Three Hours in Paris

by Cara Black

  “A young woman left something with you,” he said. “Does this look like part of a claim check?”

  A brief nod. “But we require the client furnish the complete claim check.”

  He had to admire her.

  “Does she look familiar?” he said as he held out the sketch.

  She considered the drawing. Shrugged.

  “Why don’t you give me a hand here. Have a look for something like a wicker basket.”

  “I don’t make the rules, monsieur.”

  The usual bureaucratic response. In Munich it would have been “I’m only following orders.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I look around.”

  “I’m afraid that’s forbidden, monsieur.” She’d blocked his way to the dark wood cloakroom.

  Gunter shoved her aside. He didn’t have time for this.

  She reached for a phone. “I’m calling the manager.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Monsieur?” An alert man in a dark blue suit was striding across the tiled floor. The manager, Gunter guessed. “May I help you?”

  “I need access here.”

  “But our job’s to assist you and—”

  “You’ll do that by giving me access to the cloakroom. Now. Or do you want me to close the store and do a proper search?”

  Gunter’s eyes adjusted to the dimness of the cloakroom, a dark wood-paneled wardrobe affair with spacious shelves and coatracks. Among the hanging jackets and shopping bags he spied something out of place. He lifted a heavy wicker basket from the shelf. Took the wicker piece he’d taken from the bike basket and fitted it to a loose end.

  A match.

  He shook it, producing a metallic rattle. He lifted out a bouquet of wilted flowers. Beneath it was an oblong object wrapped in a scarf.

  Gunter contained his excitement.

  He took note of the check-in time on the torn half of the claim check.

  He reached for the Café Literraire matches in his pocket. Circled the café’s phone number, removed the scarf full of disassembled rifle parts and left the matchbox. He replaced the wicker basket on its shelf and stowed the rifle in his now bulging attaché case.

  “My mistake, mademoiselle. Danke.”

  Niels behind him, he strode through the clouds of heady fragrance to the door.

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Quick stop back to the café, where you’re going to chat again with your friend the waiter. Then all speed to the ballistics lab.”

  In the back seat of the car, he pulled out the package. Studied the knotted scarf. Buried his face in it, searching for the smell. Pears soap.

  His neck tingled. She’d left this at 12:30, just before going to the café. Close. So close.

  When she came back for it, he would be ready for her.

  He sneezed. This damn summer cold.

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  Near Canal Saint-Martin, Paris | 2:15 p.m.

  “Hands up.”

  Kate’s hand froze midway to her pocket.

  She scanned the dresser for something she could reach and throw at the man on the bed. Nothing but a bottle of Guerlain L’Heure Bleu. By the time she’d grabbed it he’d have shot her.

  “The piano tuner sent me,” she said. “He said to ask for Gilberte.”

  Either he’d recognize the sewer worker’s code or she’d have to move fast. In either case, he couldn’t be alone. If there was a naked man in bed in the middle of the afternoon, there had to be a lover around.

  He put the revolver down.

  “Trust me now?” she said. The sweat was running down her neck.

  “Like I trust a snake,” he said in British-accented English. “You’re late.”

  Late? Instinct told her to play along until she figured out what was going on.

  “Things got complicated,” she said, keeping it vague.

  “They’re in the fishmonger’s basement. Round the corner.”

  Who the hell was he talking about?

  “I need to talk to Gilberte,” she said. “Those were my instructions. She’s here, right?”

  “Mais non. And you woke me up. And I’m tired of, how do you say . . . holding your soldiers’ hands. It’s been three weeks. The fishmonger wants them out of there today.”

  Your soldiers. He must have thought she was British. She’d heard there were pockets of stranded British soldiers trapped in France after Dunkirk. But what could she do?

  Prioritize, Stepney would say.

  She’d deflect him for now.

  “Talk to Gilberte,” she said, eyeing a pink lace robe hanging from the door. Were those two a couple?

