Citadel (6 page)

As he worked his way down the aisle, Basil pretended
to find the footing awkward against the
sway of the train on the tracks, twice almost stumbling.
Then he reached the fourth seat on the right,
willed his knees to buckle, and, with a squeal of
panic, let himself tumble awkwardly, catching
himself with his left hand upon the shoulder of the
man beneath, yet still tumbling further, awkwardly,
the whole thing seemingly an accident as one out-of-control body crashed into the other, in-control
body.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, “excuse, excuse, I am
so sorry!”

The other man was so annoyed that he didn't
notice the deft stab by which Basil penetrated his
jacket and plucked his documents free, especially
since the pressure on his left shoulder was so aggressive
that it precluded notice of the far subtler
stratagem of the pick reaching the brain.

Basil righted himself.

“So sorry, so sorry!”

“Bah, you should be more careful,” said the mark.

“I will try, sir,” said Basil, turning to see the
colonel three feet from him in the aisle, having witnessed
the whole drama from an advantageous
position.

Macht requested a squad of
feldpolizei
as backup,
set up a choke point at the gate from the platform
into the station's vast, domed central space, and
waited for the train to rumble into sight. Instead,
alas, what rumbled into sight was his nemesis, SS
Hauptsturmführer Boch, a toadlike Nazi true believer
of preening ambition who went everywhere
in his black dress uniform.

“Dammit again, Macht,” he exploded, spewing
his excited saliva everywhere. “You know by protocol
you must inform me of any arrest activities.”

“Herr Hauptsturmführer, if you check your orderly's
message basket, you will learn that at tenthirty
p.m. I called and left notification of possible
arrest. I cannot be responsible for your orderly's
efficiency in relaying that information to you.”

“Calculated to miss me, because of course I was
doing my duty supervising an
aktion
against Jews
and not sitting around my office drinking coffee
and smoking.”

“Again, I cannot be responsible for your schedule,
Herr Hauptsturmführer.” Of course Macht
had an informer in Boch's office, so he knew exactly
where the SS man was at all times. He knew
that Boch was on one of his Jew-hunting trips; his
only miscalculation was that Boch, who was generally
unsuccessful at such enterprises, had gotten
back earlier than anticipated. And of course Boch
was always unsuccessful because Macht always informed
the Jews of the coming raid.

“Whatever, it is of no consequence,” said Boch.
Though both men were technically of the same
rank, captains, the SS clearly enjoyed Der Führer's
confidence while the Abwehr did not, and so its
members presumed authority in any encounter.
“Brief me, please, and I will take charge of the situation.”

“My men are in place, and disturbing my setup
would not be efficient. If an arrest is made, I will
certainly give the SS credit for its participation.”

“What are we doing here?”

“There was aviation activity near Bricquebec,
outside Cherbourg. Single-engine monoplane
suddenly veering to parachute altitude. It suggested
a British agent visit. Then the documents of
a man in Bricquebec, including travel authorization,
were stolen. If a British agent were in Bricquebec,
his obvious goal would be Paris, and the
most direct method would be by rail, so we are intercepting
the Cherbourg–Paris night train in
hopes of arresting a man bearing the papers of one
Auguste M. Piens, restaurateur, hotel owner, and
well-known ally of the Reich, here in Paris.”

“An English agent!” Boch's eyes lit up. This was
treasure. This was a medal. This was a promotion.
He saw himself now as Obersturmbannführer
Boch. The little fatty all the muscular boys had
called Gretel and whose underdrawers they tied in
knots, an Obersturmbannführer! That would
show them!

“If an apprehension is made, the prisoner is to
be turned over to the SS for interrogation. I will go
to Berlin if I have to on this one, Macht. If you
stand in the way of SS imperatives, you know the
consequences.”

The consequence:
“Russian tanks at 300! Load
shells. Prepare to fire.”“Sir, I can't see them. The snow
is blinding, my fingers are numb from the cold, and
the sight is frozen!”

