by Tracy Groot
“Shouldn’t you tie me up? Gag me?”
Braun’s eyes returned to the distance outside.
“What about your driver? Did you . . . ?”
Braun reached for his briefcase and rose from the chair. He seemed especially tall next to Michel, and for a moment he seemed to tower over him.
“Have you worked out a plan for Schiffer?” Michel said.
“No, I haven’t,” Braun said coldly. “And I’ve tried. I can’t think how to hand over an innocent man to a man like Schiffer.”
“I am not an innocent man. That should make it easier.” Michel gave a little sniff, then wrinkled his nose. “I can tell you tried.”
“Your French ale is disgusting. All of this, and French ale, too. God hates me.”
“Hauptmann Braun . . .”
Braun tilted his head. “If you try to thank me, I’ll bloody your mouth.” He firmed lips that trembled slightly from anger. “I plan to ‘wing it,’ as you say. I have no other course.”
“‘Wing it’ is not ours. Perhaps it is British.”
“What difference does it make?” he snapped. “I will make it up as I go.” He looked him up and down. “You are an innocent man.”
“The only innocent man is the one Schiffer now tortures.” He hesitated. “Braun—”
Braun swung away and headed for the door.
Michel looked at the transreceiver on the desk. “Don’t you want to bring the proof?”
Braun’s impressive profile filled the doorway, backlit by late-afternoon light. The cut of the German uniform, the hat in his hand, his carriage, tall, broad, proud. He looked at the transreceiver with a scornful curl of his lip, as if to say, Why should I need proof? He took his hat from the coatrack, swept it to his head, and adjusted it. Michel was sharply reminded of the day Braun and Rommel had strode along at the bunker placement. The way Marshal Erwin Rommel seemed to defer to him, the great respect Rommel had for this man and his work.
He felt a strange mix of he didn’t know what—humility, and awe, and shame. He followed Braun from the office, feeling for the tiny reassuring bulge of the cyanide pellet sewn into the cuff of his sleeve.
Braun stared unseeingly out the car window, briefcase in his lap. They were a few blocks from headquarters. He had no idea how he would approach Schiffer for a prisoner exchange. Schiffer would double-cross for sure.
He gave a bitter chuckle. Braun designed underground command bunkers. Concrete, not guile, was his medium. He worked with cement compositions and aggregates, he produced products of varying drying ratios and strengths—he was a civil engineer, no military man, no tactical savant. And though he’d devised a ventilation system that his colleagues might call innovative, a system that could save hundreds of lives, he could not think of a single way to save one. And the one he wanted to save certainly wasn’t the man in Schiffer’s custody, a man he did not know. It was the man seated next to him, so infuriatingly docile, so quietly courageous.
Anger and panic resolved into an insuperable wall. He was out of time. There was no winging it, no—
Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.
The thought floated free of anxiety and despair, in some blessed neutral ground in his mind. He did not know from whence his subconscious produced it, perhaps from some catechism, from decades of Lutheran liturgy.
Whatever your hand finds to do . . .
He became aware of his hand resting upon his briefcase.
He looked down upon it as if from a great height and found himself saying, his own voice strangely detached, “Reinhart, stop. Pull over.”
“Perhaps after the next intersection. There is a delivery truck—”
“Silence!” Braun thundered.
The solution came not in part, but the whole. Braun had only to study it as if studying a portrait. All of the details were there; he had but to run his eyes over them, take notice of all in front of him. His fingers curled around the edges of his briefcase and he gripped it.
A Trojan tunnel.
He looked at Rousseau. “We need to make a stop before we get to headquarters,” Braun said, and his voice sounded very calm.
“Yes, sir,” the driver said. “Do you still want me to pull over?”
“No. Go to my apartment immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rousseau looked over. They had not spoken since the office.
It was all there, every detail. He had only to execute it. Flawlessly.
“I think you were right,” Braun said. “We should make it look as if you had been apprehended against your will. We will need to bind and gag you.”
Rousseau bowed his head. “Whatever you think best.”
