Rick would have preferred something more substantial than tea, but Renault was agreeable. “That would be very nice, Mrs. Bunton,” he said.
Rick and Renault sat down as she poured the tea. “Just who might these friends of yours be?” she inquired politely.
“Mr. and Mrs. Victor Laszlo,” Rick replied.
Mrs. Bunton occupied herself with thinking for a moment. “Mr. Laszlo?” she repeated. “That would be a foreign gentleman, I expect.”
“Yes,” said Rick. “He's a Czech. His wife, who also goes by the name of Ilsa Lund, is Norwegian.”
“I’m quite sure there's no one by that name here,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Maybe they're registered under another name,” Rick suggested.
Mrs. Bunton seemed to take offense at the thought. “I’m quite sure everyone who stays here is who he says he is,” she retorted. “The management insists on it.”
“Just who might this management be?” Rick asked idly. Mrs. Bunton did not reply but instead tugged on an old Victorian bell pull. Practically in the same motion, she drew a small pistol from the folds of her apron and trained it on them expertly. Rick and Louis held their teacups in midair, feeling ridiculous.
“That would be Mr. Lumley,” she informed them. “He'll be along shortly. Now, if you gentlemen wouldn't mind keeping both your hands where I can see them, it won't be a moment.” She gave another hard tug on the bell pull.
Sure enough, not two minutes later into the room strode Reginald Lumley. “If it isn't the inquisitive Mr. Richard Blaine,” he said. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you're a day early.”
“I wanted to make sure the menu was to my liking,” said Rick. “My stomach, you know… .”
“And this must be Louis Renault, former Prefect of Police in Casablanca,” continued Lumley.
Renault nodded slightly. “At your service, sir,” he said.
“Well, then,” said Lumley, “since all the guests of honor save one are here, I see no reason why we can't start the party. Won't you follow me, please, gentlemen?”
Rick and Renault accompanied Lumley up three flights of stairs. Rick noticed that the second and third floors looked like a rooming house, or a small private hotel, but as they climbed one story higher, appearances changed. The entire floor had been given over to a kind of situation room: men pored over maps, women talked on telephones and pounded typewriters. A few servants moved quietly about the room, bringing food and drink where and when needed.
Rick whistled softly as they stood in the doorway. “Nice setup you got here,” he said. “Reminds me of the kind of thing we used to have back home. Except not so fancy, of course.”
“Glad you like it, Mr. Blaine,” said Lumley. “We do aim to make our guests comfortable. Even when we're not sure they're entirely welcome.” He knocked loudly to announce their presence, then ushered the two men inside.
“Of course you know Victor Laszlo,” he said, nodding to one of the room's occupants.
Rick and Laszlo looked at each other for the first time since the tarmac in Casablanca. “Monsieur Blaine,” said Laszlo, extending his hand, “it is a very great pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” said Rick, lighting a cigarette.
Laszlo took him by the arm and guided him into a corner. “We had to make sure the time was right,” he said softly. “We had to be absolutely certain that our plan could work. And we had to know, really know, that you could be trusted.”
Rick took a puff. “I think that you're here in one piece is proof of that.”
“Precisely,” said Laszlo. “That's what I have been telling them since we arrived. The British don't trust anybody. They had to make sure of your bona fides. I regret it took so long.”
“Which is why they paid my rooms a little visit,” said Rick. “Look, Laszlo, I’m as good as my word. You know that. Any man who doesn't is not someone I want to work with. I told you back in Casablanca when Louis had you in the holding pen that I was in, and I meant it. Where I come from, a man's word is his bond. Sometimes it's all he has. Right now, it's all I’ve got left, and I don't intend to devalue it.”
Laszlo nodded his head. “Agreed and accepted. Let's get to work.” He brought Rick over to meet a mustachioed military man. “Major Sir Harold Miles, may I present Monsieur Richard Blaine.”
Major Miles held out his hand and shook Rick's formally. “Welcome to London,” he said. “Shall we sit down?”