  From the apartment’s entry came the sound of a lock turning. Kate froze.

  The black-haired man hissed, gestured for her to come. Put his finger to his lips.

  The hallway’s wood floor creaked. A man’s voice.

  Then a woman’s laugh. “Hans, you’re silly.”

  A German.

  Hide. But where?

  The man in bed had been reaching for his trousers, but he hesitated, then got back under the sheets.

  Read the situation. Assess the options. Decide. Act.

  She pushed aside the lace curtain of the window. No balcony and three floors down to an alley blocked by a black car. A soldier in gray-green uniform stood smoking, booted leg on the running board. A raid?

  She wondered if Gilberte had turned in the man in the bed. Led the Germans here to find out where the Brits were hiding?

  “Here’s your corsage for tonight,” said the male voice she’d heard. Now she caught the heavy German accent.

  Kate tiptoed to the bedroom door and looked out. The woman wore a paisley dress, her hair upswept. Over her padded shoulder Kate saw the gold braid of an officer’s hat. Her German lover?

  Terrified, she tried to think what to do. She couldn’t fall apart.

  Assess options.

  Kate closed the door quietly. The man was holding his revolver aloft, his eyes narrowed. She shook her head and pointed under the bed.

  But he didn’t move.

  “Un moment,” the woman was saying. “Let me—”

  Panicked, Kate threw her bag down, dove into bed and pulled the sheets over them. Felt for the knife in her pocket—gone. Fallen on the floor? The man’s hot breath was in her ear, the cold revolver he gripped scratching her thigh. His musky scent pervaded the sheets; his perspiring skin rubbed hers. Giddy, she couldn’t breathe. “Keep the gun down,” she whispered.

  “D’accord,” said the woman, “I’ll get my scarf.”

  “Vas?” Boots stomped on the floor, following her.

  Terror rippled down Kate’s spine. She heard the door open, the wood floorboards creak.

  “But you promised us a little privacy this afternoon, Gilberte,” said the German.

  Black Hair had popped up and stuck his head out from the sheets. She felt him sliding the revolver up her rib cage. He coughed, covering up the sound as he cocked the hammer.

  Kate’s heart pounded as she waited for the sound of the revolver shot. If the German didn’t shoot first. She pictured the driver running up the stairs, a gunfight, troops descending on the apartment.

  Act. Believe.

  Kate stuck her head out from the sheets. Gave a loud yawn. Stretched, keeping her fully clothed self covered by the sheet.

  “Scheisse.” The German’s brow crinkled and his hand went to his holster.

  The woman stepped in front of the German. “This is Philippe, my cousin. Silly me, I forgot he’d . . . be visiting.” Gilberte gave a nervous laugh.

  Philippe played along. “Gilberte, you promised I could bring my fiancée here,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  “Fiancée.” The German snorted. “You French rut like rabbits.”<
br />
  Hadn’t he been planning on doing that himself?

  Black pinhole eyes scrutinized them. Kate wasn’t sure if the German was upset because this woman’s “cousin” had foiled his romantic plans or whether he suspected something more. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped toward the bed.

  Kate felt the revolver cold against her shoulder under the sheets. The vein in Philippe’s neck pulsed. His arms tensed.

  “Mon cher,” Kate murmured, low and smoky, and nuzzled his ear. Her pulse raced. Would their charade work?

  “I’m sorry, Hans.” Gilberte shrugged and gave an exaggerated sigh. “L’amour.” She nestled her arm in his. “Time for that cognac.”

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  Near Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris | 2:00 p.m. Paris Time

  Once the waiter understood his café would be closed down if he didn’t cooperate with the plan Gunter outlined, the German investigator softened the blow with several hundred francs.

  Now they were on their way to the ballistics lab. Detouring around incoming troop trucks, Niels sped instead along the Seine, a ribbon of sluggish green blue in the sweltering heat. Gunter stuck his forefinger in the rifle’s barrel. It came back greasy with residue. He sniffed. Even through his stuffy nose he could tell it had been fired recently.

