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.
“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.”