Erika’s eyes betrayed her distaste as she handed it on to René. A macabre smile played across his lips as he rolled it between two fingers. “I understand these are quite fast…and efficient.”
“A kill-pill. Knowing what Horst is capable of, I suggest everyone also note where I hide this gem.” Ryan took back the lethal capsule and opened the hidden compartment of his ring. “We’re all together at last, thank God, but let’s be clear—Horst won’t abandon his search. We should prepare a plan to rid ourselves of his menace.”
“Agreed. But if it’s all the same to you, I prefer to stick with this.” René touched the pistol at his belt. “We’ll talk more about all that later.”
“Well, it’s in here—” Ryan snapped the lid shut on the cyanide, “—just in case.”
CHAPTER THREE
Nantes, Occupied France
23-24 August 1941
Nicole had just returned from her bath, and Ryan caught himself responding to her despite a renewed commitment to stay clear of temptation. He’d always found damp hair on a woman appealing, as were the scented soap and her new yellow dress. He wasn’t about to fall into the previous night’s trap. The woman was too unstable, yet too damned attractive.
“Where exactly do you meet your friends tomorrow?” He handed over Erika’s little note. Nicole unfolded a plan of the city and quickly found the location. “It appears to be a warehouse district down by the Loire. Should be easy enough for you to find on your own.”
“But you are coming along, aren’t you?” It hadn’t occurred to him that she would really leave. At least not yet. “You can be just as effective here as down south, right? Your skills would be priceless here.”
“Not the point.” She stared toward the window. “I agreed to see this through till you found your friends. That’s done. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, now you honor yours.” Despite the map spread out before her, her focus was clearly elsewhere, her voice emotionless. “We all make our own beds, right?” He couldn’t help thinking of their shared bed, their unsatisfying sexual encounter. “I have my path to follow, one I can’t ignore, and staying longer will only make it more difficult for us both.”
Ryan wasn’t ready to surrender. “Listen, give me one more day. Stick around to meet the locals. That way, you can at least tell me what you think of them. You’ve had experience with other groups, so you’ll have insights into how effective this one might become. Maybe you’ll even like what you see enough to help us set a trap for le Masque.”
Her finger now traced paths through the streets of Nantes, taking her mind to who-knew-where.
“Nicole, consider this. When you freed me, you said you were really expecting to get le Masque, this von Kredow. We all four have the same goal, to end that man’s reign of terror. So just imagine this—we work together as a team, turn the tables on him, track the monster down ourselves. My God, Nicole…now here’s another thought—I’m American, my friends are German, but you’re French. That can make all the difference, because we’re in your own back yard.”
Ryan sat beside her on the bed, his leg close but not touching. “I know you’re hurting, and hurting badly. You told me long ago you wouldn’t share your story, so I’m not asking for that, but it’s clear to me von Kredow’s involved. Together—the four of us—we have the chance to bring him down. He won’t give up, so shouldn’t we all take the fight to him?”
Nicole stared listlessly at the map as Ryan’s finger traced the filigree on his ring, pleased to have it back, giving her time to think. At last she spoke: “You told me of your escape from le Masque in Germany, how he tortured you, yet all three of you still live. Four, including the boy. I don’t believe you really know the power that man wields, the extent of his cruelties. If he wants you dead, you die.”
Ryan wasn’t dissuaded. “Here’s what I do know. I know that he and his leaders plan the mass annihilation of all European Jews. And it won’t stop in the east. I know this man has no morality and finds his sole pleasure in the suffering of others. And he may be just one man, but he’s a cog in a colossal wheel of Nazi brutality and injustice. If our little group can’t single-handedly stop Hitler, we can, at the very least, destroy one dangerous off-shoot. Isn’t that enough to justify our working together?”
Suddenly Nicole rose, and Ryan thought she’d come to a decision, that his argument had won her over. Instead, she reached for her handbag. At the door, she turned to look him directly in the eyes. “I need fresh air…to think. Alone.” And she was gone.
