The Lisbon Crossing (25 page)

As if responding to a Siren’s call, one by one, the other three musicians rose from the dead and took up their instruments. Claude first, on bass, then Raymond, softly brushing his snare. Finally, Gérard took up his sax and the sound transformed into a haunting interpretation of “Body and Soul.” I saw that Eva had been lured by the music, too. She stood at the side of the stage, her hands on Abrielle’s shoulders, a look of lost delight on both of their faces as the sound washed over them.

I’ve gone back to that image many times over the years, and still do, to this day. It was one of those unexpected moments in life—an instant that sneaks up on you and takes hold and won’t let go. There was something magical about the way Eva looked over at me and smiled. It was as if the music had swept away all the dark guilt that she held in her soul, and allowed her a brief moment of genuine happiness, which she chose to share with me.

The measured
clip-clop, clip-clop
of the horse’s unhurried steps was the only intrusion into the quiet elegance of Boulevard Suchet. The new day had brought a dose of bright, clear sunshine, filtering down through leafy elms to fall in pools of warm, dappled light across the stone mansions that lined the avenue.

Our early-morning journey had initiated me into the allure of Paris. Upon leaving L’École at dawn, Claude and I set out across Montmartre, traveling west through winding lanes that had been walked a half century earlier by the likes of Renoir, Sisley, Degas, and too many others to name. As the morning’s first light burst forth from the east, strafing the spires and cathedrals that rose out of the cityscape below us, the streets started to come alive with Parisians. They ventured out on foot, and on bicycle, carrying the weight of their defeated spirits in wounded silence.

Claude left me inside the gate of the district cemetery and continued on to the depot, which was around the corner. I wandered through the gravestones, checking names and dates, until he reappeared, sitting atop his fully loaded milk wagon, wearing a royal-blue smock over spotless white overalls. I climbed aboard and slipped into
a matching uniform he’d left on the seat for me. It must’ve been his spare because there was enough room in it for two of me. Claude raised his eyebrows, shrugged his big shoulders, and snapped the reins. As the wagon lurched forward, I rolled up my sleeves and moved Eva’s Luger into the pocket of the smock, where I could get at it quickly if it was needed.

We clattered along the cobblestones for a couple of blocks, then turned left into a broad avenue, heading south toward L’Arc de Triomphe. As we neared the center of Paris, evidence of the occupation became more conspicuous. Newly printed road signs, in German, were placed at each intersection, marking directions to hotels, official buildings, and all the major sights. I noticed a poster, placed at one of the tram stops, that depicted a young French boy eating a piece of bread as he smiled lovingly at the congenial Wehrmacht trooper who held him in his arms. Two girls watched longingly from a distance, eager to join in the mirth. Printed along the bottom of the happy scene was the advice
F
AITES
C
ONFIANCE AU
S
OLDAT
A
LLEMAND
!

Place your trust in the German soldier.

N
umber 24 Boulevard Suchet was built in the Neoclassic style of Louis XVI, suitably grand, but a far cry from Buckingham Palace. Four stories high, with a gray slate mansard roof, its only security was a four-foot-high black iron railing. I was glad to see a tradesman’s entrance on the side of the building.

Christien had suggested the milk-wagon approach. I hadn’t given him any details about what we were up to, just that we needed a way to scout out a wealthy residence without being noticed. It turned out that—like most of Paris—he knew the duke’s mansion, but he still didn’t ask questions.

The idea was for me to stay with the wagon and have a good look around the area while Claude siphoned off a couple of pints of milk and carried them to the service entrance. He’d ask Madame Moulichon—or anyone else who answered the bell—if they wanted
to restart their daily delivery, and be told, presumably, that his services weren’t required. He would then ask if he might have a glass of water and, with a little luck, be invited inside. Although this wasn’t his normal run, it was unlikely that anyone would be suspicious of a thirsty milkman, especially one with a face like Claude’s.

Once inside, he’d engage the maid in conversation, try to ascertain if she was alone in the house, and if she was expecting anyone during the day. He might even be able to locate a safe access point—a window or door that wasn’t overlooked by inquisitive neighbors. If he came back with the all clear, I’d jump off the wagon and slip inside while he continued on around the corner, to the edge of the Bois de Boulogne—the vast woodland on the western edge of central Paris—where Eva would be waiting. Claude would drive by without stopping, but he’d give her a nod to let her know that it was safe to walk back to the house, where I’d let her in. In the meantime, I would have “prepared” Madame Moulichon for a chat. Between Eva’s French and my Luger, I had no doubt that we’d convince her to hand over the contents of the duke’s safe.

