Citadel (13 page)

They spoke of Boch as if he were not there. In
a sense, he wasn't.
“Sir, the breech is frozen.” “Kick
it! They're almost on us!” “I can't, sir. My foot fell off
because of frostbite.”

“He could, I suppose, get to Calais and swim to
Dover. It's only thirty-two kilometers. It's been
done before.”

“Even by a woman.”

“Still, although he's a gifted professional, I
doubt they have anyone quite that gifted. And even
if it's spring, the water is four or five degrees centigrade.”

“Yes,” said Macht. “But he will definitely go by
water. He will head to the most accessible seaport.
Given his talents for subversion, he will find some
sly fisherman who knows our patrol boat patterns
and pay the fellow to haul him across. He can make
it in a few hours, swim the last hundred yards to a
British beach, and be home with his treasure,
whatever that is.”

“If he escapes, we should shoot the entire staff
of the Bibliothèque Mazarine,” said Boch suddenly.
“This is on them. He stole my papers, yes, he pickpocketed
me, but he could have stolen anyone's papers,
so to single me out is rather senseless. I will
make that point in my report.”

“An excellent point,” said Macht. “Alas, I will
have to add that while he
could
have stolen anyone's
papers, he
did
steal yours. And they were immensely
valuable to him. He is now sitting happily
on the train, thinking of the jam and buns he will
enjoy tomorrow morning with his tea and whether
it will be a DSC or a DSO that follows his name
from now on. I would assume that as an honorable
German officer you will take full responsibility. I
really don't think we need to go shooting up any
library staffs at this point. Why don't we concentrate
on catching him, and that will be that.”

Boch meant to argue but saw that it was useless.
He settled back into his bleakness and said
nothing.

“The first thing: which train?” Macht inquired
of the air. The air had no answer and so he answered
it himself. “Assuming that he left, as
le directeur
said, at exactly three forty-five p.m. by cab,
he got to the Montparnasse station by four-fifteen.
Using his SS papers, he would not need to stand in
line for tickets or checkpoints, so he could leave almost
immediately. My question thus has to be,
what trains leaving for coastal destinations were
available between four-fifteen and four forty-five?
He will be on one of those trains. Walter, please call
the detectives.”

Abel spoke into the microphone by radio to his
headquarters and waited. A minute later an answer
came. He conveyed it to the two officers.

“A train for Cherbourg left at four-thirty, due
to arrive in that city at eleven-thirty p.m. Then another
at—”

“That's fine. He'd take the first. He doesn't want
to be standing around, not knowing where we are
in our investigations and thus assuming the worst.
Now, Walter, please call Abwehr headquarters and
get our people at Montparnasse to check the gate
of that train for late-arriving German officers. I believe
they have to sign a travel manifest. At least, I
always do. See if Hauptsturmführer—ah, what's
the first name, Boch?”

“Otto.”

“SS Hauptsturmführer Otto Boch, Gestapo,
came aboard at the last moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Macht looked over at Boch. “Well, Hauptsturmführer, if this pans out, we may save you
from your 8.8 in Russia.”

“I serve where I help the Führer best. My life is
of no consequence,” said Boch darkly.

“You may feel somewhat differently when you
see the tanks on the horizon,” said Macht.

“It hardly matters. We can never catch him. He
has too much head start. We can order the train
met at Cherbourg, I suppose, and perhaps they will
catch him.”

“Unlikely. This eel is too slippery.”

“Please tell me you have a plan.”

“Of course I have a plan,” said Macht.

“All right, yes,” said Abel, turning from the
phone. “Hauptsturmführer Boch did indeed come
aboard at the last moment.”

He sat, he sat, he sat. The train shook, rattled, and
clacked. Twilight passed into lightless night. The
vibrations played across everything. Men smoked,
men drank from flasks, men tried to write letters
home or read. It was not an express, so every half
hour or so the train would lurch to a stop and one
or two officers would leave, one or two would join.
The lights flickered, cool air blasted into the compartment,
the French conductor yelled the meaningless
name of the town, and on and on they
went, into the night.