“I know Schiffer. If you are brought in humiliated, he will have instant supremacy over you. Things might go better.” He hesitated. “Forgive me for what I am about to do.”
Rousseau only gave another gentlemanly nod.
Did she love him because he came from freedom, or did she love him because he was free? The puzzle was now familiar to her, as familiar as the ache in her middle.
Brigitte and Rafael were fifteen minutes into the journey to Cabourg to see Monsieur Rousseau’s brother. Rafael would not speak. He only stared out the window, pinching his lower lip in thought.
So Brigitte sought Tom.
She replayed every conversation she could remember, every word he had spoken, in order and out of order. She watched the way he twirled his hat with the self-satisfied grin, the panic on his face as he dove into her bed, the look when he made her laugh, how he seized her wrist when she touched his neck.
And the kiss. She closed her eyes. Right in front of a roomful of people, yet they were never more alone. She didn’t believe for a moment Kees had kissed her. Had it been Kees, it would have been reserved, just enough to “sell it.” He let her know things with that kiss.
She loved him because he was free, and she was free when she was with him.
She heard the sound of tearing paper and opened her eyes.
Rafael was tearing open the envelope.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He drew out the letter, unfolded it, read the few lines. The paper dropped with his hand to his lap. She snatched it up.
François~
You will do admirably.
Forgive me.
~Michel
“What does this mean?”
Rafael suddenly straightened, staring out the window. “Where are we?”
“We’ve not yet passed Colombelles.”
He bolted from the seat.
Rafael hurried along, Brigitte at his side. She had linked arms with him once when passing a German soldier, then drifted away when the coast was clear. He started up the steps to the Cimenterie office and stopped short. The front door was ajar. His eyes narrowed. He looked up and down the street, back to the office. It was past five. They always locked it at five, even if they were staying later. He walked up the steps and pushed the door open with his fingertips.
“Hello?”
Charlotte’s desk was untidy. She never left a paper clip out of place.
“Charlotte? Monsieur Rousseau?”
He paused, didn’t hear a sound. Apprehension rippled his gut. He went to Rousseau’s office door, pushed it open. The room was dim, but he could clearly recognize what was square in the middle of Rousseau’s desk for God and Hitler to see. He stared at the transreceiver while the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
Who had used it? Why? And why hadn’t it been returned to the safety of the adventure display? Wilkie would never leave it out. No one would.
He went to the desk, opened the case, and felt the box. Stone cold. It took some time for the machine to cool after it powered down. He lifted the box from its crushed-velvet slot, felt underneath—cold.
“What is that?” Brigitte said at his side.
“A transreceiver.” It was a beauty of an instrument, courtesy of MI19 and the OSS. “We always keep it
hidden.”
“What’s going on here?” a voice demanded.
They spun. Wilkie stood in the doorway, wearing a white suit, a white fedora with a dark band, and a disheveled rosebud in his lapel. He stared at the transreceiver and demanded again, “What’s going on?”
“You tell me! I found this right on the desk, right in plain sight. The front door was open. No one was here.” Rafael looked down at the box in his hands. “I’m too late.”
“Too late for what?”
When Rafael did not answer, Brigitte said, “He believes Monsieur Rousseau has gone to Gestapo headquarters to turn himself in. An exchange for Tom.”
Wilkie shook his head, dazed. “Wait—the pilot’s been taken? When?”
“Yesterday morning, in Bénouville,” Brigitte said. She added softly, “Though it seems much longer than that.”
“And Rousseau has gone to—?” He pulled off his white hat, his face suddenly matching the color. “Oh, this just gets better and better. You are Brigitte? Well, we have a problem, Brigitte.” He looked at Rafael. “I came to tell Rousseau that Century picked up a transmission from the BBC. A Lysander plane is due to arrive tonight between 1 and 2 a.m. at Le Vey. They are delivering an SOE agent and said they can pick up the pilot. They implied this might be the last pickup for quite a while.”
Rafael could only stare.
