had made abundantly clear before posting Rolf von Haldheim to beautiful Paris.
The admiral believed the Nazi hierarchy to be a great threat to the German nation, seeking self-aggrandizement and personal gain at the expense of all that the German people had struggled for over generations. He knew the Sicherheitsdienst and its Gestapo were determined to root out all those who questioned the Reich’s means and motives or undermined her political and military successes. And they were very good at it.
Originally the separation of intelligence-gathering powers was clearly defined: the Gestapo and SD would seek out acts of treason within the Reich; the Abwehr would unearth military espionage in foreign countries. But gradually the Gestapo had branched out into every area, much to the Admiral’s displeasure. Canaris saw his Abwehr as the last support for the valiant German Wehrmacht, Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe, protectors and defenders of the German nation when not misused to further National Socialist aims. Hitler’s all-consuming war of conquest had become a misguided adventure in hubris destined to destroy the honor and prestige which were Germany’s birthright.
So Canaris tasked certain agents with exposing the same discontented, dangerous types sought by Heydrich’s minions, but not to arrest, torture and eliminate them. He hoped to empower them to help undermine the regime and work toward a peace with England which would leave Germany a spark of her old dignity. His actions had nothing to do with treason. His maneuvers were the epitome of patriotism destined to restore a strong German nation amongst the other leading nations of the world.
And for the first time in his life Rolf was running great risks for an even greater cause, and enjoying the raw excitement in most pleasurable surroundings. His personal role was to identify well-placed officers who shared his admiral’s contempt for the Nazis, and he thought the best way to learn their innermost secrets was to join them in relaxing pastimes, such as consuming the best French spirits in the company of men and women of pleasure in the most beautiful of European cities.
This afternoon Rolf was meeting a Wehrmacht officer he had given the code name “Argent.” The name meant “money” in French, but also “silver.” Rolf thought the name fitting for such a shining example of manhood. Rolf had stumbled upon this young man—quite literally—in a Montmartre night club. With one too many glasses under his belt, Rolf had pushed through a small group of officers to congratulate him on a promotion. In his fervor, Rolf had tripped over the seated man’s extended boot and spilled a drink over his uniform. As the evening progressed and the crowds thinned, Rolf invited the young man for a nightcap at a nearby bar, and they had hit it off from the start.
After sharing a bottle of expensive Cognac, the officer had candidly admitted some dissatisfaction with his current assignment in the quartermaster corps. He found it rife with corruption, as Wehrmacht officers worked hand-in-hand with black marketeers to siphon off the best French consumer goods to resell at great profit. Another casual remark suggested qualms with the direction of the war, and Rolf had seen an opening which he then developed over several weeks until a wide gulf appeared. Argent was deeply troubled by the war with Britain, and Rolf also noted in him a deep dislike of the SS. One day he hoped to learn why.
As always upon seeing him, Rolf caught his breath at the sheer beauty of the man. Striking physique, strong cleft chin, piercing gray eyes above a winning smile—Rolf’s type through and through but for one major problem: Argent only loved women, and women couldn’t resist him. And now this Adonis had been placed in a position to do Rolf’s mission a great good. Hands off was the best policy, even if there had been a choice.
The lieutenant rose to greet Rolf. “How nice to see you again, mein Herr, as always.” Despite the warm weather they met inside at the back table of a café and ordered Evian alongside a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
Once the waiter left earshot Rolf rested his hand on Argent’s forearm. “And how goes it with your brunette?” He gave a squeeze of complicity.
“A true beauty, Herr von Haldmann.” Argent intentionally misspoke Rolf’s name. Should he ever forget and use Haldheim and someone catch the slip, the listener might assume to have misheard. One could never be too careful. “She and her girls are really paying off for us.”
Rolf nodded and tasted the wine before filling both glasses. “And you have something for me?” Argent took a folded newspaper from the bench and set it near Rolf’s sleeve. The most recent intelligence findings lay within it folds.
“May I suggest a bit of caution in your…shall we say, ‘personal’ dealings with Mademoiselle Lesney? It wouldn’t do to have her know too much about our overall program and goals, just in case the Gestapo gets wind of what she has going at the club and she’s interrogated. For our purposes, we need most the information her girls learn from the loose tongues. A mistake to lose track of our mission, nicht wahr?”
