Marita’s venue had once been a cinema, but what motion picture could compete with such a sensual feast for the eyes? Ryan knew occupation marks were flowing freely into that cash box hidden behind the crowded mahogany bar. The club layout had greatly expanded since his last time in Paris. The Occupation was clearly paying dividends. Stairs accessed the mezzanine, where drinkers gathered at a second bar, and the balcony beyond allowed more intimate encounters for patrons and their guests. Another staircase led to the former projection room, Marita’s office.
At the bottom step, Marita’s gatekeeper Florian kept an eye on the crowd. The huge man with the shaved head plowed his way through the haze of smoke to offer the newly-arrived American a hearty handshake. “The years have treated you kindly, Monsieur Lemmon. You appear far healthier than when last we met.” He offered a complicit wink. The bouncer’s burly image hid a softer side, and the two men had come to a mutual understanding long ago—Ryan would treat Marita with utmost respect, and Florian wouldn’t threaten him with his intimidating glare and wrestler’s physique.
He was right about Ryan’s changed appearance. When last in Paris he had sported a bandaged nose, badly swollen cheeks, and bruised eyes. Worse still, his left arm and hand had barely functioned after von Kredow’s torture by fire. Now Ryan’s nose merely hinted at the old break, and while his other features showed a bit more maturity at thirty-five, his good looks and dazzling smile could still turn a woman’s head.
“And you, Florian?” Ryan found the bodyguard’s massive shoulders and bald pate as daunting as ever. “Life treats you well?”
“As well as to be expected, monsieur. A couple kilo lighter in the belly, perhaps.” He hitched up his trousers to demonstrate a looser fit, revealing a revolver in his waistband. Ryan frowned—the ex-pugilist bodyguard had always relied solely on brawn—but Florian only shrugged. “In truth, we’ve had our share of troubles lately, but who hasn’t?” The experienced eyes of the bouncer darted again through the crowd by force of habit.
Ryan hurried along the reunion chat, anxious to get up the stairs and surprise Marita. “How are your wife and kids?”
“As long as food’s on the table we get by. Mademoiselle Lesney scrounges a few extra ration cards each week to keep our brood in the basics.” Ryan looked up the stairs again and Florian caught his impatience. “So, the boss expects your visit?”
“I thought I’d surprise her.” Ryan saw some unexpressed worry in Florian’s eyes. “Is she doing well? I really doubt she’ll mind.”
Florian surveyed the dimly lit mezzanine, its wall sconces losing the battle against billowing clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke. He was clearly troubled. “Head on up, but you’ll only have a couple minutes for that surprise. She’s just asked me to fetch a drink.” He leaned closer to Ryan and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I know she’ll be delighted to see you again, but things have been very difficult around here lately. You heard she lost her family last year?”
“Her family?” Ryan couldn’t hide his shock.
“It happened when the city spread her legs for the mighty conquerors. I thought she might have written you.”
“My God! Marie as well?”
“Sadly, both her parents and her lovely sister. The cowards mowed them down with those infernal Stukas as the family tried to leave town.” Former boxer Florian rubbed his jaw as if he’d just taken one on the chin. “Mademoiselle blames herself for sending them out of the city but everyone thought the Boches would rape and pillage. Or worse. You do know her mother was a Jewess?”
Ryan nodded.
“She’s taken it really hard, as you might expect.”
Ryan remembered the beating Marita’s father suffered from French fascists for having a Jewish wife. And of course, no one could forget Marie of the quick smile and beautiful legs. “What a tragic loss! How very sad for all of you. I’ll help any way I can, and thanks for filling me in.”
Florian turned his back on the crowd. “There’s another matter, as well. Just in the last month we’ve faced serious difficulties here at the club.”
“Financial?” Ryan’s access to COI funds might help.
“Let’s call it ‘outside interference.’ Everything’s been extremely tense, but things now appear better again.” He patted the revolver at his waist as if to make some point. “I’m sure Mademoiselle will tell you about it, knowing her trust in you.” He nodded up the stairs. “I just wanted to forewarn you she’s had a rough go of it, so be gentle with her.”