Even though he had witnessed the brazen theft, the
colonel said nothing and responded in no way. His
mind was evidently so locked in the beautiful year
1912 and the enchantment of his eventual first
solo flight that he was incapable of processing new
information. The crime he had just seen had nothing
whatsoever to do with the wonderful French
friend who had been so fascinated by his tale and
whose eyes radiated such utter respect, even hero
worship; it could not be fitted into any pattern and
was thus temporarily disregarded for other pleasures,
such as, still ahead, a narration of the
colonel's adventures in the Great War, the time he
had actually shaken hands with the great
Richthofen, and his own flight-ending crash—left
arm permanently disabled. Luckily, his tail in tatters,
he had made it back to his own lines before
going down hard early in '18. It was one of his favorite
stories.

He simply nodded politely at the Frenchman,
who nodded back as if he hadn't a care in the world.

In time the train pulled into the station, issuing
groans and hisses of steam, vibrating heavily as it
rolled to a stop.

“Ah, Paris,” said the colonel. “Between you and
me, M. Piens, I so prefer it to Berlin. And so especially
does my wife. She is looking forward to this
little weekend jaunt.”

They disembarked in orderly fashion, Germans
and Frenchmen combined, but discovered on the
platform that some kind of security problem lay
ahead, at the gate into the station, as soldiers and
SS men with machine pistols stood along the platform,
smoking but eyeing the passengers carefully.
Then the security people screamed out that Germans
would go to the left, French to the right, and
on the right a few dour-looking men in fedoras
and lumpy raincoats examined identification papers
and travel authorizations. The Germans
merely had to flash leave papers, so that line moved
much more quickly.

“Well, M. Piens, I leave you here. Good luck with
your sister's health in Paris. I hope she recovers.”

“I'm sure she will, Colonel.”

“Adieu.”

He sped ahead and disappeared through the
doors into the vast space. Basil's line inched its way
ahead, and though the line was shorter, each arrival
at the security point was treated with thorough
Germanic ceremony, the papers examined
carefully, the comparisons to the photographs
made slowly, any bags or luggage searched. It
seemed to take forever.

What could he do? At this point it would be impossible
to slip away, disappear down the tracks,
and get to the city over a fence; the Germans had
thrown too many security troops around for that.
Nor could he hope to roll under the train; the platform
was too close to it, and there was no room to
squeeze through.

Basil saw an evil finish: they'd see by the document
that his face did not resemble the photograph,
ask him a question or two, and learn that
he had not even seen the document and had no
idea whose papers he carried. The body search
would come next, the pistol and the camera would
give him away, and it was off to the torture cellar.
The L-pill was his only alternative, but could he get
to it fast enough?

At the same time, the narrowing of prospects
was in some way a relief. No decisions needed to
be made. All he had to do was brazen it out with a
haughty attitude, beaming confidence, and it
would be all right.

Macht watched the line while Abel examined papers
and checked faces. Boch meanwhile provided
theatrical atmosphere by posing heroically in his
black leather trench coat, the SS skull on his black
cap catching the light and reflecting impulses of
power and control from above his chubby little
face.

Eight. Seven. Six. Five.

Finally before them was a well-built chap of
light complexion who seemed like some sort of
athlete. He could not be a secret agent because he
was too charismatic. All eyes would always turn to
him, and he seemed accustomed to attention. He
could be English, indeed, because he was a sort
called “ginger.” But the French had a considerable
amount of genetic material for the hue as well, so
the hair and the piercing eyes communicated less
than the Aryan stereotypes seemed to proclaim.

“Good evening, M. Vercois,” said Abel in French
as he looked at the papers and then at the face,
“and what brings you to Paris?”

“A woman, Herr Leutnant. An old story. No
surprises.”

“May I ask why you are not in a prisoner-ofwar
camp? You seem military.”

“Sir, I am a contractor. My firm, M. Vercois et
Fils—I am the son, by the way—has contracted to
do much cement work on the coastline. We are
building an impregnable wall for the Reich.”

