As Time Goes By (37 page)

They were alone now and facing each other across
the room like hunter and prey. "See how
das deutsche Reich
greets its future F
ü
hrer."

"F
ü
hrer?"
she asked playfully. "But surely—"

"No." Heydrich laughed. "There is nothing wrong
with Adolf Hitler. May he live a hundred years! But our F
ü
hrer is a wise man, and he realizes that every
leader, no matter how great, needs a
Nachfolger,
a suc
cessor. I am proud to say that he has given me reason to believe that, in his eyes and in his heart, I am that
man. I intend to prove myself worthy of that great
honor. Imagine: the opportunity to complete the glorious work begun by the Greatest Field Marshall of All Time, Adolf Hitler!"

She glimpsed a condescending little smile, and in
a flash she knew that, even were she the real Tamara
Toumanova, even were she a member of the noblest
family in Russia, she would still be in his eyes only a
Slav, a slave, and there would never be any place for
her in his world, or in the New World Order the Nazis had planned.

The window was open, and the night was chilly. She
shivered, unprotected in her evening dress. Heydrich
rose and snaked one long arm around her quivering
form. "What is it, my little treasure?" he asked "There is nothing to fear. Not with me to protect you."

With terrible clarity, she knew exactly what to say.
"Oh, but there is!" she cried. "There is everything to
fear."

Heydrich laughed at her as if she were a child, afraid of the dark. "There now," he began, and got no further.

"They are going to kill you!" she exclaimed.

"Who?" asked Heydrich. He laughed dismissively.

"The partisans," she told him. "They are going to
bomb your car on the way to the castle tomorrow. On
the
Č
ech
ů
v Most."

"The
Č
ech
ů
v Most, you say?" he asked warily.
"How would they know I have been planning to
change my route?"

The moment of maximum danger was here. How
many other people had he told about his intention? If she was the only one, then she was as good as dead.
Please, she prayed, let there be someone else.

In a flash, he had spun her around. His grip was not so tender anymore, and the contemptuous smile was
gone from his thin lips. "How do you know this?" he
demanded.

"There's a traitor in your office," she said. "Some
one close to you. Someone very close."

He had to believe it. He
had
to.

She took a deep breath. "Someone who has decided
to betray you: Frau Hentgen." All her chips were on
one number, and she hoped it was lucky.

"That is impossible," said Heydrich. "Frau Hentgen
has been with me since my arrival in Prague. She is a
valuable servant of the Reich. Why would she betray
me?"

He spoke confidently, but Ilsa could see a tiny flame
of mistrust in his eyes. All she had to do was fan it.
"She is jealous of you. She is jealous of me. She is jealous of
us."

"Bah!" snorted Heydrich. "Frau Hentgen is beyond
such petty emotions as jealousy. Those are for other,
lesser women."

Ilsa saw her opening and made a silent prayer of
thanks. "She is still a woman, though," she reminded
him. "And you are a man. The most glorious man in
the Third Reich."

Heydrich looked at her warily, trying to decide what
to believe. Ilsa could sense him teetering. All he
needed was a little push.

She pushed. "Oh, Reinhard," she said. "Until to
night, I didn't know how to tell you of my suspicions.
I was afraid you wouldn't believe me. I needed proof.
This afternoon, I got it."

She unfolded the piece of paper Helena had given her. "I found this on her desk. In her haste she must
have forgotten it."

The blue parrot. Operation Hangman. Tell Lon
don. Danger.

"I checked immediately with our network of inform
ers, of course," she went on. "The details are still
sketchy, but what is clear is that 'Operation Hangman'
is an assassination plot, directed from London, and spearheaded in Prague by—"

Heydrich slammed his fist against the wall so hard,
it nearly made her jump.
"Die verdammte Sau!"
he
roared. "I have suspected something like this for some
time. There have been unexplained leaks, unaccount
able security lapses." His eyes grew very small. "That
business in the B
ö
hmenwald, for example. How did
they know we were coming?"

She took her cue. "Frau Hentgen," she said.

"No." He shook his head. "Frau Hentgen is only a functionary. This conspiracy goes much higher."