“D
on’t stop,” I said.

“Eh…?” Claude looked up and down the street.

“Keep going. And don’t look around.”

I’d spotted a black Citroën parked a few doors down from the residence. I don’t know what made me suspicious—maybe it was the car’s position on the street, or maybe I’d picked up a movement inside it—but whatever the case, it was a good instinct, because as we neared, I could see that there were two men sitting in the front seat. Chancing a quick sideways glance, I saw that the man closest to us, the one in the passenger seat, was Walter Engel. Der Engel der Schwärzung had survived Eva’s bullet. The second man’s face was blocked by Engel’s head. I should have turned away, but something prevented me. Fixing my eyes on the interior of the car as we passed, coming within a few feet of it, I slipped my hand into my pocket and gripped
the Luger. But Engel didn’t look my way. Instead, he turned to say something to his partner, allowing me to see that the second man, the one in the driver’s seat, was none other than the rat from Belgrade—Roman Popov.

E
va was sitting on a bench at the edge of the woods, an innocent Parisian reading the French equivalent of a dime-store novel as she soaked up the sunshine. I didn’t have to look at her as we passed. My presence was enough to tell her that things hadn’t gone as planned. I waited a block before slipping out of my overalls and jumping down from the wagon.

Eva had already stood up and was walking toward me when she veered off the sidewalk onto a gravel footpath that led into the woods. I followed for several minutes, maintaining the distance between us, until I lost sight of her in the thickening trees. I picked up my pace and found her waiting a couple of feet off the path, in a small clearing.

“What’s he doing in Paris?” she said when I told her about Popov.

“Keeping questionable company,” I replied. “Walter Engel was with him.”

“You said he was dead…”

“I said I thought he was dead. I guess neither of you is a very good shot.”

She frowned and looked back along the empty path. “Do you think they’ll take the documents?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But if I had to bet on it, I’d say no. They’ll get them anyway, and Hitler won’t want to get on the wrong side of the duke. My guess is they won’t touch her, but they’ll stay on top of her, all the way back to Lisbon.”

“She can’t get on that train, Jack.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too keen on another rail trip, either. Forget the house, though. We’d never get past those two.”

Eva nodded, started pacing back and forth in the small space. She
snapped a twig off a tree, broke it in two, and tossed it aside. “What if she were to go out? Shopping, or visiting friends…”

“One of them will stay with the house.”

“We might be able to sneak up on one of them.”

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe we could get the jump on him, maybe even kill him and dump the car somewhere without anyone seeing us, but what then? The papers will be in the duke’s safe. I don’t know about you, but my skills stop short of safecracking, and if we wait for the maid, we’re right back where we started, only worse because if Popov doesn’t find Engel when he gets back, or vice versa, we’ll have every storm trooper in Paris stopping by to say hello.”

“Perhaps we could snatch her—”

“Off the street?”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, she’s not going to be carrying the papers on a shopping trip.” Eva lowered her chin and frowned at me.

“You’re not being very helpful.”

“Sure I am. I’m pointing out all the ways we could get ourselves killed and still fail.”

“How about pointing out a way we can succeed?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have an idea.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

L’Église Saint-Julien le Pauvre
had stood on the same ground, in one form or another, since the sixth century, making it the oldest church in Paris, a city that had no shortage of old churches. Hidden away on the Left Bank of the Seine, in the shadow of Notre Dame, it was a sanctuary, a tranquil escape from the undercurrent of fear and foreboding that permeated the occupied city. Christien attended classes a couple of blocks away at the Sorbonne, so when I phoned him at the club, he’d suggested that we meet there to discuss my plan.

As we passed through the church’s west portal, the air became cool and dry, as if we’d walked into an underground cavern. The subdued light, reflecting off the ancient stones, was warm and welcoming, almost sepia in color.

Eva and I stood at the back of the chapel, looking down the aisle toward the altar. Instead of stalls, there were wooden chairs with straw seats set out in a dozen or so neat rows. We found Christien in the front, the lone worshipper in the church. He was looking up toward the ceiling, as if drawn by the soft light that was falling onto his face from above.

