“That’s reassuring,” Rogers said. “I think my Alfa Romeo is ready. I noticed I had a note from the dealer.”
“Very good,” said Szent-Germain. “Far better to have your own auto than have to resort to taxis and the Metro.”
“Truly.” He paused. “The 1900 isn’t a very handsome vehicle, but it has an anonymity that is very useful.”
“That it is,” Szent-Germain responded. “Not like the Delahaye.”
“No, but it is useful to have something less memorable,” said Rogers. “Especially given what I have been doing of late.”
Szent-Germain chuckled. “No doubt you’re right I’d probably be well-advised to drive something a bit less distinctive than this.” He avoided a large delivery wagon drawn by two massive Belgian Draft horses. “I do indulge myself in the matter of autos, as I used to do with horses, but I know the value of something functional and ordinary as much as I like fine design and careful engineering.” He took stock of the round-about ahead of them, and slowed a little to time his entrance into the whirl. “If it bothers you to have such an auto as the Alfa Romeo 1900, you can get something flashier.”
“No, thank you. I like my anonymity.” He shifted in the seat, stretching out his legs a bit more.
“Then arrange for the delivery of your new auto,” Szent-Germain recommended.
Rogers sighed, and ran his hands through his sandy hair. “Pay no attention to me; I’m out of patience with myself, and I’m taking it out on a blameless auto.” This was a surprising admission from Rogers, who regularly kept his emotions hidden behind a demeanor of competence and integrity.
“And why is that?” Szent-Germain inquired, swinging into the first workable gap in the autos and lorries and vans and motorcycles. He heard something strike the rear window and shook his head once; he would have to arrange for the window to be replaced.
“You’ll understand when you read my notes,” said Rogers.
“I did read them. They’re most comprehensive, and you describe a difficult situation that is going to take careful handling, but nothing about it is to your disrepute, or mine, for that matter. That was why I was on the telephone with Inspector Mielle this morning, and he, as you remarked, was not pleased.” He jockeyed for position to leave the round-about, and was almost clear of it when he felt the Delahaye lurch, and the steering wheel became hard to use; a flapping noise came from the front of the auto. “Left front tire’s blown.”
“Are you sure?” Rogers asked.
“I am.” He took a firm hold of the steering wheel and managed to get the auto to the side of the street he had just entered. As soon as he could, he turned off his engine, set the handbrake, and got out of the car, his mouth a grim line. He crouched down next to the tire and looked at it, noticing the smooth oval hole in the side of the white-wall tire. He rose and went to examine the rear window, and had his suspicions confirmed. “Who was shooting at us?” he asked the air in the vanished language of his people.
Rogers had got out of the passenger’s seat and came up to the Grof. “Do you want me to call anyone? That bistro should have a telephone.” He motioned to the small cafe across the street.
“I think that would be wise,” said Szent-Germain. “Call Jean-Isaac at Pierpoint’s, and ask him to bring his towing lorry. You have the number, I believe?”
“So I have,” said Rogers. “What about the Gendarmes? Should I inform them?”
“I think not. I’ll let Jean-Isaac do that.” He nodded toward the bistro. “You might summon a taxi, though.”
“Of course. I presume you want me to remain with the Delahaye until Jean-Isaac arrives?” said Rogers, and waited for a lorry laden with large crates to drive by before sprinting across the street.
The owner of the bistro—a bristly fellow with a look of doubt about him—demanded payment for the use of his telephone, and would not leave his post at the maitre d’s desk, where he made a great display of not listening, which convinced Rogers that he was. When the second call was finished, he said, “You’re a foreigner, aren’t you? You sound like a foreigner.”
“I am; from Cadiz,” Rogers said, not mentioning that when he had lived there, it was a Roman outpost called Gades; he glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll need to go out shortly.”
“Then go,” the owner said, all his interest in Rogers suddenly vanished.