They sat at a large conference table: Rick, Renault, Lumley, Laszlo, and Major Miles. An adjutant stood nearby. A stenographer took notes.
“Gentlemen, I think we all know each other, at least by reputation,” said Major Miles, who seemed to be in charge. “I represent the Special Operations Executive, which, as you know, is charged with clandestine activity. Mr. Lumley is here in his capacity as private secretary to Sir Ernest Spencer, the Secretary for War, who has ultimate authority over the operation.” He threw a set of photographs on the table. “I trust you will forgive me if I dispense with the formalities, but time is short. This, gentlemen, is our target.” The same cruel face that Rick had been looking at in the British Library stared up at them: the face of Reinhard Heydrich.
“… the commander of the RSHA and Protector of Bohemia and Moravia,” the major was saying. “Nietzsche's ‘Blond Beast’ in the flesh. Handsome, cultured, talented, a connoisseur of food, wine, and women. The sort of chap one wouldn't mind entertaining at one's club, if he weren't also a cold-blooded killer.”
Rick studied the face in the photo, whose quality was so much better than the picture in the newspapers. He had seen that face a thousand times before, back in New York. The face of an opportunist. The face of a profiteer. The face of a double-crosser who would betray his own mother for a small personal gain. Rick saw a hint of the bully, but whether he was also a coward, Rick could not tell. You had to see a man in the flesh before you could sense that.
“A real pretty boy, isn't he?” he remarked.
“Don't let his looks fool you,” said the major. “Heydrich is perhaps the most dangerous Nazi official outside of Hitler himself. Goering is a posturing buffoon, whose Luftwaffe can make our lives miserable for a while but won't be able to defend Germany when the time comes. Goebbels is a partisan, but he's also just a propagandist who will be singing a different tune should circumstances change. Himmler is a nasty little bastard with a chip on his shoulder. Heydrich is smarter than all three of them, and because of that, ten times as dangerous.”
“Why not go for Hitler and be done with it?” asked Rick. “If you want to kill the beast, you don't cut off its tail, you cut off its head.”
The major looked at Rick as if he were mad. “I’m afraid we can't do that,” he explained. “It has already been decided at the highest levels of government that under The Hague convention, the assassination of rival heads of state, even belligerents, will not be countenanced. This is war, not a street brawl.”
Rick thought of the debris outside in the London streets and wasn't so sure. “Looks to me that that's what the Luftwaffe's trying to do. Knock off Churchill, I mean.”
The major waved away Rick's objection. “Aerial bombing's one thing, assassination's another,” he said. “If Bomber Harris's RAF blows the Führer to hell, I can assure you we none of us will shed a tear about it. In any case, clandestine operations in Berlin are out of the question. We have very few Intelligence assets there.” He slapped his swagger stick against his thigh.
“So why Heydrich?” asked Rick. “How'd he draw the short stick?”
“Because we can,” Major Miles replied.
“Because we have to!” exclaimed Lumley. “I mean, how do these bloody Czechs expect us to beat back the Hun when they won't even lift a finger to help?”
“Because we must,” said Laszlo beneath his breath.
“What are you talking about?” Rick asked Lumley.
“The Czechs aren't putting up much of a fight at all,” said Lu
mley. “Ever since this chap Heydrich arrived and shot a few of their johnnies, there's been hardly a peep out of them. Why, even the bloody frogs are giving a better account of themselves.”
“Ahem,” said Renault.
“Anyway,” Lumley concluded, “it's high time we lit a fire under the bastards. Something to get their Irish up, so to speak.”
“I’m sure they'll be very grateful,” Renault remarked.
“Frankly,” said the major, “we've been worried about the loyalties of the Czechs for some time. Bohemia and Moravia have always been as much German as Czech, culturally speaking, and they appear to be wearing the Nazi yoke a little too lightly for comfort.”
“I thought your man Chamberlain was supposed to save Czechoslovakia for democracy,” Rick observed.
“That's water under the dam,” retorted Sir Harold. “Winston's the PM now, and he is determined to rectify his predecessor's errors of judgment.”
“If he doesn't, we most certainly will,” said Laszlo.