Wilkie stretched out both arms, astonished. “Clemmie, and now Rousseau? Is Flame disintegrating? Diefer still missing, the pilot taken, and now Rousseau on some suicide mission to—?” He threw down his hat. “The stupidity! How can he think the Nazis will deal fairly? A prisoner exchange? In Caen? Since when? Has he gone completely mad? And where’s Charlotte in all this?”
“She’s probably—” But Rafael broke off, gazing at Brigitte and Wilkie as a thought struck. “Maybe he is.” He put the box back into the suitcase and began to pace the length of the room.
“Maybe who is what?” Wilkie demanded.
“Braun was here. I saw his hat. Maybe Braun is helping. I wouldn’t have believed it, not before . . .”
“Could Monsieur Rousseau know about the airplane?” Brigitte asked. “And that is why the box was out?”
“Maybe,” Wilkie said. He looked at the transreceiver. “Maybe he tried to cancel the flight, with the pilot’s arrest.” But he frowned. “No, of course not. If he did hear the message, he would have known it was planned as an agent drop. He wouldn’t have tried to cancel that.”
“When did the message come?” Brigitte asked.
“Last night. Century couldn’t track any of us down. They got word to me only half an hour ago. I’m missing my brother’s wedding.”
The room was silent, only the occasional squeak of a floorboard with Rafael’s pacing.
“What do we do?” Brigitte said softly.
Rafael reached the wall, stopped, and turned. “Here’s what I think: Rousseau went to Braun for help. He was desperate, he had no other choice. He wanted Braun to turn him in as Greenland, in trade for Tom. He thought a German officer could pull it off. Maybe put some fair dealing into it.”
Wilkie’s shoulders slumped. “Well, what happens now? With the invasion coming any time, this pickup could be one of the last.”
It was exactly what Rafael was thinking. Tom had to leave tonight.
“Then we have no choice. We have to let them know.” Rafael lifted his head. “I’ll tell them.”
Wilkie stared. “You’ll stroll right into a Nazi stronghold and—” He got under Rafael’s nose. “What’s the matter with you? Use your head! Anyone who goes into that building doesn’t come out. If Braun is helping Rousseau, let him help. You have no idea what’s really going on. You could mess things up.”
“I agree,” Brigitte said fervently.
“Braun doesn’t know about the pickup—that I do know!” Rafael said. “If Rousseau is trying to get Tom out, he’s got to get him out now. So we’ve got to let them know. We’ve got to give Tom a chance to make it to the pickup. It’s his only chance.”
“But we can’t be sure of what Braun and Rousseau are doing!” Wilkie said, fiercely exasperated.
“Exactly. We can only be sure of what we do.”
“Look, you scrawny little—do I have to say it out loud? Don’t you know you are like a brother to me? I won’t stand by and let you prance into that devil building on a chance. I won’t do it!” Wilkie made an effort to calm himself. “Listen to me, Rafael, just—listen. How will you talk your way into seeing Braun? He’s probably in consultation with Schiffer. Those SS are not the same lot they used to be. They’re not going to let you interrupt a meeting to deliver a message. They’ve changed; they suspect everything these days. They’re smarter. Meaner. They’re desperate.”
“So are we.” Rafael adjusted the wilted rosebud on Wilkie’s lapel, then smiled a particularly wicked smile. He felt better. A plan was forming.
Wilkie groaned and turned away. He appealed to Brigitte. “Can you not talk sense to him? Ask him how he will make it past the guards. Ask him how he will make it past the front desk. Ask him what happened when we tried to free Jasmine.”
Rafael went and put his hands on Wilkie’s shoulders. “Do you know which word I am currently in love with?” He pulled himself up to breathe into his ear, “Audacity.” He patted Wilkie’s cheek. “We can do this, my brother. I have a plan. Braun is our best bet. We just have to get the message to him, give him a chance to make something happen. It’s the only thing we can do, and we are going to do it. If it doesn’t work . . .” He shrugged. “Then Rousseau is captured, Tom misses the plane, I get drunk for a week, and we’ll come up with something else. But I won’t spend the rest of my life wondering if a simple little thing like getting a message to Braun could have made him improvise. You’re in or you’re out, my brother.”