Finding Marita Lesney had been a stroke of both luck and Rolf’s excellent memory, still reliable despite years of drinking and carousing. A decade earlier, young Ryan Lemmon had spoken of his enamored dancer from the Folies Bergères. Her letters pursuing the American across the continent and beyond, often arrived at the von Haldheim manor in Grunewald, and Rolf still clearly remembered the feminine script and memorable scent on the envelopes he had perused before his father forwarded them on to America or France.
Upon first researching which Parisian night spots might provide the best source for intelligence findings, he had ordered a comprehensive list of locales most popular with German officers. The meticulously-researched pages included contact data for the owners of each nightspot, and the name Marita Lesney had immediately struck a chord. In espionage, serendipity was often as valuable as diligent research. After an evening observing her at the club, Rolf had known that handsome young Argent should make the first contact, and the result had proven most valuable, but the assignment had cost Argent his heart in the process. The handsome young fool had obviously fallen for this woman some eight years his senior.
Ah, youth, Rolf thought, seldom appreciated till it abandons you. Thank God money and a clever mind can prove just as powerful.
Harry Sperling, the agent known as “Argent,” had reason to despise the SS, but the why of it was known to only a few.
His only sister Doro had been his one constant companion as they grew up in the university town of Tübingen. Two years his senior, Dorothea was born to his father’s first wife, Greta, a woman widely recognized as a descendent of the Duke of Württemberg and thus of noble stock. Despite leading a bourgeois lifestyle married to the city’s mayor, Greta Sperling radiated nobility in all she did. And once grown, her daughter Doro projected a self-confidence and beauty that would have made her mother proud, had she only lived to see it. Years later, when Harry was old enough to notice, he took immense pride in being her only brother.
Their father, Edgar Sperling, had also come from an established, albeit less- esteemed German bloodline. His great-grandfather oversaw the royal hunting grounds of Baden-Württemberg, reputedly having knightly blood flowing through his veins. On a summer day when Doro was barely two, her mother had broken her neck in a fall from her horse. Edgar mourned for six months before singling out the town’s most charming and attractive widow as his new wife. Bernice Langenfeld was an anomaly in Tübingen, an Englishwoman who had lost her German husband to a street fight after his customary night of boisterous drinking. As a young woman on Grand Tour of the Continent, Bernice had first fallen in love with this region of Germany. And despite the violent death of her husband, she remained determined to stay in the medieval town.
Nevertheless, she never surrendered a fierce pride in her English roots. She had quickly given Edgar a son, and taught the young Harold to admire British spirit and heritage. After all, wasn’t King George III of the House of Hanover, a German thr
ough and through? In fact—Bernice told anyone who would listen—the English still pronounced “schedule” with a “sh” sound to emulate their German-born king. Every afternoon she hosted low tea for her friends and encouraged young Harry to master English and value his roots. But she was a cold and disengaged mother in every other respect.
The National Socialists seized power in 1934, and Edgar Sperling joined the Party as a late-comer, primarily interested in maintaining his post as mayor. Young Harry marched off as a Hitler Youth to hike, camp and sing rousing Nazi anthems and learn the Party dogma. His lovely older sister Doro already belonged to the Band of German Maidens, the Bund Deutscher Mädel, braiding wildflowers in their hair while singing folksongs, exercising to build strong bodies for healthy motherhood, and marching through the countryside. They learned the values of a National Socialist education and to favor their Führer Adolph Hitler and his teachings over the old guidelines and moralities of their parents.
At the 1936 Party Congress in Nürnberg, Doro made friends with handsome young men of the SS, and came home unmarried but pregnant, as did many hundreds of her fellow celebrants. The BDM encouraged unwed German girls of pure racial stock to bear children fathered by the best specimens of pure German manhood.
And that was when Harry first heard of Lebensborn, a state-sanctioned organization dedicated to raising the birthrate of children of pure Aryan parents. Lebensborn, “Wellspring of Life,” an almost mystical-sounding project of Himmler destined to place the future of Germany in the hands of a new “super race.” Rather than finding shame in her condition, as the parents thought proper, Doro took pride in her accomplishment and gladly headed off to Steinhöring near Munich. There she resided in a Lebensborn home, furnished with the finest trappings from homes liberated from wealthy, Dachau-bound Jews.
Harry’s adored older sister returned to visit the family home a changed woman. Gone was the sweet and loving girl who had made his childhood a delight despite an emotionally-reserved mother and a stern and distant father. Gone was her newborn, now in the hands of specially-chosen nursemaids and educators intent on rearing a new generation in line with Nazi theory of “racial hygiene.” The child would go to a worthy SS family to be raised to lead the masses.
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