Downstairs, Reinhard Heydrich was pacing the floor. In the morning light his skin looked paler than ever, more like a cadaver's than a living man's, and his eyes did not shine as bright as they had the night before. Still, his uniform was freshly laundered and pressed, his jackboots shined by his batman to an unearthly finish. He looked every inch the Nazi officer.
“You Slavs are like children.” He sighed.“You have no sense of time, no sense of urgency. Always late!”
“I want to look my best, Reinhard,” she said.
He slapped his swagger stick against his thigh.“I hope you are ready for what should prove to be a most interesting day,” he said.“Shall we go?”
It was 7:31 A.M. Because of her, they were six minutes behind schedule.
The limousine's motor was purring softly in the courtyard. There appeared to be no chance of rain, which meant the convertible's top would stay down. The uniformed driver had his gloved hands on the steering wheel. Ilsa got into the backseat of the car, behind the driver. Heydrich took the seat behind the bodyguard.
Her heart nearly stopped when she heard the Protector give instructions to his driver.“The Kirchmayer Boulevard,” he said,“and the Cechuv Most.”
The Cechuv Most? It couldn't be! Victor and the others would be waiting at the Charles Bridge. She had to get him to change his route, now. But how?
“I thought it might amuse you to see how the Reich deals with traitors,” he said as the car started forward.
“Well, Ricky, how are we this fine morning?” said the voice at his side as Rick stepped into the street. It was Renault, dressed as elegantly as ever.“Ready for a funeral or two?”
“As ready as I’m going to be,” replied Rick. He patted his pockets idly for a pack of cigarettes, then remembered he had run out, smoking the last of his precious Chesterfields in the middle of the night while he replayed an old Alekhine game in which the problem had been to force mate in six moves from a position that was superficially hopeless. That was the game that had won the Russian the championship in 1927, when he beat Capablanca. When he finished Capablanca.
He bummed three smokes off Louis. That's all he would need. After that, things would be too exciting for him to worry about smoking.
Renault inspected the knot of his tie and made sure the cravat was straight and true. Around them, life was beginning to stir as men and women trudged, rode, strode, staggered, stumbled, and ambled to their jobs. The weather was breaking clear and cloudless, the way it did in New York at this time of year. A good omen, thought Rick.
Around the corner came the car bearing KubiŠ and GabcÍk. They were dressed as common laborers; KubiŠ was disguised as a city street sweeper, while GabcÍk was outfitted as a telephone line worker. When the time came, Josef would be up and off the ground, his work belt concealing a Sten gun, with which he was to open fire on the convertible. Jan's assignment was to stand by the bridge approach and, after the car had passed, rake it with gunfire from behind.
Rick nodded imperceptibly to the two Czech patriots as they took up their stations. He hoped they wouldn't be too disappointed when Heydrich didn't show up for his own assassination. He hoped they'd get out alive. He hoped they would never find out that he and Ilsa had tipped off the Protector.
Where was Laszlo? Rick tried hard not to search for him too conspicuously, but Victor was nowhere to be seen. That was partly to be expected, because Laszlo could not show his face until the last minute. Still, he should be at his station by now, which was just beside the Clementinum, the huge, ancient, fortresslike complex of buildings and churches that dominated the Old Town side of the bridge. A good place for him, Rick thought: in the thirteenth century, the Clementinum had been the headquarters of the Inquisition, and even after the Jesuits replaced the Dominicans as the inquisitors-in-chief, they'd continued their forebears’ practice of the forcible conversion of as many of Prague's Jews as they could lay their hands on.
What if something had gone wrong? Rick tried to control his imagination, but it was running away with him. What if Laszlo had been captured on the way in from Lidice? What if something had happened to Ilsa? What if Heydrich hadn't fallen for their ploy and had instead suspected the messenger instead of the message? Split-second timing was everything: the minute Heydrich's troops showed up, the hit team had to be ready to run. The problem was, only Rick would be expecting them. Only Rick could expect them.
Only one outcome was worse: What if, despite their warning, Heydrich did show up? That would be just like a Nazi. Well, he'd done his best to make it not happen. Now it was up to God.