“Do you pray, Jack?” he said as we sat down in the row behind him.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“I didn’t used to, either. But now I find myself doing it all the time. I do it without thinking.”

“What do you pray for?” Eva asked softly. Christien turned toward her, his eyes meeting hers head-on, as though he could somehow see her.

“I pray for strength,” he said. “For the strength to sacrifice everything, if this is what I am asked to do.”

Eva nodded silently and we got down to business. We sat there for a few minutes, talking in hushed tones, then we left, one by one. Eva went first, and I noticed that she hastily crossed herself before she turned away from the altar.

M
adame Moulichon would have had all sorts of potential dangers on her mind—carrying secret documents for the former king of England through Nazi-occupied France would be enough to make anybody wary—but she’d have no reason to be suspicious of a taxi. That was the hope, anyway.

Christien had contacted half a dozen car services before uncovering her reservation. Twenty-four Boulevard Suchet, at five o’clock, the dispatcher had confirmed, to arrive at Gare Montparnasse in plenty of time to catch the six-fifteen to Lisbon. Christien had apologized to the man and told him that the car wouldn’t be required, after all.

I glanced over at Claude. He looked a bit shaky, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins a little too tightly. I pretended not to notice, lit a couple of cigarettes, handed one to him.

“So you’re a milkman,” I said, to distract him.

“Like my father.” He smiled, accepting the smoke.

“Do you work together?”

Claude shook his head. “My father was killed in the war…The
first one…I was a baby.” He paused, watched the smoke come off his cigarette. “Too much war,” he whispered.

“Yes,” I said, thinking about my own father, who’d died on the opposite end of the same battlefield. “Too much war.”

I checked my watch again. Where the hell was Raymond? I’d had reservations about him from the beginning. After all, he was a drummer, and drummers were notorious for tempting danger. It made them feel alive. But Christien had had faith in him. He’d pointed out that it was Raymond who’d procured the taxi, a loan from his cabbie uncle, and he’d even driven it on a couple of occasions. He’d do well, I’d been assured, so I set my misgivings aside.

But it was almost five-thirty…

“Les voilà,”
Claude breathed excitedly as the big yellow-and-black Peugeot rounded the corner at the far end of the narrow alley we’d been staking out. The horse, probably sensing the apprehension in Claude’s voice, neighed and pulled on the bit.

“Easy,” I said. “Hold her…”

The alley connected two modest residential streets that we’d found a few blocks from the duke’s residence. It was on the route to the station, so the maid—and more importantly, Popov and Engel, in the car behind—would assume that the driver knew a shortcut. Once the taxi left the alley, Claude would swing the milk wagon into it, blocking the Citroën long enough for Raymond to get lost in the back streets of Paris. He’d stop a few blocks away to pick up Eva, who’d handle Madame Moulichon, then we’d all meet up later, back at the club. Simple enough—but it all depended on separating the two cars here.

Raymond gunned the Peugeot through the alley, as I’d told him to. He had to clear it and let us move in before the Citroën appeared.

“Okay,” I said to Claude, patting him on the shoulder as I jumped into the back and slid out of sight, under the heavy green canvas that covered the wagon. I lay flat on my belly, facing out, my index finger wrapped delicately around the Luger’s trigger.

Claude slapped the reins, called out
“Hue!”
for the horse, and I had to hang on to one of the aluminum milk cans to stay on board as the wagon jerked forward. I heard the taxi go by, then we quickly swung around to the left, the wagon’s ironclad wheels meeting the alley’s cobblestone surface with a jolt. The Citroën announced itself almost immediately.

HONK! HONK! HONK!

They got closer with each blow of the horn. The wagon came to an immediate stop, as we’d gone over. Raymond needed only a couple of minutes to disappear, and as long as it looked like Claude was no more than a bumbling milkman trying to get out of the way, they’d be in too much of a hurry to catch the taxi to make any trouble for us.

HONK! HONK! HONK!

They were on top of us now and the horse was getting flustered, balking as Claude tried to coax her backward while calling out
“Je suis désolé! Je suis désolé!”
in response to the tirade of angry German invectives that were being hurled at him…

“Aus dem Weg, Arschloch! Beweg’ das Pferd oder ich schiesse es!”