“I thank you for the use of your telephone,” Rogers said, an expression of his customary good manners.
“You paid me to make it worthwhile,” the bistro owner said. “If you plan to come back, plan to eat.”
“As you wish,” he said as he left the bistro to join Szent-Germain across the street. When he was once again next to the Grof, he said, “A taxi is coming to take you to the press; he has been told that you need to arrive there quickly; I have ordered a second in forty-five minutes,” he informed his employer in Byzantine Greek.
“And Jean-Isaac?” Szent-Germain asked, using the same language. “Are you sure he will arrive before then?”
“He is on his way. He will examine the auto thoroughly, and report to you by tomorrow evening.” Rogers frowned as he contemplated the Delahaye. “I suppose he will inform the Gendarmes of what he finds, as per your request.”
“I trust he will. In the meantime, come to the press once you have turned this auto over to Jean-Isaac. We have to—” He went silent as another bullet went by his ear, knocking a small fragment of stone off the building next to where the two men stood. “By all the forgotten gods!” he exclaimed aloud, in his native tongue. “What is this about?” he continued in French.
“I think perhaps we should find shelter,” Rogers said, then pointed to the same lorry he had waited to pass before crossing the street. “A rifle, there, in the back, among the crates.”
Szent-Germain squinted, and moved back into the shadow of an awning over a front window of a haberdashery. He squinted. “I can’t read the number on the—” and ducked as a final shot rang out just as the lorry put on a burst of speed and slipped into the maelstrom of the round-about, quickly becoming lost to sight. Szent-Germain stepped away from the awning’s shadow. “He was hunting us.”
“So it would seem,” said Rogers.
“But why?” Szent-Germain asked, still in his ancient language, expecting no answer.
“How much should we tell Jean-Isaac?” Rogers did not appear to be distressed at what he might have to reveal to the mechanic.
“I don’t know,” Szent-Germain said, frustration making him brusque. “Don’t volunteer anything,” he warned. “Until we know more, we must keep close to the vest.”
Rogers nodded. “Your taxi is arriving.”
“So it is,” said Szent-Germain, stepping out to the curb to signal to the cab. “Call me if you are going to be later than an hour.”
“I will,” said Rogers.
“Perhaps I should consider an auto like yours, after all,” the Grof said as he opened the taxi door and stepped into the rear seat.
Watching the taxi pull away, Rogers had to take a moment to compose himself before he would have to explain to Jean-Isaac why there were bullet holes in the Delahaye.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM JULIA BJORNSON FROM LE HAVRE TO AXEL BJORNSON IN PARIS, DELIVERED A DAY AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.
June 18, 1950
My dearest Axel,
There is no easy way to tell you this, so I will not draw out the suspense or the pain that I know I will cause you: I am en route to Southampton to return to America on the ship Goodman Baynard which will leave in three days for New York. I will go from there to my sister’s home in Colliersville, Vermont. You remember how pleasant her place is, I’m sure. I don’t know how long I will remain there, but at least I will be home. In six months or so, I will set about establishing myself in some quiet little town where I will not raise any suspicions about my presence, and where you can live without undue attention in the years ahead.
You know how miserable I have been for the last two years, and I
know you’ve done everything you can to comfort me, but the one thing I long for—a return to the US—you have not been willing to do. Your situation is a problem, of course, and I understand why you feel it is necessary for you to refuse to do the one thing I need to survive. You may think that such a statement is an exaggeration, but it is not. I need to be in my own country as I need food and drink, though I am certain you do not share my feelings. All I can ask is that you accept that I cannot continue to live away from my home.
I’m sorry to leave you in such a state as I have. If you decide to divorce me, I will not oppose it, but I hope with all my heart that this separation will end and we will be reunited with each other and our own people. It is more than I can bear to remain in a strange country for years and years with no hope of coming back to the US. You have shown me that you are a man of stronger character than I can claim for myself, and I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive me for this hasty and secret departure. You may take comfort in knowing I will not assist in any prosecution of you during your absence: a wife may still refuse to testify against her husband, no matter what has passed between them.