  In the Lycée Montaigne, now the Luftwaffe Kaserne, Gunter made his way through the labyrinthine school halls to the lab, mentally debating whether to call Jäger with an update now or to wait until he had questioned the Brits.

  In the ballistics lab, the radio played classical music, the orchestral strains punctuated by the cracks of gunshots from the test shooting gallery. Greenish light filtered through the leafy branches into what had been a large classroom.

  Volke, the ballistics expert whom he’d trained with in Munich, looked up from a microscope. A Prussian aristocrat with a dueling scar on his cheek to prove it, Volke was a wary man who refused to relay any kind of findings over the phone. He rose to converse a moment with an assistant, then shooed Gunter through a side door and into another lab.

  “About time,” Volke said, shutting the lab door behind them. “Jäger’s called every half hour. Your neck’s on the line, Gunter. Now mine is, too.”

  As if Gunter needed any additional pressure right now. Why couldn’t Jäger leave him to do his job instead of hounding him? The Führer must be demanding hourly reports on the investigation’s progress in finding the sniper.

  “What’s going on, Gunter?”

  He and Volke went way back. They’d formed an unlikely duo during police training—an aristocrat’s son and the working-class nephew of a Munich policeman. When a drunken Volke had challenged a Brownshirt thug to a duel outside a Munich beer hall, Gunter had managed to hustle him away. They’d looked out for each other ever since.

  “First, Volke, tell me your progress with the English rifles.”

  “Two were clean and showed no evidence of recent firing. Even a cursory examination reveals that, Gunter.” Volke shot him a you knew that look. “Still, we’re testing the other two. My report will be complete.”

  Typical Prussian. He was glad he’d sent Volke the rifles even though he’d known what the outcome would be. He needed it done right. But besides that, he needed the excuse to drop by so he could leave the rifle he’d found with Volke, one of the very few people he knew he could trust. Volke would pull fingerprints, fibers, maybe even hair to put a nail in her coffin. Wary of Roschmann, he needed evidence to cover his back. His uncle had raised him to do something the right way or not at all.

  “Thank you. Put that on hold for now.”

  “I need explanations, Gunter.”

  “I’m reporting to the Führer, Volke,” he said to galvanize him into action. “Now test this Lee-Enfield rifle. I believe it was fired this morning.”

  Volke frowned, but spread out a sheet of waxed paper to begin the analysis.

  Gunter reached for rubber gloves as he ran down the events for Volke. “Then I found this under a bouquet of wilted flowers.” From his attaché case he took the rifle wrapped in the simple blue floral cotton print scarf and placed it on the paper. “Recognize this knot, Volke?”

  Interested, Volke stared at the knot tying the fabric into a thin X.

  “A clove hitch,” he said. “We learned to tie knots like this in the Hitlerjugend. My sister learned it, too, in the Bund Deutscher Mädel.”

  Gunter nodded. “So did my cousin. No doubt they’ve got the equivalent in England.”

  He untied the scarf and spread out the disassembled parts and shank. Volke leaned over the laboratory counter, studying the pieces. “Interesting. I’ve never seen this particular Enfield model before. But it’s a specially modified sniper rifle. It was recently fired.”

  Gunter watched as Volke examined each of the dismantled rifle parts. Only a marksman would have disassembled the rifle in this fashion. A professional. He took off his gloves. Sticky and sweaty, he turned on the sink’s water faucet, cupped his hands and splashed water on his temples. Refreshed, he glanced at the clock.

  “How long will this take, Volke?”

  “Fingerprint, fiber, and bullet analysis, plus all the usual tests?” Volke smiled, giving his scarred face a lopsided look. “You know I hate to be rushed.”

  “I’ll be back in two hours,” said Gunter. “And we keep this to ourselves.”

