This was more torture than Basil could have imagined in the cellars of the Gestapo, but at last the conductor came through, shouting, “Paris, Montparnasse station, five minutes, end of the line.”
“Oh, this has been such a delight,” said the colonel. “Monsieur Piens, you are a fascinating conversationalist—”
Basil had said perhaps five words in six hours.
“—and it makes me happy to have a Frenchman as an actual friend, beyond all this messy stuff of politics and invasions and war and all that. If only more Germans and French could meet as we did, as friends, just think how much better off the world would be.”
Basil came up with words six and seven: “Yes, indeed.”
“But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.”
“They must. Do you mind, Colonel, if I excuse myself for a bit? I need to use the loo and prefer the first class here to the pissoirs of the station.”
“Understandable. In fact, I shall accompany you, monsieur, and — oh, perhaps not. I’ll check my documents to make sure all is in order.”
Thus, besides a blast of blessed silence, Basil earned himself some freedom to operate. During the colonel’s recitation — it had come around to the years 1911 and 1912, vacation to Cap d’Antibes— it had occurred to him that the authentic M. Piens, being a clear collaborationist and seeking not to offend the Germans, might well have reported his documents lost and that word might, given the German expertise at counterintelligence, have reached Paris. Thus the Piens documents were suddenly explosive and would land him either in Dachau or before the wall.
He wobbled wretchedly up the length of the car — thank God here in first class the seats were not contained as in the cramped little compartments of second class! — and made his way to the loo. As he went he examined the prospective marks: mostly German officers off for a weekend of debauchery far from their garrison posts, but at least three French businessmen of proper decorum sat among them, stiff, frightened of the Germans and yet obligated by something or other to be there. Only one was anywhere near Basil’s age, but he had to deal with things as they were.
He reached the loo, locked himself inside, and quickly removed his M. Piens documents and buried them in the wastebasket among repugnant wads of tissue. A more cautious course would have been to tear them up and dispose of them via the toilet, but he didn’t have time for caution. Then he wet his face, ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his face off, and left the loo.
Fourth on the right. Man in suit, rather blasé face, impatient. Otherwise, the car was stirring to activity as the occupants set about readying for whatever security ordeal lay ahead. The war — it was such an inconvenience.
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.