Ryan remained on the bed, trying to guess where her mind was taking her, where his argument had gone wrong. Minutes later something occurred to him too late to help. She was out after curfew. Then he recalled the pistol and her shooting skills. Running after her would be pointless.
An hour later, as he drifted in that netherworld between wakefulness and sleep, one thought stumbling over the next and rest seemingly impossible, the door opened. He felt the mattress sag as she lay down beyond the barrier. She did not come to him in the night.
By morning light he watched Nicole apply lipstick in the mirror. Their eyes met and she spoke to his reflection, saying she would stay. A sudden knock on the door announced breakfast, and Ryan recognized disappointment in the young clerk when Nicole wasn’t the one to open the door and take the tray from his hands.
At ten-thirty the man was back again to announce a visitor downstairs. René’s forger friend soon hurried into the room, offering the name “Yves” as he pulled a small Leica from deep within his jacket pocket. He was young, perhaps twenty, and declared himself an expert in engraving and photography. He wore a horizontally-striped shirt of black on white reminiscent of a mime, but Yves was anything but silent. He chattered endlessly as he posed Ryan on a chair facing the window. Without flashgun and bulbs, he had Nicole hold up a bed sheet to reflect light and reduce the shadows on Ryan’s face. The task was done in minutes, but Ryan could tell from Yves’s care in posing him that he took this job seriously.
“Your new identity will be ready by this evening, and the work will be a masterpiece, monsieur.” Yves snapped his fingers at the word “masterpiece,” and smiled proudly. “We are experts at this, you know.”
“I’m most grateful, Yves. And my new identity—who am I to become?”
“Ah, monsieur, that’s the decision of another, but I can assure you it will pass the most rigorous examination at the hands of any authority, French or Boche.”
He left as quickly as he had come.
Ryan remembered his Kansas University days as a pole-vaulter on the varsity track team. Preparing for a meet, he would focus entirely on the task ahead, devoting his energies to warming up and visualizing the challenge. He imagined gripping the long pole, steadying his breath, beginning the run and planting the stick, and finally the gravity-defying arc through the air before releasing his grip as he willed himself over the bar. And then, when his turn came, he would make the actual run and it would seem he’d done it all before. He never recalled the landing. He was simply there, flat on his back, then jumping to his feet to be sure the bar still rested on its supports and accepting the cheers of his fellow team mates.
He recalled such visualization as he watched Nicole pass their day of boredom. He fidgeted, trying to read and staring out for hours at the passers-by, the horse-drawn delivery carts and occasional automobiles. But Nicole sat as though mesmerized, her focus fully within. On occasion he would ask a question. She would sometimes ignore him, other times give a simple nod or utter a word or two before returning to her thoughts. He first considered she might have some mental problem, but then remembered he had also once found strength in such concentration. Perhaps she was finally conquering her personal demons and would emerge as a valuable colleague in the liberation struggle. He wouldn’t force the issue. Tonight’s meeting would tell.
CHAPTER FOUR
Paris, Occupied France
24 August 1941
Rue Pétrarque was quiet with not a soul
in sight. Serge gave Paul the night off and watched the car coast down to the garage at the end of the street. He relaxed his grip on the pistol in his pocket and bound up the steps to the entry, its massive door opened by the attentive doorman. Serge entered the ancient elevator cage, the uniformed operator drawing the doors behind him. The old man knew better than to engage the building owner in any conversation other than a respectful wish for a pleasant evening. The machine creaked in its ascent five floors to the penthouse apartment, where the butler Pierre waited with a cocktail on a silver tray. He took Serge’s order for a light dinner served in the formal dining room.
Yesterday had gone exactly as planned. By dawn the stolen Cognac had been transferred to three utility vans with German occupation plates. Burdened by the heavy load, the Renault trucks lumbered out of the Rue de Vence warehouse, each taking a different route to a common destination. Serge’s main warehouse and distribution center lay east of the city. An armed Gestapo car accompanied each of the vans until it reached the facility. A high-ranking patron in the Paris SS paid off in spades.