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  Tactical Center under King Charles Street, London

  1:30 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time

  Stepney stood at the teleprinter, rubbing his aching hip. The printer churned out the coastal report. Churning butter would have been faster.

  There was not only the deadly fiasco in his Paris network to worry about but now this report of the strange buoy discovered by a little boy. Whitehall was convinced the buoy was German technology, a harbinger of the sea invasion.

  “We know the invasion is imminent, Stepney,” Teague had taken him aside to say. “We need you to contact your operative through the reactivated Alpha circuit.”

  “Why, Teague?”

  Teague showed him a photo of a stocky man wearing graduation robes.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Our operative Nigel Swanson. Code name Swan.”

  Not very original. Teague kept this mission from him and now wanted his help?

  “You’re running a separate operation and didn’t inform me?”

  Teague lowered his voice. “Swanson is an engineer who was contacted by his former colleague from Paris—the colleague who he’d worked with on a special project when they were both at the University of Birmingham.”

  “By special project you mean something to do with this buoy?”

  Teague gave a brief nod. “That colleague is working in Paris now, and the Kriegsmarine have taken over his project. He reached out to Swanson and offered him information to sabotage the project, but made it clear he would only pass along what he knew directly to Nigel Swanson himself—”

  “Teague, before you go on,” interrupted Stepney, “have you thought the Germans could be manipulating this colleague to hook Swanson?”

  “It is a risk. But the two men worked together at the University of Birmingham developing the damn thing. The Frenchman has more loyalty to his old partner than he does to the Germans who want to use his invention to wage war on his friends.”

  Stepney knew what friendship was worth in the world of secret intelligence. “What’s in it for the colleague to put himself on the line? What does he want?”

  “A way to leave France.”

  “That means money, right? Safe passage?”

  Teague shrugged. “Of course. But it had to be Swanson making the pickup. No one else. And now he’s incommunicado.”

  “Had Swanson been trained for the field?”

  “Plans to drop him were last minute. We only h
ad a six-hour window.”

  In other words no. He pitied the poor engineer, who had to be dead. “It’s certain death to send in a novice.”

  Teague took his arm. “It’s critical we salvage his mission. I’ll fill you in on the way to the code room.”

  Sunday, June 23, 1940

  11 rue des Saussaies, Paris | 2:30 p.m. Paris Time

  The tang of urine and fear pervaded the chilly limestone interrogation rooms overlooking the Sûreté’s courtyard in a former mansion the Gestapo had requisitioned for this purpose. A token force of three French policeman nodded as Gunter flashed his RSD badge. Cries followed him as he walked down a hallway lined by scuffed metal-grated cells, formerly used by the Sûreté, behind which prisoners were chained to thick metal rings in the walls.

  In the interrogation room, he pulled his half-finished report out of his attaché case. “Bring the first prisoner to me.”

  The guard, one of the Feldgendarmerie who manned the detention area, looked nervous. “There’s been a development, sir.”

  “Development? Send in the commander. Meanwhile, sergeant, bring the first prisoner.”

  “But sir . . .”

  Roschmann, the Vet, had appeared outside the door in the hallway. One step ahead of him everywhere he went.

  Gottverdammt.

  “The cowards beat us to it, Gunter.” Roschmann stood feet apart, arms crossed, unhappy.

  The cold from the stone floor rose up Gunter’s legs.

  There were holes in the plastered walls sprouting mold and the limestone arches showed mildew. The sun never entered this damp hellhole with its lone hanging light bulb.

  “First, Roschmann, explain how you managed to get here before the officer in charge of the investigation.” Gunter plunked himself down on a metal chair. He was angry but kept his voice calm. “My boss, who reports directly to the Führer, wants to know, and so do I.”

  Roschmann didn’t miss his weighted words, and adjusted his left jacket cuff with thick fingers. “I’m obeying orders.”

  “Orders? I instructed you to check the luggage and baggage counters at the train station.”