“Thanks for that heads-up, Florian, and for looking after her so well.” Ryan suddenly wished for a pistol of his own, the bodyguard’s tension contagious.
He took the steps two at a time and gave a quiet knock, his heart beating faster despite outward calm, his buoyant spirits dampened by Marita’s recent troubles.
“Come in.” Her voice sounded distant, distracted.
He eased open the door. She sat in the Louis XVI chair with the worn rush seat, her back to him, her concentration on a stack of papers lying atop an open ledger. The cocktail dress revealed the curve of her graceful back. Thick auburn hair tied with a ribbon emphasized her slender neck. As expected, she wore ruby red. Always red.
Without glancing his way she gestured toward the divan. “On the coffee table please, Florian. Once finished here, it’s off with these shoes and up with my feet.” Her high-heeled pumps complimented legs as appealing as ever. “Simply unbelievable!” she muttered as she set aside the papers. “That bastard Serge pissed off all our wholesalers. It’ll take months to regain their trust!”
She turned, then immediately leapt to her feet and Ryan opened his arms to receive her. “Mon Dieu, Ryan, always when least expected!” She kissed him on both cheeks, then surrendered to tears and his embrace. “But why, Ryan? Why do you make my life difficult, just when I’m finally coming to terms with it?”
Ryan grabbed the hand thumping his chest and brought it gently to his lips. “Come on, my little Marita, I’m that bad penny that always turns up, right?” He kissed her forehead and used his handkerchief to gently blot at her smeared eye make-up. “Let’s get you off those tired feet, I’ll massage your toes, and you can tell me all about this ‘bastard Serge’ and anything else I’ve missed in the last three years.” He led her to the couch. “You helped me at my lowest, so now I’m here to help you.”
They sat down, her hand still in his, just as a knock rattled the door. Marita threw him a grin of apology and opened to Florian, waiting outside with two martinis. “I thought you both might wish to toast this reunion.”
“You will join us, Florian?” Marita asked. She wiped away the last of the tears with Ryan’s handkerchief.
“Non, non et non!” thought Ryan.
“Très gentille, Madamoiselle Lesney, but I must decline. Floor duties will keep me hopping till closing. Full house down there and more animated than ever, as you’ve surely noticed. Military successes on the Russian front inspire enthusiastic consumption, and our guests spend—and talk— freely.” He set down the tray of drinks and turned to Marita. “Should you need anything…”
“I’ll call,” said Marita. “For the moment, Monsieur Lemmon and I have much catching up to do.”
The door closed gently behind him and she returned to the couch. “Now tell me, my wayward love, to what do I owe the honor of another visit?”
Ryan’s smile faded. “Florian told me of your loss, Marita.” He took her hands in his. “Words can’t express how sorry I am.”
She seemed to retreat into memories before speaking, then her words came in a torrent: “It was all my fault, you know, I did it to them. I forced them from the city, sent them away with dreams of safety in Palestine.” She leaned back against him, her eyes shut, tears streaming. “But that was all a lie, because I said I’d follow along, but I really wanted to stay, to use what Marie and I had built here as a weapon against the Boches, to find some useful purpose in these godforsaken times.” Mascara streaked her cheeks. “And when P
apa finally relented—he was the hold-out, Maman seemed lost already, and Marie knew full well what I was up to, so she played along—then all three of them had to die…and horribly.” She fell silent for long moments, her eyes now open but unseeing.
He was at a loss, anxious to soothe her but knowing he couldn’t. He understood the all-consuming sense of guilt that burdened her. He had once felt responsible for Erika and Leo’s deaths only to learn they’d survived after all. His heart ached at Marita’s self-inflicted suffering.
Ryan drew her close and waited out her sobs. He eyed the pipe he had set on the table but then thought better of it. Condensation pooled beneath the untouched drinks and the minute-hand moved across the face of his watch. When she calmed at last, he spoke again: “It will fade with time, you know—at least the guilt. Never the sense of loss, that will hurt forever if you dwell on it, but guilt only weakens you and can’t bring anyone back.”
She drew a deep breath and seemed to open to the words he spoke. “Marie would understand and want you happy, you know, and so would your parents. You need to be strong right now, Marita. Trust me, this horror has just begun and the suffering still to come will be truly unimaginable.”