At last the conductor yelled, “Bricquebec,
twenty minutes,” first in French, then in German.

He stood up, leaving his overcoat, and went to
the loo. In it, he looked at his face in the mirror,
sallow in the light. He soaked a towel, rubbed his
face, meaning to find energy somehow. Action this
day. Much of it. A last trick, a last wiggle.

The fleeing agent's enemy is paranoia. Basil had
no immunity from it, merely discipline against it.
He was also not particularly immune to fear. He
felt both of these emotions strongly now, knowing
that this nothingness of waiting for the train to get
him where it had to was absolutely the worst.

But then he got his war face back on, forcing
the armor of his charm and charisma to the surface,
willing his eyes to sparkle, his smile to flash,
his brow to furl romantically. He was back in character.
He was Basil again.

“Excellent,” said Macht. “Now, Boch, your turn to
contribute. Use that SS power of yours we all so
fear and call von Choltitz's adjutant. It is important
that I be given temporary command authority
over a unit called Nachtjagdgeschwader-9. Luftwaffe,
of course. It's a wing headquartered at a
small airfield near the town of Bricquebec, less
than an hour outside Cherbourg. Perhaps you remember
our chat with its commandant, Oberst
Gunther Scholl, a few days ago. Well, you had better
hope that Oberst Scholl is on his game, because
he is the one who will nab Johnny England for us.”

Quite expectedly, Boch didn't understand. Puzzlement
flashed in his eyes and fuddled his face.
He began to stutter, but Abel cut him off.

“Please, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Time is fleeing.”

Boch did what he was told, telling his Uber-
Hauptsturmführer that Hauptmann Dieter
Macht, of Abwehr III-B, needed to give orders to
Oberst Scholl of NJG-9 at Bricquebec. Then the
three got into the Citroën and drove the six blocks
back to the Hotel Duval, where they went quickly
to the phone operator at the board. Though the
Abwehr men were sloppy by SS standards, they
were efficient by German standards.

The operator handed a phone to Macht, who
didn't bother to shed his trench coat and fedora.

“Hullo, hullo,” he said, “Hauptmann Macht
here, call for Oberst Scholl. Yes, I'll wait.”

A few seconds later Scholl came on the phone.

“Scholl here.”

“Yes, Oberst Scholl, it's Hauptmann Macht,
Paris Abwehr. Have things been explained to you?”

“Hello, Macht. I know only that by emergency
directive from Luftwaffe Command I am to obey
your orders.”

“Do you have planes up tonight?”

“No, the bomber streams are heading north
tonight. We have the night off.”

“Sorry to make the boys work, Herr Oberst. It
seems your seatmate is returning to your area. I
need manpower. I need you to meet and cordon
off the Cherbourg train at the Bricquebec stop. It's
due in at eleven-thirty p.m. Maximum effort. Get
your pilots out of bed or out of the bars or brothels,
and your mechanics, your ground crews, your
fuelers. Leave only a skeleton crew in the tower. I'll
tell you why in a bit.”

“I must say, Macht, this is unprecedented.”

“Oberst, I'm trying to keep you from the Russian
front. Please comply enthusiastically so that
you can go back to your three mistresses and your
wine cellar.”

“How did—”

“We have records, Herr Oberst. Anyhow, I
would conceal the men in the bushes and inside
the depot house until the train has all but arrived.
Then, on command, they are to take up positions
surrounding the train, making certain that no one
leaves. At that point I want you to lead a search
party from one end to the other, though of course
start in first class. You know who you are looking
for. He is now, however, in a dark blue pin-striped
suit, double-breasted. He has a dark overcoat. He
may look older, more abused, harder, somehow
different from when last you saw him. You must
be alert, do you understand?”

“Is he armed?”

“We don't know. Assume he is. Listen here,
there's a tricky part. When you see him, you must
not react immediately. Do you understand? Don't
make eye contact, don't move fast or do anything
stupid. He has an L-pill. It will probably be in his
mouth. If he sees you coming for him, he will bite
it. Strychnine—instant. It would mean so much
more if we could take him alive. He may have
many secrets, do you understand?”