Engel was threatening to shoot the horse, but of course he wouldn’t do that. He might shoot Claude, though, if he didn’t get the damned animal on the move.

“Je suis désolé! Je suis désolé!”
Claude kept repeating as Engel continued to fire abuse at him. The wagon pitched to the left with Claude’s weight, then bounced back when he jumped down to the pavement. His presence seemed to calm the horse. After whispering a couple of soothing words, he took her by the bridle and we started to move backward. I thought we were home free when the wagon rolled onto the smooth pavement of the main road, but it was too soon to breathe a sigh of relief.

The Citroën’s engine revved a couple of times, then it screeched forward, probably heading straight for the horse at full speed. The frightened beast reared up on its hind legs, lifting the wagon with it, and
spilled me—along with a few dozen gallons of milk—onto the street.

I rolled a few times, sprang to my feet, and found myself face-to-face with a startled Popov. He sat there, hands on the steering wheel, face frozen in shock. Under other circumstances, I would’ve laughed out loud, and maybe I did manage a little smirk before I raised the Luger and started firing rounds into the car. They both ducked—just in time, too, because all four shots hit the windshield. The glass held for a fraction of a second, then it shattered, exploding into a thousand tiny fragments.

Back on the wagon, Claude was struggling to control the terrified horse, who wanted no part of a shoot-out.

“VENEZ, JACK! VITE! VITE!”

The hulking Frenchman beckoned, which must have made him slacken the reins, because the mare took it as permission to bolt. She shot off like a Thoroughbred out of the gate, leaving me stranded in the road, facing two Gestapo thugs who I’d just tried to blow away. I could stand and fight, or I could turn and run for my life.

My legs didn’t touch the ground. I exploded out of my stance and flew up the street, my entire being focused on outrunning the bullet that I knew was chasing me down. Somewhere in the far reaches of my brain, I recalled somebody saying that the worst thing you can do if you’re trying to avoid getting shot in the back is to run in a straight line because it gives the killer too constant a target. To hell with that! I thought. I’m running as straight as I can—straight into the back of that goddamned wagon!

The old nag must’ve been making thirty miles an hour, but it felt like seventy. I managed to pull within a couple of feet of the gate, which had broken off on one side and was being dragged along the pavement, but I was running out of steam and starting to lose ground. Claude twisted around to urge me on, but he didn’t slow the damned horse down. When he looked up at the street behind me, I saw in his eyes that this was it—now-or-never time.

I shoved the Luger into my belt, took one last, long stride, pushed
off, and leapt across the closing couple of yards, hands outstretched, extending every inch of my frame toward the detached wooden gate.

I came down hard, knocking the air out of my lungs, but I was still moving. Hugging the timber as I bounced along the road, I pulled myself up to a more secure position before chancing a look around. What I saw were two chrome headlights and a metal grille bearing down on me. The Citroën was no more than a few feet away, and closing. The car surged forward and I pulled my legs out of the way a fraction of a second before the bumper crushed the bottom half of the gate. It splintered beneath me and scattered along the road.

The car slipped back a few feet, and I caught sight of Engel hanging out the window, trying to line up a shot. I was a sitting duck and had to make a move before he did.

Could I hold on with one hand? I’d have to. I let go with my right hand, reached for the pistol. Eight rounds, that’s what a Luger holds. I’d just used four, and Eva—how many bullets had she fired at Engel on the train? Two? Three? If it was more than that, I was empty. Why the hell hadn’t I checked the damn thing?!

There was no shot at either man—the angle was too high. But I couldn’t wait. Locking my elbow, I held my arm straight out and took aim…Bouncing up and down with the road, I could hardly see for the vibrations, let alone draw a reasonable bead. But it wasn’t going to get any better, so I squeezed the trigger.

POP!

The pistol kicked back in my hand and the car kept coming. I took aim again…

POP!
…

And
BANG!!!

The Citroën’s right tire exploded and the car careened sideways off the road. It jumped the curb and piled headfirst into one of those cylindrical columns used to display posters around Paris.

I had to smile as we pulled away and rounded a corner. Not just because we’d gotten away, although that was certainly worth a chuckle. But what made me grin was the freshly mounted poster on the toppled column that lay crushed below the Gestapo car. It was a picture of Hitler in a Napoléonic pose, with the caption spelled out in big red letters:
Suivez le Führer!

Follow the Führer!