“Yes, yes,” said Abel in a policeman's tired voice,
indicating that he had heard all the French collaborationist
sucking-up he needed to for the day.

“Now do you mind, please, turning to the left so
that I can get a good profile view. I must say, this is
a terrible photograph of you.”

“I take a bad photograph, sir. I have this trouble
frequently, but if you hold the light above the
photo, it will resolve itself. The photographer made
too much of my nose.”

Abel checked.

It still did not quite make sense.

He turned to Macht.

“See if this photo matches, Herr Hauptmann.
Maybe it's the light, but—”

At that moment, from the line two places behind
M. Vercois, a man suddenly broke and ran
crazily down the platform.

“That's him!” screamed Boch. “Stop that man,
goddammit, stop that man!”

The drama played out quickly. The man ran
and the Germans were disciplined enough not to
shoot him, but instead, like football athletes,
moved to block him. He tried to break this way,
then that, but soon a younger, stronger, faster Untersharführer
had him, another reached the melee
and tangled him up from behind, and then two
more, and the whole scrum went down in a blizzard
of arms and legs.

“Someone stole my papers!” the man cried.
“My papers are missing, I am innocent. Heil Hitler.
I am innocent. Someone stole my papers.”

“Got him,” screamed Boch. “Got him!” and ran
quickly to the melee to take command of the
British agent.

“Go on,” said Abel to M. Vercois as he and
Macht went themselves to the incident.

His face blank, Basil entered the main station
as whistles sounded and security troops from
everywhere ran to Gate No. 4, from which he had
just emerged. No one paid him any attention as he
turned sideways to let the heavily armed Germans
swarm past him. In the distance German sirens
sounded, that strange two-note
caw-CAW
that
sounded like a crippled crow, as yet more troops
poured to the site.

Basil knew he didn't have much time. Someone
smart among the Germans would understand
quickly enough what had happened and would
order a quick search of the train, where the M.
Piens documents would be found in the first-class
loo, and they'd know what had transpired. Then
they'd throw a cordon around the station, call in
more troops, and do a very careful examination of
the horde, person by person, looking for a man
with the papers of poor M. Vercois, currently undergoing
interrogation by SS boot.

He walked swiftly to the front door, though the
going was tough. Too late. Already the
feldpolizei
had commanded the cabs to leave and had halted
buses. More German troops poured from trucks
to seal off the area; more German staff cars arrived.
The stairs to the Métro were all blocked by armed
men.

He turned as if to walk back, meanwhile hunting
for other ways out.

“Monsieur Piens, Monsieur Piens,” came a call.
He turned and saw the Luftwaffe colonel waving
at him.

“Come along, I'll drop you. No need to get
hung up in this unfortunate incident.”

He ran to and entered the cab, knowing full well
that his price of survival would be a trip back to
the years 1912 through 1918. It almost wasn't
worth it.

A few days earlier (cont'd.)

“Promote him!” said Basil. “The games you play. I
swear I cannot keep up with them. The man's a
traitor. He should be arrested and shot.”

But his anguish moved no one on the panel that
sat before him in the prime minister's murky staff
room.

“Basil, so it should be with men of action, but
you posit a world where things are clear and simple,”
said Sir Colin. “Such a planet does not exist.
On this one, the real one, direct action is almost
always impossible. Thus one must move on the
oblique, making concessions and allowances all the
way, never giving up too much for too little, tracking
reverberations and rebounds, keeping the
upper lip as stiff as if embalmed in concrete. Thus
we leave small creatures such as our wretch of a
Cambridge librarian alone in hopes of influencing
someone vastly more powerful. Professor, perhaps
you could put Basil in the picture so he understands
what it is we are trying to do, and why it is
so bloody important.”

“It's called Operation Citadel,” said Professor
Turing. “The German staff has been working on it
for some time now. Even though we would like to
think that the mess they engineered on themselves
at Stalingrad ended it for them, that is mere wishful
dreaming. They are wounded but still immensely
powerful.”