“How could there be a second original? By definition there can be only one original, or so it was taught when I was at university.”
“It does seem like a conundrum, does it not?” said Sir Colin. “But indeed, we are dealing with a very rare case of a second original. Well, of sorts.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that,” said Basil.
“Nor should you. It takes us to a certain awkwardness that, again, an ironist would find heartily amusing.”
“You see,” said Basil, “I am fond of irony, but only when applied to other chaps.”
“Yes, it can sting, can it not?” said General Cavendish. “And I must say, this one stings quite exhaustively. It will cause historians many a chuckle when they write the secret history of the war in the twenty-first century after all the files are finally opened.”
“But we get ahead of ourselves,” said Sir Colin. “There’s more tale to tell. And the sooner we tell it, the sooner the cocktail hour.”
“Tell on, then, Sir Colin.”
“It all turns on the fulcrum of folly and vanity known as the human heart, especially when basted in ambition, guilt, remorse, and greed. What a marvelous stew, all of it simmering within the head of the Reverend MacBurney. When last we left him, our God-fearing MacBurney had become a millionaire because his pamphlet The Path to Jesus had sold endlessly, bringing him a shilling a tot. As I said, he retired to a country estate and spent some years happily wenching and drinking in happy debauchery.”
“As who would not?” asked Basil, though he doubted this lot would.
“Of course. But then in the year 1789, twenty-two years later, he was approached by a representative of the bishop of Gladney and asked to make a presentation to the Church. To commemorate his achievement, the thousands of souls he had shepherded safely upon the aforenamed path, the bishop wanted him appointed deacon at St. Blazefield’s in Glasgow, the highest church rank a fellow like him could achieve. And Thomas wanted it badly. But the bishop wanted him to donate the original manuscript to the church, for eternal display in its ambulatory. Except Thomas had no idea where the original was and hadn’t thought about it in years. So he sat down, practical Scot that he was, and from the pamphlet itself he back-engineered, so to speak, another ‘original’ manuscript in his own hand, a perfect facsimile, or as perfect as he could make it, even, one must assume, to the little crucifix doodles that so amused the Cambridge librarian. That was shipped to Glasgow, and that is why to this day Thomas MacBurney lounges in heaven, surrounded by seraphim and cherubim who sing his praises and throw petals where he walks.”
“It was kind of God to provide us with the second copy,” said Basil.
“Proof,” said the admiral, “that He is on our side.”
“Yes. The provenance of the first manuscript is well established; as I say, it has pencil marks to guide the printer in the print shop owner’s hand. That is why it is so prized at Cambridge. The second was displayed for a century in Glasgow, but then the original St. Blazefield’s was torn down for a newer, more imposing one in 1857, and the manuscript somehow disappeared. However, it was discovered in 1913 in Paris. Who knows by what mischief it ended up there? But to prevent action by the French police, the owner anonymously donated it to a cultural institution, in whose vaults it to this day resides.”
“So I am to go and fetch it. Under the Nazis’ noses?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Sir Colin. “The manuscript itself must not be removed, as someone might notice and word might reach the Russians. What you must do is photograph certain pages using a Riga Minox. Those are what must be fetched.”
“And when I fetch them, they can be relied upon to provide the key for the code and thus give up the name of the Russian spy at Bletchley Park, and thus you will be able to slip into his hands the German plans for Operation Citadel, and thus Stalin will fortify the Kursk salient, and thus the massive German summer offensive will have its back broken, and thus the boys will be home alive in ’45 instead of dead in heaven in ’47. Our boys, their boys, all boys.”
“In theory,” said Sir Colin Gubbins.
“Hmm, not sure I like ‘in theory,’” said Basil.
“You will be flown in by Lysander, dispatched in the care of Resistance Group Philippe, which will handle logistics. They have not been alerted to the nature of the mission as yet, as the fewer who know, of course, the better. You will explain it to them, they will get you to Paris for recon and supply equipment, manpower, distraction, and other kinds of support, then get you back out for Lysander pickup, if everything goes well.”
“And if it does not?”
“That is where your expertise will come in handy. In that case, it will be a maximum huggermugger sort of effort. I am sure you will prevail.”
“I am not,” said Basil. “It sounds awfully dodgy.”
“And you know, of course, that you will be given an L-pill so that headful of secrets of yours will never fall in German hands.”
“I will be certain to throw it away at the first chance,” said Basil.
“There’s the spirit, old man,” said Sir Colin.
“And where am I headed?”
“Ah, yes. An address on the Quai de Conti, the Left Bank, near the Seine.”
“Excellent,” said Basil. “Only the Institut de France, the most profound and colossal assemblage of French cultural icons in the world, and the most heavily guarded.”
“Known for its excellent library,” said Sir Colin.
“It sounds like quite a pickle,” said Basil.
“And you haven’t even heard the bad part.”
In the old days, and perhaps again after the war if von Choltitz didn’t blow the place up, the Institut de France was one of the glories of the nation, emblazoned in the night under a rippling tricolor to express the high moral purpose of French culture. But in the war it, too, had to fall into line.
Thus the blazing lights no longer blazed and the cupola ruling over the many stately branches of the singularly complex building overlooking the Seine on the Quai de Conti, right at the toe of the Île de la Cité and directly across from the Louvre, in the sixth arrondissement, no longer ruled. One had to squint, as did Basil, to make it out, though helpfully a searchlight from some far-distant German antiaircraft battery would backlight it and at least accentuate its bulk and shape. The Germans had not painted it feldgrau, thank God, and so its white stone seemed to gleam in the night, at least in contrast to other French buildings in the environs. A slight rain fell; the cobblestones glistened; the whole thing had a cinematic look that Basil paid no attention to, as it did him no good at all and he was by no means a romantic.
Instead he saw the architectural tropes of the place, the brilliant façade of colonnades, the precision of the intersecting angles, the dramatically arrayed approaches to the broad steps of the grand entrance under the cupola, from which nexus one proceeded to its many divisions, housed each in a separate wing. The whole expressed the complexity, the difficulty, the arrogance, the insolence, the ego, the whole je ne sais quoi of the French: their smug, prosperous country, their easy treachery, their utter lack of conscience, their powerful sense of entitlement.
From his briefing, he knew that his particular goal was the Bibliothèque Mazarine, housed in the great marble edifice but a few hundred meters from the center. He slid that way, while close at hand the Seine lapped against its stone banks, the odd taxi or bicycle taxi hurtled down Quai de Conti, the searchlights crisscrossed the sky. Soon midnight, and curfew. But he had to see.
On its own the Mazarine was an imposing building, though without the columns. Instead it affected the French country palace look, with a cobblestone yard which in an earlier age had allowed for carriages but now was merely a car park. Two giant oak doors, guarding French propriety, kept interlopers out. At this moment it was locked up like a vault; tomorrow the doors would open and he would somehow make his penetration.