He opened his drawer, with trembling fingers took out a piece of paper, typed and signed.
“I should have shown it to you earlier. I was nonplussed, I apologize, it’s not often that I have three policemen in my office.”
He yammered on, but they paid no attention, as all bent forward to examine the signature at the bottom of the page.
It said, “Otto Boch, SS Hauptsturmführer, SSRHSA, 13 rue Madeleine, Paris.”
The train left Montparnasse at exactly five minutes after five p.m. As SS Hauptsturmführer Boch, Gestapo, 13 rue Madeleine, Paris, Basil did not require anything save his identification papers, since Gestapo membership conferred on him an elite status that no rail clerk in the Wehrmacht monitoring the trains would dare challenge. Thus he flew by the ticket process and the security checkpoints and the flash inspection at the first-class carriage steps.
The train eased into motion and picked up speed as it left the marshaling yards resolving themselves toward blur as the darkness increased. He sat alone amid a smattering of German officers returning to duty after a few stolen nights in Paris. Outside, in the twilight, the little toy train depots of France fled by, and inside, the vibration rattled and the grumpy men tried to squeeze in a last bit of relaxation before once again taking up their vexing duties, which largely consisted of waiting until the Allied armies came to blow them up. Some of them thought of glorious death and sacrifice for the fatherland; some remembered the whores in whose embraces they had passed the time; some thought of ways to surrender to the Americans without getting themselves killed, but also of not being reported, for one never knew who was keeping records and who would see them.
But most seemed to realize that Basil was an undercover SS officer, and no one wanted to brook any trouble at all with the SS. Again, a wrong word, a misinterpreted joke, a comment too politically frank, and it was off to that dreaded 8.8 cm antitank gun facing the T-34s and the Russians. All of them preferred their luck with the Americans and the British than with the goddamn Bolsheviks.
So Basil sat alone, ramrod straight, looking neither forward nor back. His stern carriage conveyed seriousness of purpose, relentless attention to detail, and a devotion to duty so hard and true it positively radiated heat. He permitted no mirth to show, no human weakness. Most of all, and hardest for him, he allowed himself to show no irony, for irony was the one attribute that would never be found in the SS or in any Hitlerite true believer. In fact, in one sense the Third Reich and its adventure in mass death was a conspiracy against irony. Perhaps that is why Basil hated it so much and fought it so hard.
Boch said nothing. There was nothing to say. Instead it was Macht who did all the talking. They leaned on the hood of a Citroën radio car in the courtyard of the Bibliothèque Mazarine.
“Whatever it was he wanted, he got it. Now he has to get out of town and fast. He knows that sooner or later we may tumble to his acquisition of Herr Boch’s identity papers, and at that point their usefulness comes to an abrupt end and they become absolutely a danger. So he will use them now, as soon as possible, and get as far away as possible.”
“But he has purposefully refused any Resistance aid on this trip,” said Abel.
“True.”
“That would mean that he has no radio contact. That would mean that he has no way to set up a Lysander pickup.”
“Excellent point, Walter. Yes, and that narrows his options considerably. One way out would be to head to the Spanish border. However, that’s days away, involves much travel and the danger of constant security checks, and he would worry that his Boch identity would have been penetrated.”
They spoke of Boch as if he were not there. In a sense, he wasn’t. “Sir, the breech is frozen.” “Kick it! They’re almost on us!” “I can’t, sir. My foot fell off because of frostbite.”
“He could, I suppose, get to Calais and swim to Dover. It’s only thirty-two kilometers. It’s been done before.”
“Even by a woman.”
“Still, although he’s a gifted professional, I doubt they have anyone quite that gifted. And even if it’s spring, the water is four or five degrees centigrade.”
“Yes,” said Macht. “But he will definitely go by water. He will head to the most accessible seaport. Given his talents for subversion, he will find some sly fisherman who knows our patrol boat patterns and pay the fellow to haul him across. He can make it in a few hours, swim the last hundred yards to a British beach, and be home with his treasure, whatever that is.”
“If he escapes, we should shoot the entire staff of the Bibliothèque Mazarine,” said Boch suddenly. “This is on them. He stole my papers, yes, he pickpocketed me, but he could have stolen anyone’s papers, so to single me out is rather senseless. I will make that point in my report.”
“An excellent point,” said Macht. “Alas, I will have to add that while he could have stolen anyone’s papers, he did steal yours. And they were immensely valuable to him. He is now sitting happily on the train, thinking of the jam and buns he will enjoy tomorrow morning with his tea and whether it will be a DSC or a DSO that follows his name from now on. I would assume that as an honorable German officer you will take full responsibility. I really don’t think we need to go shooting up any library staffs at this point. Why don’t we concentrate on catching him, and that will be that.”
Boch meant to argue but saw that it was useless. He settled back into his bleakness and said nothing.
“The first thing: which train?” Macht inquired of the air. The air had no answer and so he answered it himself. “Assuming that he left, as le directeur said, at exactly three forty-five p.m. by cab, he got to the Montparnasse station by four-fifteen. Using his SS papers, he would not need to stand in line for tickets or checkpoints, so he could leave almost immediately. My question thus has to be, what trains leaving for coastal destinations were available between four-fifteen and four forty-five? He will be on one of those trains. Walter, please call the detectives.”
Abel spoke into the microphone by radio to his headquarters and waited. A minute later an answer came. He conveyed it to the two officers.
“A train for Cherbourg left at four-thirty, due to arrive in that city at eleven-thirty p.m. Then another at—”
“That’s fine. He’d take the first. He doesn’t want to be standing around, not knowing where we are in our investigations and thus assuming the worst. Now, Walter, please call Abwehr headquarters and get our people at Montparnasse to check the gate of that train for late-arriving German officers. I believe they have to sign a travel manifest. At least, I always do. See if Hauptsturmführer — ah, what’s the first name, Boch?”
“Otto.”
“SS Hauptsturmführer Otto Boch, Gestapo, came aboard at the last moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
Macht looked over at Boch. “Well, Hauptsturmführer, if this pans out, we may save you from your 8.8 in Russia.”
“I serve where I help the Führer best. My life is of no consequence,” said Boch darkly.
“You may feel somewhat differently when you see the tanks on the horizon,” said Macht.
“It hardly matters. We can never catch him. He has too much head start. We can order the train met at Cherbourg, I suppose, and perhaps they will catch him.”
“Unlikely. This eel is too slippery.”
“Please tell me you have a plan.”
“Of course I have a plan,” said Macht.
“All right, yes,” said Abel, turning from the phone. “Hauptsturmführer Boch did indeed come aboard at the last moment.”