He began to pace furiously around the room. "Kaltenbrunner," he said at last, trying to shake the muzzi
ness from his head. "I might have known better than to
trust any Austrians. They are innately treacherous. To
think he came here tonight, to enjoy my hospitality,
to sit at my table, to drink my wine!"

Ernst Kaltenbrunner: the tall, ugly, pockmarked
killer whose appearance filled everyone with loathing.
A sadist who was known to torture his victims person
ally. The deputy who wanted his boss's job. The man
who would be Heydrich.

"Yes, that must be it," she said conspiratorially.
"Kaltenbrunner. She is working with him against you.
He hates you and he wants your job, but he is too much
the jackal to try to take it from you. That is why he is
working with the British. So no one will suspect him."

He stormed over to the telephone, a direct line to the
castle. He spoke quietly, but rapidly and angrily.

"I have just ordered the arrest of Frau Hentgen," he
told Ilsa after he had hung up. "She will be interro
gated in the morning. Thoroughly." An evil smile
played across his mouth. "Perhaps there will soon be a
senior position available in my office."

"What about Kaltenbrunner?" she breathed. She
didn't have to fake her eagerness for his blood, too.

"That I cannot do," Heydrich replied. "Not just yet. But soon."

He went to a cabinet, rummaged around, and came
up with two more champagne glasses. Unsteadily he
poured them full and handed one to Ilsa.

"We must drink," he said. "To the late Frau Hentgen!" He downed his at once, tossing his head back to drain the glass, which gave Ilsa time to empty hers out the window, unnoticed.

She rushed to embrace him. "Magnificent," she said.

To her surprise, he put up his hands to hold her off.
"Perhaps I should order your arrest, too," he said.

"What?" gasped Ilsa. In his eyes she could see mis
trust mixed with desire.

"I did not become chief of the Reich security service
by being careless. One should always interrogate all
witnesses. A night spent in my custody would be good
for both of us," he said, trying not to slur his words.

He grabbed her. He tore at her dress, he kissed her violently, he ran his hands up and down her body.

For a brief moment she was tempted to give in. Why
not? He was in the trap now and had to be drawn in even more tightly, until he suffocated in it. Then she
thought of Victor. Then she thought of Rick.

She slapped his face, hard. "Stop!" she cried "Do
you think I am one of your whores?"

He loosened his grasp. "Aren't all women?" he
sneered.

"If I were," she said gently, "if I were only a whore,
would Frau Hentgen hate me so?"

He said nothing.

"If I were only a whore, would you want me so?"

Heydrich released her and sat down heavily on the
floor. "You are a witch," he sighed, "who has en
chanted me." He laughed bitterly. "See how the Protector cowers before you."

She tried to control her revulsion as she stroked his
hair.
      

"Do you love me?" he asked.

"Why else would I be trying to save your life?" she
replied.

Now she could see him for what he was. The mask
of the beast had fallen away. She no longer felt guilty
about what was going to happen to him. It would be a mercy killing.

She bent down and raised his face to hers. His unrea
soning desire was his Achilles' heel, and now, like
Paris of Troy, she was going to shoot her arrow into it
and kill him.

She took aim and fired. "A man called Victor Laszlo
is behind it," she whispered.

Her words had the effect she desired. The Protector's
eyes were on fire once more. "Laszlo!" he spat. "That
pathetic weakling! The
Feigling
who runs from the
very sound of my name! Who prints the foulest lies
about me and the Reich and thinks himself a hero! I
will kill him with my bare hands!"

Now, at last, she knew why Victor had been protect
ing her all this time. She felt a sudden, urgent stab of
love for her husband.

Unsteadily Heydrich rose to his feet. She could feel
his breath on her face, smell his cologne, see his hatred,
and taste his fear as he grasped her for support.

"This Laszlo is a dangerous man," said Ilsa. "Send
your best men to the
Č
ech
ů
v Most. Station them there to watch for him. You and I, however, will be at the Charles Bridge tomorrow."

Heydrich flailed the air with his fists. "I will not run!
I will not let Laszlo think that I am afraid of him. The
true Aryan flees from no man!"