By Wilkie’s deflated bearing, Rafael knew he had won. At last, Wilkie said morosely, “Well, if I survive whatever scheme you have, it will be one more thing to tell my children. And if I don’t—” he shrugged—“there won’t be any children to tell.”
“How do you plan to get in there?” Brigitte asked.
Rafael went to Brigitte and walked around her, examining her face, her figure. “Your friend far more looks the part, but you’ll get his attention.”
Brigitte folded her arms. “I’m not sure the old seduce-the-Nazi-guard trick will work.”
“I’m not talking about a guard.” Rafael looked at Wilkie’s clothing, then shook his head, clicking his tongue. “You had to be wearing white. Debonair, but you’ll glow in the dark.”
“My brother’s getting married,” Wilkie said defensively. “What’s the plan, Rafael?”
Rafael went to the transreceiver on the desk. He splayed his hands lightly on it. “You beautiful thing. You gorgeous, beautiful thing,” he said caressingly. “Wilkie, my brother. Say good-bye to your baby.”
Wilkie’s eyes flew wide. Then he groaned. “Oh no . . . not Heloise . . .”
Brigitte, Rafael, and Wilkie stood at the corner of a building whose street connected like a wheel spoke to the wide half circle of Gestapo headquarters. The grounds of the old courthouse used to have a lawn like a park, and people came to eat lunch on the grass and on the benches. Now it felt like a compound. The lawn area was no longer tended or attended, the Great War memorials had been razed, and guards were posted at the top of the stairs near the entrance.
Braun’s vehicle was parked in front, driver inside. Other vehicles lined the curb. Even this late at night, nearly 10 p.m., the place was a beehive of activity. Just a few months ago, it wasn’t that way. Everyone knew the invasion was just a surprise attack away, prompting all manner of business at the swastika-clad building.
Brigitte applied heavy lipstick, but the shade was not as red as Marie-Josette would use. She couldn’t tell Rafael that her seduction skills fell short. He had every right to expect a good performance: she was a—a—a former . . . What was wrong with her that she couldn’t think the p
word? . . . A woman who got paid for—she paused with the lipstick, startled; she couldn’t even think the s word? She couldn’t think sex? From prostitute to prude. She shook her head. Then she paused.
It was a return to the days before the Occupation, before her life became . . . occupied.
She knew perfectly well what had happened. Tom happened. Madame Bouvier happened. Father Eppinette happened. Love happened. It made no room for the oldest profession. It made a place for her.
She realized this now, quite possibly at the end of all things?
“Better late than never,” she said brightly, then snapped her compact shut.
Rafael looked her over critically, then, murmuring, “Forgive me,” unbuttoned her top button and pushed her blouse open a little farther. Her cheeks warmed, but she submitted to it with cold dignity. He shrugged. “You need to get his attention, little cabbage. We need that car.”
She glanced down ruefully. She wished she were as well-endowed as Marie-Josette. “So this will work . . .”
His look traveled her over. “Oh, it’ll work. Just do your thing, and get him to the alley.”
“Do my thing . . .”
“We’ll take care of the rest.”
Corporal Alric Reinhart roused from his reverie and caught the book before it slid from his lap. He dog-eared the page to mark his spot, same page as when he started, and tossed the book to the passenger seat. It was a volume of Kant. Half of it went over his head. The other half made him feel wan. Kant was not what he needed right now. He needed a copy of The Art of War.
“Enough,” he whispered, trailing the word, feeling the saturation of it, Kant’s final deathbed word. He let Kant die, then mentally grasped for The Art of War. He soon raised a venomous look to headquarters.
What went on in that building he could not guess, but he had to be ready for anything. Until that last-minute stop at Braun’s apartment, Braun and the little Rousseau had sat in a silence so frosty it reminded Alric of the ice storm last winter that froze over trees and splintered branches. The man was terribly unhappy, and it had a lot to do with the amazing conversation earlier today.