I hope you will write to me at Lois’ house and let me know how you are faring. And may God bless you and keep you safe in the dangerous place where you have chosen to live.
Your most loving
Julia
3
SUMMER HEAT slowed the pace of everything and everyone along the Potomac River Basin and the fan of streets lined with imposing buildings dedicated to the workings of government; their magnificent facades enhanced the hotness, doubling the impact of the mid-day roasting. At the National Zoo, animals from the veldts of Africa drowsed under plane trees; others lounged in the ponds and streams that provided relief for hippos and crocodiles. Even the frenetic pace of the Washington traffic was slowed by the unrelenting sun that hung in the sky like an irate god, baking all he could see from his remote vantage point. Tourists plodded along the sidewalks, sweat on their faces and marking the necklines and underarms of their summery clothing, guidebooks used as fans, and bottles of diverse sodas marking every refuse container like religious offerings. Most of these visitors wandering in the heat carried cameras to use to commemorate their trip to Washington; it was two days before the Fourth of July, and President Truman had promised a memorable celebration for those in the city, beginning at four in the afternoon with a parade of states, with champion high-school bands from every part of the country, for which the Park Police had erected wooden sawhorse barriers next to the sidewalks: in tribute for Pearl Harbor, the parade would be led by the Peter Damien High School band, and many people wanted to see them, and applaud their work in the war; conservative columnists opined their disapproval but were shouted down with a blizzard of letters to the editors. As a result, there was a growing air of excitement in spite of the oppressive warmth. With the President’s pledge to reassure them, tourists continued to descend on the capital, eager for good, old-fashioned, patriotic festivities that would begin tomorrow with a sunset concert by the Marine Band as well as a performance by Bud Abbott and Lou Costello, fireworks to follow. Already a large bandstand had been set up near the foot of the Washington Monument, and the Park Police were on extra duty as the preparations continued. Plain-clothes District police meandered among the tourists, watching for pick-pockets and thugs; they would be tripling their numbers by tomorrow morning when the streets would be impassable with the crowd.
For those who worked in the government, all this excitement was more of an irritant than an occasion for festivities, an additional intrusion on the heavy industry of the city that stretched from the White House and Congress and spread out through agencies, services, departments, courts, archives, armed forces, cultural institutions, and all sorts of divisions and committees devoted to some aspect of the country’s business. The look of the place was imposing, thought Broadstreet. As it ought to be.
Running almost five minutes late for his one P.M. appointment, Lydell Broadstreet searched for a parking space in the two-tiered lot behind the building in which Manfred Channing labored. At last he happened upon a space in the far corner of the structure, next to one of the massive cement piers that supported the upper level. Not a very promising omen, he told himself, but it could be worse. With a clicking of his tongue at the inconvenience of this location, Broadstreet pulled into the space, rolled up his windows but for the right side-wing, and got out, his briefcase in hand, and locked his three-year-old sedan, thinking he should hire the sixteen-year-old across the street from his home to wash and police the Frazer. But he could hear opportunity knocking and he would answer its call. Descending the cement stairs two at a time, he was sweating by the time he went out into the sunlight, and he swore fulsomely under his breath as he waited for the stoplight to change. He thought now that he should have worn something lighter than this heavy suit of navy mid-weight wool, which was proving more engulfing and stifling than Broadstreet had anticipated; he wondered if this were anything like an Indian sweat-lodge. At least his shirt was cotton, though he felt the collar wilting as he rushed across the street, his navy-and-gold silk tie beginning to feel like a noose—not the kind of omen he was looking for. Once inside the building, he was identified and Channing alerted to Broadsteet’s arrival.
“You know the way?” asked the receptionist without interest; she had a voice that grated like a rake on concrete.
“Three flights up, room number 413,” Broadstreet said, finally able to stop panting.