Rick wasn't convinced. “I don't see why Heydrich is any worse, or any more dangerous, than the other top Nazis—especially when Heydrich is in Prague, not Berlin, where the decisions are made.”
“You might feel very differently, Monsieur Blaine,” said Laszlo, “if Heydrich were Gauleiter of New York.”
“I might.”
The major glanced at him. “Mr. Laszlo has informed me of your willingness to support the cause of the Resistance throughout Europe, Mr. Blaine,” he said. “He has also briefed me on your background and your skills, which information we have thoroughly investigated ourselves.”
“Which is why you tossed my room and stole my passport.”
“We had to make sure you were who you purported to be,” replied the major. “We couldn't take the risk you were an impostor sent by the Germans to discover the whereabouts of Mr. Laszlo….”
“What if I had been?”
“We would have killed you,” Sir Harold responded with no particular emotion. “Fortunately for all of us, Mr. Laszlo vouched for you upon presentation of your passport, as well as making a visual identification this evening while you were enjoying Mrs. Bunton's hospitality.”
“Which the hound and which the hare?” wondered Renault. “And which the fox?”
Major Miles threw Rick's and Sam's passports on the table. “At this moment, Mr. Blaine,” he said, “I think I do not flatter myself when I say that I know more about you than your own mother.”
Rick thought back to his meeting with another major, Strasser, in Renault's office in Casablanca, and of his dossier in the Nazi's clammy hands. Surely the English couldn't have any more information on him than the Germans did. It was time to find out. “My mother never did know me that well,” he remarked, wishing he had a drink.
“But we do,” continued Miles. “We know you ran arms into Ethiopia for the emperor Haile Selassie in 1935 and 1936 in his futile resistance to Mussolini. Very brave of you—and extremely quixotic, if you don't mind my saying so.”
“I’ve always had a soft spot for the underdog,” observed Rick. “It's the American way.”
“Extremely unusual, too. Tell me, Mr. Blaine”—now it was the major's turn to light up a cigarette—”what made you leave New York City so suddenly in October of 1935?”
“I really don't think that's any of your business,” said Rick as calmly as he could.
“So suddenly and with such finality that it is said that you can never return to your native land.” The major tapped an ash into the wastebasket. “What made you go to, of all places, Ethiopia?”
“I didn't,” Rick told him. “I stopped in Paris first, and left Sam there to scout the place.” He tightened his lips. “I guess it's no secret that I was in the saloon business back home, and I heard Paris might be a nice place to open another one. I heard right.”
“Why did you go to Addis Ababa, then?” the major wanted to know.
“Let's just say I don't like bullies and leave it at that,” replied Rick.
Major Miles shuffled some papers. “We also know you fought in Spain with the Loyalists against Franco. Once again, very brave, very quixotic—and very dangerous. You saw a good deal of action—in between making quite a tidy little sum running arms to the Republicans.”
Rick took a deep drag on his cigarette. “That's not a secret, either,” he said. “Tell me something your crack Intelligence service has discovered that the rest of the world doesn't already know.”
Sir Harold ignored the insult. “Then in May or June of 1939 you turn up in Paris and stay until the day the Germans march in.”
“I didn't have much choice about leaving,” Rick explained. “With my record in Spain, I had to get out unless I wanted to end up like Laszlo, as a guest of the Reich. The fact is, Major, Nazis don't much like me, and frankly, I don't much like them, either.”
“I find it hard to reconcile this, shall we say, idealism with the persona of a passive neutral that you have obviously so carefully cultivated in Casablanca.”
“Suit yourself,” replied Rick. “It's pretty tough for me sometimes, too.” He finished off his cigarette and ground it out in an ashtray. He'd had about enough of this. “You know,” he said heatedly, “I went over this with Major Strasser in Casablanca, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and go over it again with you. A man's entitled to keep at least part of his private life private. Why I’ve done what I’ve done is my business and nobody else's. Now, if there are no further questions …” He got up as if to leave.
“Wait, Richard, please.” It was her voice. It was her. When she had entered the room, he did not know. But she was there.