“So long, Louis,” he said.“See you back at the ranch.”
“I shall look forward to it,” replied Renault,“wherever the ranch might be.”
Rick took up his post halfway across the bridge. He would not stand out here. The Charles Bridge was always crowded with sightseers come to admire the famous statuary—and, of course, to cheer on the Protector as he made his stately way across the river and over to the castle. He had concealed the smoke bomb in a small basket, the kind of thing one carried groceries in. To make it look good, he had bought a couple of loaves of fresh bread that morning and stuck them on top. The smell of the bread reminded him he had forgotten breakfast. No time to worry about that now.
From his vantage point, ostensibly admiring the weatherbeaten countenance of some nameless Christian martyr, he could see the two Czechs and, in the distance, Louis Renault.
Then he spotted Victor Laszlo, who had appeared in front of the Clementinum. Even from this distance, Rick could descry Laszlo's height and form, could see him conversing with Renault.
Rick looked down at his watch. It was 7:39 A.M. Fifteen minutes from now it would all be over, one way or another.
When he looked up again, Laszlo and Renault had disappeared.
That wasn't part of the plan.
“Good morning, Victor,” Renault said jauntily as Laszlo stepped out of the car in which he'd been riding.
“Good morning, Captain Renault,” replied Laszlo.
Laszlo's tone caught Renault's ear.“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“What could be wrong?” asked Laszlo. Wrapped in a long cloak against discovery, he had his hat pulled down low over his forehead, and his hands were jammed in both his pockets.“Today, I shall realize an ambition that has burned inside my breast for a long time. Today I shall kill the man who is destroying my country and those in it I love. What more could one ask? Were it raining and storming, I should think this the most beautiful day of my life.”
Renault nodded.“I think I know how you feel,” he said. He checked his watch. It was 7:42 A.M. Time for them all to be getting into position; almost past time.
Laszlo spoke in the same controlled monotone.“How can you presume to know how I feel? You, who until just a few months ago were in the paid employ of my enemy.”
“I don't think we need to go back over all that right now,” Renault said stiffly.“We have a job to do. With luck, we shall succeed. With the help of God, we shall escape. We will have plenty of time to discuss all this back in Lidice or, better yet, London.”
“I hope so,” said Laszlo.
Ilsa tried to control the fear in her voice.“The Cechuv Most?” she said softly, trying not to be overheard by anyone else.“Last night you said—”
Heydrich cut her off.“Last night I said a good many things, most of which I prefer not to remember. Today, however, is a new day—a day of terrible vengeance and great joy!”
He consulted his timepiece.“Even now my men are taking up their positions in Josefov. Surely you would not deny me the satisfaction of witnessing the capture and execution of Victor Laszlo? Really, my dear, I am surprised that you think so little of me.” He rubbed his hands briskly together and looked heavenward.“A superb day, don't you agree, Miss Toumanova?” he observed.
“Yes, Herr Heydrich, it is,” she agreed. They were no longer in his house; first names no longer applied. From now on, everything wou
ld be strictly business. That would have to change, too.
Rick stood on the Charles Bridge, smoking the first of his borrowed cigarettes and waiting. He hoped he was waiting for nothing. He hoped he would stand there, waiting, until Heydrich was five minutes late, run for it, get word back to London that the plot had failed, and request immediate extraction. Boredom: that was the best case scenario. He didn't want to think about the worst case.
7:45 A.M. Traffic moved slowly back and forth across the bridge. On one side of the river, the Old City, all spires and turrets. On the other, the imposing majesty of the castle. He looked up and down but could see nothing out of the ordinary. No big black Mercedes-Benz, swastika pennants flapping briskly. Just workaday Prague, going about its business.
Heydrich was always on time, they had said. Point of pride. Measure of Aryan superiority over the lesser breeds. Indicator of supreme self-confidence. Here, the trains ran on schedule, and so did the officials.
7:46 A.M.
Set a good example.
7:46:30.
Always on time.
7:47.
Ha!