The receptionist waved him toward the bank of elevators and gave her attention to the man behind him.
The elevator was stuffy, the fan hardly stirring the air. The elevator operator—a chocolate-colored man with a fringe of hair that looked like cotton candy—nodded to Broadstreet. “Which floor, sir?”
“Fourth floor.” He waited while two other men got into the elevator cab and requested floors five and eight. Now that he was on the last leg of his journey, Broadstreet began to worry in earnest, his early satisfaction at the summons from Channing no longer feeling as good as it had when it arrived yesterday. He had at first taken pride in the degree of attention that his superior paid to him, but that had drained away as he tried to imagine why Channing wanted to see him so soon after he submitted his last report. He could not help but fret over his account of the fictitious meeting with Baxter, an event that supposedly took place four days ago on the dock behind a crab-shack near Point Pleasant. Had he done too much in describing the private party in the main dining room that spilled out onto the deck from time to time? Might someone have checked his report, and found out that Broadstreet had dined inside, luxuriously and alone? Just the thought that he had been found out made him shrink inside his clothes. He took his wrinkled handkerchief from his trouser-pocket and wiped his face, as much to conceal his edginess as to blot away the moisture on his brow and cheeks.
“Fourth floor,” said the operator, bringing the cab even with the floor.
“Good,” said Broadstreet, pushing past the other two passengers bound for higher floors, out into the side hallway. He tried to quiz himself on the other two men in the elevator: one was in a navy-blue suit, but which one? One of the men had hazel eyes, but again, he could not decide which. There was so much to remember, so many things to notice, he chided and excused himself at the same time. He swung his briefcase as he walked, trying to infuse himself with the air of accomplishment he feared he lacked. He knew he would have to have a composed demeanor for his interview, and he did what he could to achieve it before he reached Channing’s office. He began by slowing down the speed of his walk; it would not be good to arrive panting.
Channing’s secretary was a new face to Broadstreet—a woman of about thirty, smallish, neat, with carefully subdued good looks, and an engaging charm about her as she took stock of Broadstreet, saying in answer to his question, “I’ll be here until his usual secretary comes back from his assignment in three weeks with his brother, after spending most
of that time in Italy, poor guys—it’s much better there in the last couple years. Thank you for asking.”—so he reached into his inner breast pocket for his wallet in order to identify himself with his credentials, striving to keep his anxiety at bay.
“It’s all in order,” she said after a cursory examination.
“Much appreciated, Miss Pierce.”
“Missus Pierce,” she corrected him with an easy smile. “Go on in, Mister Broadstreet. He’s expecting you.”
Two fans labored to cool off Manfred Channing’s office, but they did little more than ruffle the pages under an ornate paperweight in the middle of his desk-top blotter. The thermometer in the barometer display registered ninety-one degrees and the barometer was starting to fall. That would be a real problem, with all the preparations under way for the Fourth. There would be rain by sundown. Channing himself was a bit pink from the heat, but had no other direct sign of being too hot; his charcoal pin-stripe three-piece suit of lightweight Italian wool showed no sign of swelter, and his linen shirt appeared crisp; his tie had a regimental stripe and had not been loosened. He looked across the desk at his current visitor, and did his best to smile his approval. “I’ve read your most recent report on Baxter. It sounds as if you’re making progress with him at last.”
“So I hope,” said Lydell Broadstreet. “He’s not a man who is easy to pin down. He gets skittish when I’ve tried.”
“That much is obvious,” said Channing, and tapped his intercom. “Pierce, will you go get two large glasses of lemonade for me and my—?” He made no excuse for not using Broadstreet’s name or position within the agency.
Opal Pierce, who was determined to gain the good opinion of Broadstreet, answered at once. “I’ll be back in ten minutes at the most, if that’s satisfactory.” This was promised with a slight chuckle, as if the answer were obvious. “Will you want ice in the lemonade?”
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