“How much more must we take from these monsters?” Her eyes demanded answers he didn’t have.
“If we want to stop them, to punish them, we can’t surrender to the sorrow and suffering they inflict. Instead, we fight with all we’ve got because the Nazis count on meek submission. They demand servants and slaves, and fear anyone they can’t intimidate and control.” He lifted her chin and she offered him a thin smile. “Let me help you, Marita, let me make things easier for you.”
She inhaled deeply and straightened her shoulders. “You should know I’ve already made good strides. My weak moment is simply because you’ve known me so long and now you’re here to comfort and reassure me. I’ve had to be strong for the others for what seems an eternity.” She finally took a sip of the gin. “So go ahead and light up that pipe of yours. The smell will remind me of better times together while I fill you in on my latest.”
She related the tireless efforts of her girls to covertly gather intelligence on German troop placement and movements. She told of carefully logging names, dates and destinations overheard in the club, and how she hoped the information was benefitting the Allied cause. He wondered how she passed this information up the appropriate channels, but didn’t interrupt as she moved beyond her grief and self-recrimination. Finally she spoke of a gangster called Serge who had maliciously extorted control of her club. The brutal knife-branding of the young dancer set Ryan’s teeth on edge. “But don’t worry.” she said. “A friend helped me put that asshole away for good.”
“A friend?” He’d heard more in the word than expected. “Someone here at the club? I’m sure Florian’s been a great help to you, and I see he now carries a revolver.”
“Yes, Florian…but another, as well.” A quick glance past smeared mascara to gauge his reaction. “Ryan, it’s so silly for me to be this hesitant—I know we’ve had nothing serious between us for years—but I now have a close friend who helps me immensely.”
Ryan sensed the change in direction and felt on uncertain ground. “I understand perfectly, Marita. We never made promises—”
“Well, at least one of us never made promises.” The hint of a smile crossed her face. “And the other never gave up hope of getting one.”
He shrugged, apologetic. “Marita, what can I say? I wasn’t ready—”
She placed a finger on his lips. “Say nothing, my dearest, nothing at all. All I ask from you now is understanding, so let me tell you about someone very special …about Argent.” Her words came faster now, as if she might lose courage and never finish. “He reminds me of you in so many ways, my darling Ryan, and he does love me, of that I’m certain.”
“Argent? A Parisian?”
Marita observed him closely, hesitating. “No, not French…and he’s young…a German,” her lower lip quivering now, “and a Wehrmacht officer, a lieutenant.”
“A Boche?” Ryan grabbed for his falling pipe, hoping to spare his new trousers damage from the glowing tobacco shreds. “One of the enemy?”
“Yes, a Boche, but one of the good ones, Ryan, someone who hates these Nazis with a passion as strong as mine. As strong as yours! And he’s already proven himself to me, so please, Ryan, please don’t pre-judge him.”
Despite her words his first thought was unsettling. Treachery and deception raged across Europe, and no stranger deserved acceptance at face value. And that ragged jolt of jealousy had also made him wince. Marita continued in rapid bursts: “First meet with him, hear his story. You used to have German friends dear to you—“
He steadied his voice, his thoughts. “I still do, as luck would have it.” He recalled Erika’s final glance that very morning and René’s warm assurances of enduring friendship. He pictured Leo in the garden, selecting flowers especially for him. “But more of that later, Marita.” Ryan hesitated, uncertain how to proceed, unsure whether he even had any right to ask, then did so anyway: “You and this Argent…it’s romantic?”
She nodded. “He makes me feel special, just as you once did.” She placed Ryan’s hand over her heart. “He reminds me so much of you when we first met—youthful, idealistic, determined to do only right and make your mark on this godforsaken world.” She hesitated. “And he’s devoted to me. Time turns back when we’re together. Is that so wrong?”
Ryan felt beyond his depth. Never had he made a serious, lasting commitment to any woman, yet he found himself torn by the realization that his ever-reliable Marita was sharing with another the same passion he had hoped to rekindle. God damn, he thought as he refilled the pipe, well, God damn! He struck a match, more to distract his thoughts than out of desire to smoke.