Rick lit his second cigarette. He couldn't let them know that he had tipped off Heydrich in order to save Ilsa and spare the lives of innocents across Europe. He couldn't say a damn thing. He just wanted to go home.
7:47:30.
Inhale.
7:47:32.
Exhale.
7:48:30.
Time to start the cycle over. Light another cigarette, the last one. Almost time to go home. Inhale.
The bodyguard was armed with both a pistol and an automatic rifle, and two more rifles were stashed away beneath the dash. Heydrich himself wore a pair of sidearms, one on each hip; Ilsa knew as well that he also carried a large killing knife in the calf of his right polished boot. Finally, there was a brace of shotguns across the back of the front seats, within easy reach. Ordinarily the Protector did not expect trouble from his Czech subjects, but he was ready for it just in case.
The car moved away from the villa, picking up speed as it hit the open road that led in to the Old City. Abruptly he removed one of his twin Lugers from its holster and checked the clip.“My men are looking for Laszlo right now,” he said.“As soon as they spot him, they will arrest and hold him until we arrive. Then I shall shoot him.”
He sighted down the barrel of his Luger at a road sign. The sign read PRAHA.
“Like this.” He squeezed the trigger. There was a bullet hole directly through the center of the middle“A.”
7:49.
Rick surveyed the scene once more. On one side of the bridge Jan KubiŠ was bent over his street-sweeping duties, methodically working back and forth across the roadway. This part of the bridge had probably never been so clean, thought Rick, and never would be again. Meanwhile, up on a window ledge, GabcÍk was perched on the side of a building, pretending to inspect the telephone lines. As Rick watched, he saw Josef slide into position along a wide window ledge: the perfect vantage point from which to rain lead into the car.
Rick looked back down the bridge. No sign of Renault. Odd: Louis should be ready to go by now, ready to step out into the street just as Heydrich's car was turning. Of course, Heydrich's car wouldn't be turning, but nobody besides him and Louis knew that.
Where the hell was he?
He glanced at his watch. Ten seconds before 7:50 A.M. No sign of Heydrich. His watch was right. He knew it was right. It had to be right.
He started to breathe easier.
There was Renault!
He could see the little man's elegant form standing on the sidewalk near the Clementinum. Right behind him was Victor Laszlo. Although half-hidden in the shadows, he was unmistakable. Laszlo appeared to be whispering something in Louis's ear. Louis was shaking his head, violently disagreeing. What were they saying?
7:51 A.M. No Heydrich.
7:52 A.M. No Heydrich.
Rick let out a deep breath.
7:53 A.M. No Heydrich.
7:54 A.M. No Heydrich. Another minute and that would be that.
He was patting his pocket for another cigarette, and coming up empty, when the sound of martial music wafted across the river and into his ears.
“Where is he?” said Laszlo, his voice growing tense.“He's not coming.Why?”
“Really,” said Renault over his shoulder, with as much savoir faire as he could muster,“I don't have the slightest idea.”
Louis was standing on the sidewalk of Karlova Street, ready at KubiŠ’s signal to step into Krizovnicka Street and into the path of Heydrich's vehicle as he made the turn. Heydrich was four minutes late; no German had ever been four minutes late for anything. That meant Rick's warning had been successful, that Heydrich had taken the other bridge after all, that the operation was a failure—all the things he had been hoping for, with one more to go: to get out of Prague alive.
As he looked at it, Renault's watch ticked over to 7:55 A.M. Time to stand down.“It appears that our little rendezvous with destiny has been canceled,” he remarked.“What a pity.”
Louis could feel Laszlo behind him, pacing back and forth.“It can't be,” Victor was growling.“Not now.”
“I believe it was agreed that if our friend was one second past five minutes late the operation would be aborted,” Renault reminded Laszlo, pointing to his watch.
“No,” said Laszlo.“He's coming. I know he is.”
“I am confident he is not,” replied Louis. It was time to end the charade. He just wanted to get out and get away before they were all arrested and shot.