“I do.”

“When you take him, order your officers to go
first for his mouth. They have to get fingers or a
plug or something deep into his throat to keep him
from biting or swallowing, then turn him facedown
and pound hard on his back. He has to
cough out that pill.”

“My people will be advised. I will obviously be
there to supervise.”

“Oberst, this chap is very efficient, very practiced.
He's an old dog with miles of travel on him.
For years he's lasted in a profession where most
perish in a week. Be very careful, be very astute, be
very sure. I know you can do this.”

“I will catch your spy for you, Macht.”

“Excellent. One more thing. I will arrive within
two hours in my own Storch, with my assistant,
Abel.”

“That's right, you fly.”

“I do, yes. I have over a thousand hours, and
you know how forgiving a Storch is.”

“I do.”

“So alert your tower people. I'll buzz them so
they can light a runway for the thirty seconds it
takes me to land, then go back to blackout. And
leave a car and driver to take me to the station.”

“I will.”

“Good hunting.”

“Good flying.”

He put the phone down, turned to Abel, and
said, “Call the airport, get the plane flight-checked
and fueled so that we can take off upon arrival.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One moment,” said Boch.

“Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer?”

“As this is a joint SS-Abwehr operation, I demand
to be a part of it. I will go along with you.”

“The plane holds only two. It loses its agility
when a third is added. It's not a fighter, it's a kite
with a tiny motor.”

“Then I will go instead of Abel. Macht, do not
fight me on this. I will go to SS and higher if I need
to. SS must be represented all through this operation.”

“You trust my flying?”

“Of course.”

“Good, because Abel does not. Now, let's go.”

“Not quite yet. I have to change into my uniform.”

Refreshed, Basil left the loo. But instead of turning
back into the carriage and returning to his seat, he
turned the other way, as if it were the natural thing
to do, opened the door at the end of the carriage,
and stepped out onto the rattling, trembling running
board over the coupling between carriages.
He waited for the door behind him to seal, tested
for speed. Was the train slowing? He felt it was, as
maybe the vibrations were further apart, signifying
that the wheels churned slightly less aggressively,
against an incline, on the downhill, perhaps negotiating
a turn. Then, without a thought, he leaped
sideways into the darkness.

Will I be lucky? Will the famous St. Florian charm
continue? Will I float to a soft landing and roll
through the dirt, only my dignity and my hair
mussed? Or will this be the night it all runs out and I hit a bridge abutment, a tree trunk, a barbed-wire
fence, and kill myself?

He felt himself elongate as he flew through the
air, and as his leap carried him out of the gap between
the two cars the slipstream hit him hard,
sending his arms and legs flying wildly.

He seemed to hang in the darkness for an eternity,
feeling the air beat him, hearing the roar of
both the wind and the train, seeing nothing.

Then he hit. Stars exploded, suns collapsed, the
universe split atomically, releasing a tidal wave of
energy. He tasted dust, felt pain and a searing jab
in his back, then high-speed abrasion of his whole
body, a piercing blow to his left hand, had the illusion
of rolling, sliding, falling, hurting all at once,
and then he lay quiet.

Am I dead?

He seemed not to be.

The train was gone now. He was alone in the
track bed, amid a miasma of dust and blood. At
that point the pain clamped him like a vise and he
felt himself wounded, though how badly was yet
unknown. Could he move? Was he paralyzed? Had
he broken any bones?

He sucked in oxygen, hoping for restoration. It
came, marginally.

He checked his hip pocket to see if his Browning
.380 was still there, and there indeed it was. He
reached next for his shin, hoping and praying that
the Minox had survived the descent and landfall.

It wasn't there! The prospect of losing it was so
tragically immense that he could not face it and exiled the possibility from his brain as he found
the tape, still tight, followed it around, and in one
second touched the aluminum skin of the instrument.
Somehow the impact of the fall had moved
it around his leg but had not sundered, only loosened,
the tape. He pried it out, slipped it into his
hip pocket. He slipped the Browning into his belt
in the small of his back, then counted to three and
stood.