Serge had arranged to divide the load into smaller batches for re-sale to the highest bidders. The Boche leadership appreciated a fine turn-of-the-century Cognac, and Serge loved any profit taken at the expense of his rivals. This apartment block in the 16th arrondissement was a good start, but within a year he would have something truly palatial and a staff of servants to rival the richest of them.
He set down the gin martini in his dressing room to put on a smoking jacket and fresh trousers. Leather slippers replaced his street shoes. Knowing that his dinner wouldn’t take long, he cast a glance in the mirror, wiped a damp cloth over his pate, and patted down his mustache. Later he would have one of the regular girls brought up for relaxation. That night he would favor the new one, the young Senegalese with those incredibly long legs, a worthy barter for that load of bicycle wheels and tires.
He found a place setting of sterling silver, fine crystal and linen at the head of the massive oak table. A veal cutlet with roasted potatoes awaited, and Pierre had opened a bottle of vintage Bordeaux to allow it to breathe. As instructed, Pierre had also set the needle to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the mahogany Victrola in the corner. Serge tried the veal, found it perfect, and took a sip of wine. Reaching for bread to sop up the gravy, he found the plate cool to the touch. The bell for Louise brought no response. In frustration he left the table and peered through the swinging doors to the butler’s pantry and the kitchen beyond. He cracked the door and shouted out a vulgar command. Surprisingly, no one responded.
Now ready to bash a few heads, Serge stormed back across the dining room into the hallway. Rough hands grabbed him from both sides and an unseen assailant jerked his legs out from behind, landing him face-down on the Persian runner. In a response acquired from years of street fighting, Serge used all his strength to push off the floor, but he remained immobilized by a strong grip on his arms and a knee in his back. Then came a whiff of stale breath and a voice at his ear: “Let it go, Serge, just give it up.”
“Who the hell are you guys?”
“Who we are doesn’t matter. It’s the big guy you stole from who’s calling the shots.” The men in suits pulled him to his feet, and the spokesman laid a fist into Serge’s belly that left him gasping. The man shook out his hand. “Tough little bastard—almost broke my wrist.” He slid on brass-knuckles and buried another blow deep in Serge’s abdomen. The men holding him released their grip and Serge sank to the floor to curl up in fetal position. The men delivered several solid kicks, concentrating on his tail bone and head.
“What the fuck do you assholes want?” Serge’s voice was practically lost in the scuffle and he suddenly wretched violently, making a mess of the wool runner.
“It’s not what we want; it’s what the Reichsmarshall wants.” The main assailant now used German. “And what he wants, he gets. You’ve a concentration camp in your future, Scheisskopf.”
His staff and bodyguard remained out of sight as the Germans dragged him to the elevator and descended to the street. The geriatric elevator operator said nothing, his hand on the brass control, his eyes glued to the passing floors. The doorman was not at his post. A silent captain in a blue-gray Luftwaffe uniform had the men place Serge in the car beside him. Aching in every muscle, his head still groggy, Serge slumped forward. His hands remained tightly cuffed at his back as the vehicle left the center of the city. Serge recognized the route toward Le Bourget air field, and given the Reichsmarshall’s inclinations, a Luftwaffe plane would be waiting to whisk him off to Germany and his fate.
Serge knew he’d been set up. The splendid Cognac prize had nothing to do with Masuy and his Delfanne gang. Someone else had needed him out of the picture, wanted him to step on the wrong toes. They had tricked him into treading on some of the most dangerous boots in the Reich: Reichsmarshall Hermann Göring, first in line to inherit Hitler’s power, first in line to plunder the wealth of France.