“Of course it isn’t wrong, Marita. If you make each other happy and you truly trust him, then I’m happy for you. But I do owe it to you to ask: you’re convinced he’s worthy of your trust? Espionage thrives on subterfuge.”
“I’m telling you this with good reason,” she said. “You’ve certainly heard of the Abwehr?”
Ryan tensed, uncertain where this was headed. A romantic entanglement was startling enough, but a connection to military intelligence perhaps more so. “Yes, powerful and dangerous, from all I know.”
“Well, this friend of mine, Argent—that’s not his real name, of course—Argent works directly for someone in the Abwehr, someone who knows you personally!”
Oh, for God’s sake, where could all this be going? Was he compromised? “You’ve got to be kidding, Marita! I purposefully never mentioned you in any report I filed, so who the hell even knows we’re acquainted?”
“This gentleman knows. That’s how he tracked me down. He’s the one who passes along the information we gather on the club floor each night.”
Ryan was stunned. “So you and your girls work for the Abwehr now?”
“Mon Dieu, non! These people—this man and my Argent, at least—are doing exactly what we seek, identifying sympathetic German officers, hoping to help put a quick end to this horrible war, an end to Hitler and his henchmen.”
Ryan leaned back, his mind racing. “This man—not your Argent but the other, his boss—he’s got a name?”
“Of course, but perhaps a nom de guerre,” she said, avoiding his eyes for fear of reproach. “He’s been here in person only once, posing as an army colonel to help us trip up that bastard Serge! I can describe him well enough if you wish. He’s well educated and speaks excellent French. Fluent in English, too, according to Argent. Tall like you, but with thinning hair and going gray. Oh yes, one more thing, his nose suggests a dedicated drinker.” As if reminded, she handed Ryan his untouched martini. “If it helps, Argent believes the man’s an aristocrat. Impeccable manners, even when drunk. And last of all—how to put this discretely?—in all honesty, he may well favor women and men equally. You know, he has that certain air.”
&nbs
p; Ryan bolted upright, splashing his martini. “Did he, or rather did your friend, say how this man claims to know me?”
“He said he’d once shown you the shadier side of Berlin ‘in all its diversity.’”
First Edward, now Marita. Ryan drained his martini, concerned by this new twist. High time for a chat with Rolf von Haldheim.
The phone on her desk demanded attention. “Probably just Florian checking up on us.” Marita kissed Ryan on the forehead before leaving the couch and reaching for the receiver.
“Oui?” Her face went dark, her eyes cutting to Ryan before she spoke forcefully: “Stall as long as you can, then do it, but keep our people safe!” Ryan was already on his feet, shocked by her sudden pallor. She dropped the phone in its cradle and steadied herself. “Gestapo.” Her words now in quick bursts: “Two cars, two agents already in the lobby, others heading up the alley.”
Ryan put an arm around her trembling shoulders. “Keep calm, don’t jump to conclusions. My God, it’s wall-to-wall military and collaborationists down there—they could be after anyone in the place.”
“Yes, anyone. But they’re not, I just know it! My clients are powerful so the Gestapo would be cautious, wouldn’t step on important toes with an open raid.” She fumbled with the key to her desk. “No, they’re here for me. Someone’s talked.” Her hand reached to the back of the drawer and withdrew a small pistol. She checked the clip and released the safety. “Should they take me, check under the carpet of the first step outside. No sense wasting the intelligence.”
The clamor of a fire alarm suddenly interrupted, first on the ground floor, then across the mezzanine as a second alarm joined in. Marita appeared to barely notice, her thoughts solely on the arriving Gestapo. “But Ryan—they simply can’t find you here!”
From below came muffled shouts and the pounding of feet as drunken patrons sought out the front exit. A few voices barked out commands for military order, but only Ryan seemed to consider how dangerous the uppermost room of a burning structure would be. “Come on, we have to get out of here! This place will be a chimney—the flames will be up here before you know it.” He grabbed her arm, shaking her loose from her apparent lethargy. A person might outmaneuver the Gestapo, but a fire in a crowded club was uncompromising. “Now! Let’s go, and hurry!”
Fulcrum of Malice Page 3