He wanted to turn to look at her, but he didn't. He couldn't. Not right now. He sat down again.
Victor Laszlo spoke up. “Please, Monsieur Blaine, my wife and I are quite serious about needing your help. You cannot blame us if Sir Harold has investigated you. In an operation of this importance and this sensitivity, we must make absolutely certain where each man's loyalties lie.
“Monsieur Renault we understand,” continued Laszlo, nodding in Louis's direction. “He is a man for whom money and pleasure are paramount. This is the sort of man with whom we can do business. But you are another story. I do not insult you again by offering you money….”
“You offered me a hundred thousand francs for those letters of transit, remember?” Rick said. “Or was it two hundred thousand?”
“And you refused to accept my offer. Instead, you gave them to me—or perhaps I should say, you gave the letters to her.”
“That's true,” muttered Rick.
“I was prepared—we were prepared—to do anything to get out of Casablanca. Ilsa's feelings for you were immaterial to me, as long as she and I could escape, to continue our work here.” Laszlo poured himself a small glass of water from a carafe on the table. “A world war is no time to let personal emotions interfere with a cause. Your decision to join us superseded in my mind any designs you may have had on my wife. Therefore, let us seal the bargain we made in Casablanca.”
Laszlo stood. “I offer you my hand, not in friendship, for I know that we can never be friends. Instead, I give it to you in comradeship.”
Several seconds elapsed before Rick extended his hand. Victor took it. “Laszlo, I’ll do everything my conscience will allow me to do for both you and Ilsa. Just how much that is will be determined by me and me alone. Agreed?”
“Once again,” said Laszlo, “welcome back to the fight.”
“There's just one more thing,” added Rick. “I meant what I said to Ilsa at the airport. That what I’ve got to do she can have no part of. We agreed on that.”
He could hear her footsteps as she walked over to the table. Her voice was loud in his ear. He could smell her perfume. He turned and, suddenly, was lost in her eyes.
“Major,” she said, “would you please explain how things stand to Mr. Blaine?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sir Harold stood. “Mr.
Blaine,” he began, clearing his throat. “Since the entry of the United States of America into the war, the circumstances of the conflict have profoundly changed.”
Rick sat impassively, listening, his heart pounding.
“This war is no longer simply the struggle of one lone, free nation, England, against the Third Reich. This war is no longer a competition among empires—the British versus the German. This war is no longer simply an academic question of whether fascism or communism or democracy is the superior form of government.
“This war,” he said, striking the table with his fist, “is a battle to the death.”
Ilsa winced at the noise. Laszlo didn't.
“To the death,” repeated Major Miles. “I’m not sure how much experience you personally have had with such a struggle, Mr. Blaine.”
“Enough to know I like to win,” remarked Rick, “but also enough to know that I don't count on it.”
“Just so. Now, Mr. Blaine, our struggle is also your struggle.” The major pointed to one of several wall maps. “This,” he said, “is what remains of Czechoslovakia.” He rapped the map with a pointer. “Here is Prague. You will notice that it is two hundred miles northwest of Vienna, not terribly far from either Munich or Berlin. In other words, Prague is not some eastern backwater, remote and inaccessible, but a sophisticated city located deep in the Reich and at the very heart of the European continent. I cannot overemphasize the city's strategic and psychological importance.”
That part made sense to Rick. If you wanted to rub out the other guy, best to do it in one of his own joints. It didn't hurt to have the aid of an insider, either, someone to betray the victim when the time was just right. That was another lesson he had learned the hard way. He still remembered the way Giuseppe Guglielmo had looked as Tick-Tock stuck a knife between his ribs and Abie Cohen shot off the front of his face and the would-be capo di tutti capi died right there, on the Persian carpet he'd probably overpaid for, in his office above Grand Central Station back in the good old days.
Miles's voice commanded attention. “We believe that a bomb is the best way to dispose of Herr Heydrich. Mr. Laszlo has made a convincing case for a bomb attack, effected during one of Heydrich's daily drives through the city.”
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