Serge’s SS purchasing officer may have ranked highly, but clearly not high enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
Nantes, Occupied France
24 August 1941
Nicole’s study of the city map proved its worth. She led Ryan directly down to the warehouse district of the port, first passing through a respectable commercial area of shops and inns. Some businesses appeared to thrive despite the hardships of the Occupation. Others were shuttered and abandoned, casualties of POW camps, emigration, or racial persecution. A vigorous black market had brought others to their knees.
On the fringe of the business district the tone of both enterprises and clientele became rougher—cheap dives, second-hand merchandise, bicycle and shoe repair, and obvious sex traffic. He was pleased it was a Sunday, with few pedestrians out and about. A middle-aged prostitute invited them to join her at a bargain price, but Ryan and Nicole forged on. Within sight of the river large structures serving industrial or shipping purposes were shuttered for the weekend. An occasional furtive figure moved along the streets, only to disappear up one of the many narrow passageways. But in this deserted locale few paid attention to the couple as they searched out their destination.
The target address was a nondescript warehouse building no different than all the others. The long, tall structures stretched back from the street toward a frontage road, the railroad tracks and the docks. The rusting enameled sign confirmed they had found M. Thierry-Garou & Fils, Expediteurs. Cobblestone courtyards allowed access to the loading docks now blocked off by wide, padlocked gates. Barbed wire atop the metal fencing kept strangers out and goods in. Just to the left of their building a pedestrian gate hung slightly open, its rusting lock loose in the hasp.
Finding no welcoming committee, Ryan took the lead and they entered the loading yard, leaving the gate as they had found it. They spotted a barely-lit entry some twenty-five meters ahead. Above them ran a long bank of multi-paned windows, those with glass still intact dulled by years of grime. Some showed dark gaps where panes had cracked and shattered under the assault of time and vandalism. A solitary, shielded bulb within a small gabled overhang marked the entry. Ryan knocked once, waited a moment, then thumped twice more with a balled fist before completing the sequence with another solitary knock, the code René had given the previous evening. Now the door swung inward to reveal his smiling face. Ryan was still surprised to see the beard.
They passed through a cavernous storage area divided by long rows of shipping crates. The labels in German as well as French indicated destinations on the Eastern Front. The strong smell of new canvas suggested they encased some sort of tenting materials. He thought of the endless day under the railcar tarp. A room some distance away toward the end of the first aisle of containers cast a shaft of light across the warehouse floor. Ryan could see partisans gathered around a table, hunched over maps or diagrams.
René held them back for a private conversation before they entered the room. “Here, these are for you.” He handed Ryan a bundle o
f papers. “Take a look before we go in. Secrecy is our greatest ally, and also our most dangerous foe, of course. But you should know your own identity, right?”
Ryan glanced through the documents, holding them under the light from the nearby door. His photo was affixed to a standard Vichy identity card with the pseudonym Raoul Diderot, age thirty-two, born in Chantilly. His mother’s maiden name was Lenôtre. Employed as a professor of humanities at a secondary school in Nice.
“I thought up the professor detail—should make you feel right at home.” René was clearly proud of his forgers’ accomplishments. “Beautiful work, n’est-ce’pas? And I chose Nice because of all the time you spent down there, so if questioned you should be able to bluff your way through, right?”
Ryan grinned, remembering his failure to understand the cop’s Breton insult at the Tours checkpoint. He pocketed the identity card. He could at least understand a little Provençal. He examined the remaining documents, including a demobilization card worn at the corners, a letter of employment issued by the school in Nice, and a second letter from a school administrator granting him temporary leave to liaise with school authorities in Nantes and Paris. The condition of the paperwork suggested the bearer had already presented the documents many times over. Yves and his fellow forgers appeared to have a supply of government-issued blanks. Ryan tucked away the papers. “Top-notch job. Thank you!”
“No need for thanks. Just use them safely. And now, here’s something to advance your espionage career.” He handed Ryan a second envelope. “Go ahead,” he encouraged, “take a look.”
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