He started to leave but was jerked back roughly into the darkness of the Clementinum.“You are very anxious to leave, aren't you, M. Renault?” said Laszlo.“I wonder how you can be so certain that the target is not coming. Perhaps you know something I do not.”
Laszlo tightened his grip on Renault's arm.“I have heard all about your babbling to that stupid girl. At first I took it as simple irresponsibility. Now I think otherwise.”
Laszlo spun Louis around. They faced each other in the damp gloom of the ancient building.“That's why Heydrich isn't corning, isn't it? Because you tipped him off. I have always suspected you, and now I know the truth: you are a traitor.”
Louis was about to raise a word of objection in defense of his honor when Victor Laszlo pressed the muzzle of his revolver against his chest.“This is how we deal with traitors,” he said, and fired a single, muffled shot.
7:56 A.M. As Louis lay bleeding, he heard the music. He had heard it many times before in Casablanca, whenever a Nazi dignitary had come to visit: the Hohenfriedberger March, a symbol of imperial Germany, composed by Frederick the Great. There could be little doubt whom it was meant to be serenading.
“Mon Dieu!” gasped Renault. He had not prayed to God for a long time, and was trying very hard to remember what was supposed to come next, when he died.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
As they approached the center of the Old Town, Ilsa could hear the faint sounds of music. How incongruous they seemed. Her heart was hammering as she turned to Heydrich with feigned enjoyment.“It's marvelous!” she cried.“What is it?”
Heydrich glanced down at her.“That is my private military band, sent down from the castle on my orders to serenade you,” he replied.“They could not know I would change my mind this morning.”
He was standing up in the car now, for they were nearing the StaromestskÉ NámestÍ, the central square. A large crowd had gathered in the byways, to view the Protector in the flesh. He stood ramrod straight, his right arm outstretched. As they passed by, the pedestrians stopped to gape in awe at the great man, and she could hear shouts of “Heil Hitler!” from the crowd.
“See how my people love me!” he exulted.
“No more than I!” she cried desperately, and reached for his free hand.“If perchance you love me, too, spare me the sight of the death of this Victor Laszlo. I am only a poor girl, unaccustomed to blood and pain, and I would not wish to disgrace my
Protector at the c]echuv Most by any sign of weakness.” Her voice filled with alarm.“And should anything happen to you there, I could not bear it! Please! I beg you!”
7:56 A.M. The car was passing through the square. From here, they could either turn into Parizska Street, drive through Josefov and then over the cechuv Most, or continue straight on PlatnÉrská to the river, left at the Clementinum, right onto the Charles Bridge, and straight to the end.
“Please, Reinhard,” she said.“Take me over the Charles Bridge. Let me hear the music and bask in your glory. I was a fool last night to turn down the love of a man like you. I know that now. Tonight will be different, I promise. Kill them all, but not in front of me. I beg you!”
Still clasping his hand, Ilsa looked up at the Protector. He was staring straight ahead.
The music grew louder.
Ilsa managed to catch a glimpse of her watch. They were six minutes late.
Heydrich's hand squeezed hers gently as he barked an order to the driver.“To refuse to subject a beautiful woman to the sight of death is the mark of the true German gentleman, ”he said.
The car went straight ahead.
“Thank you, Reinhard,” she said, finally exhaling. She started to laugh, giddily, hysterically, all the pent-up emotion and terror flooding out of her at once.
They turned left onto Krizovnická Street.
She was about to say something more when she heard a faint, barely perceptible pop.
Instinctively Heydrich sniffed the air for the smell of cordite with his long, wolfhound nose. He knew that sound, he knew that smell, and he knew what they meant.
Roughly he tried to yank his hand from hers. In the same motion he brought his right hand down and began to unholster his sidearm.
“What is it?” she asked. She gripped his left hand to keep him off balance. If it was time to die, she was ready. All she asked was that it be quick.
“Gunfire,” he replied.
Even before he heard the shot, Rick saw Renault collapse on the sidewalk. He knew immediately his friend was dead. There was no time to mourn him. There would be plenty of time for that later. Or not, as the case may be.
As Time Goes By Page 29