"You are not fleeing," she assured him. "You are
sparing the people who love you from unpleasantness.
What does it matter if you cross the
Č
ech
ů
v Most the
next day, or the next week? In the Thousand-Year
Reich, that is but the blink of an eye. You have all the
time in the world. Victor Laszlo will sleep for eter
nity."

He looked at her in defeat. "Make love with me," he
begged.

"No," she said. "This is not a time for love. This is
a time for hatred."

He drew himself up, struggling for his dignity. "You
are right," he said. "A German must put aside weak
emotions like lust in favor of the grander passions. I
shall order my men to the
Č
ech
ů
v Most. You shall stay
here tonight, and ride with me over the Charles Bridge
in the morning, that all Prague might see the Protector
and his consort together!"

Stiffly he bade her good night. "Hear this, however:
If my men find nothing on the
Č
ech
ů
v Most, you will
die. If anything untoward happens on the Charles
Bridge, I shall kill you myself."

He offered her a formal bow. "Sleep well, Fr
ä
ulein
Toumanova."

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
F
IVE

In the early dawn light of May 27, 1942,
Hradčany
Castle looked like something out of one of Franz Kaf
ka's dreams. Then Rick remembered that it wasn't Kaf
ka's dream at all, but Kafka's nightmare. Rick hoped
his experience would have a happier ending, but he
wasn't optimistic.

Even in late May, a chill was in the air. Nobody was
up or about. There were no cars in the streets, no sub
ways rumbling underfoot, no newsboys hawking bull
dog editions, no colored cleaning ladies trudging home
to their families, no Italian greengrocers washing down
the produce for the opening of business, no Irish train
conductors in freshly pressed uniforms heading over to
Pennsylvania Station for the first run down to Balti
more, not even any cops, idly chatting up the late-shift
drabs in Times Square and hungrily awaiting the open
ing of the bakeries in a hour.

This is not the way it would be in New York, thought
Rick. He was suddenly terribly homesick.

As he stood there, looking up at the castle, his mind
raced back to a legend his mother had taught him when
he was small. It was the story of the Golem of Prague, Rabbi Loew's mythical creation who righted the many
wrongs committed against the Jews of medieval
Prague. In Yiddish, a golem was also an unlettered,
half-formed creature, a robot, a fool. How well all
those adjectives described him. Fine: from this moment on, he would be the Golem of Prague come to life once more.

At last he had found a cause worth dying for. Only
this time he had no intention of doing so.

Ilsa was awakened by one of Heydrich's maids. "The
master is impatient," she said. "The master is always impatient."

The clock on the dresser read precisely 7:00 a.m. She
would have to move quickly to be ready when the car
left at 7:25. The Protector was never late, even for his
own demise. She dressed quickly.

She had to wear the same dress she had worn last
night. If she had to die, she wished she could do so in
something fresh, something pure, but she had not been
planning to sleep at the villa. Perhaps this way was bet
ter, though: that she should perish not in blue, but in scarlet. She only hoped that Victor would forgive her
as he threw the bomb. That he would have the courage
to do so, she had no doubt.
     

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 fin
ish. 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 min
utes 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 Protec
tor give instructions to his driver. "The Kirchmayer
Boulevard," he said, "and the
Č
ech
ů
v Most."

The
Č
ech
ů
v 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 pat
ted his pockets idly for a pack of cigarettes, then re
membered 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 prob
lem had been to force mate in six moves from a posi
tion that was superficially hopeless. That was the game
that had won the Russian the championship in 1927,
when he beat Capablanca. When he finished Ca
pablanca.

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 comer came the car bearing Kubiš
 
and
Gabčík
. They were dressed as common laborers; Kubiš
 
was disguised as a city street sweeper, while
Gabčík
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 inquisi
tors-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 mes
sage? 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, "wher
ever the ranch might be."

Rick took up his post halfway across the bridge. He
would not stand out here. The Charles Bridge was al
ways crowded with sightseers come to admire the fa
mous 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 Chris
tian 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. Fif
teen 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.