Rue de la Huchette was a cobblestone street in the Latin Quarter, so narrow that only pedestrians and bicyclists could use it… not that there were many automobiles on the streets of Paris these days. Before the war, its sidewalk cafés would have been open, even on Christmas Eve, with gypsies sitting on the curb out front, playing guitars or flutes, hats turned upside down before them. But the restaurants were now closed four days a week, and the Romany had either fled or been rounded up and sent to concentration camps, so there was almost no one in sight except the Gestapo agent in the doorway, smoking a cigarette as he pretended not to notice Callon.
Yves pretended not to see him either. Closing the front door behind them, he stepped out into the street, turning right to head toward the cathedral. He didn’t have to glance at the shop windows he passed to know from the footsteps behind him that the crow had left the doorway and was walking along behind him. Yet the Gestapo man was being careful not to follow so closely as to be obvious; Yves could no longer hear him by the time he reached the end of the block although he had little doubt that the secret policeman was still there.
Two blocks ahead was Rue Saint-Jacques, a wider street. Yves turned left and followed it toward the river. Notre Dame came in sight, a grand edifice of granite and stained glass towering above the Seine. Even Christmas Eve, there was little traffic on the broad avenue running alongside the river; the Nazis had claimed all the petrol for their own vehicles, leaving Parisians with nothing but horses, bicycles, and the strange-looking velo-taxis made from cutting a motorcar in half and hooking up the passenger end to a bicycle.
Yves dodged one of those as he crossed the Quai de Montebello to the Petit Pont, and the Gestapo agent was only ten meters back when he strolled across the bridge to the broad plaza in front of Notre Dame. Morning services had just ended, and worshippers were emerging from beneath the ornate arches above the cathedral’s massive oak doors. They tried to avoid eye contact with the German soldiers who patrolled the plaza, M-40 submachine guns dangling from straps beneath their arms.
As he crossed the plaza, Yves stole a glance at his wristwatch. His timing was perfect; it was exactly ten after nine. His steps took him toward the statue of Charlemagne, which stood to the right of the cathedral.
A white-bearded old man sat on a bench beneath the king, coat collar turned up against the cold as he tossed corn kernels to the pigeons strutting and pecking around him. He didn’t look up as Yves approached the bench or show the slightest interest as he walked past, yet Yves knew the old man had spotted him. And probably the Gestapo tail as well.
If Yves hadn’t been followed, the rendezvous would have been simple. He would have brought a newspaper on his way to Notre Dame, tucked the cartridge inside, and sat down on the bench beside the old man. A few minutes later, he would’ve stood up and walked away, leaving the newspaper behind. The paper and the hidden cartridge would have gone with the old man. That was now out of the question; the Gestapo agent would have seen through that in an instant. So Yves was forced to resort to a backup plan, albeit one that was much more complicated.
He walked the rest of the way across the plaza and entered Notre Dame. He didn’t have to look back to know that the crow was still behind him. Removing his cap and shoving it in his coat pocket, he paused in the foyer to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then took a novena candle, dropping a half franc into the offering box. A brief nod to the robed priest at the door, then he quietly walked into the sanctuary.
Notre Dame rose around him as an enormous cavern, one that seemed more like the creation of God than man. Even in midmorning, the cathedral was dark and quiet. The giant pipe organ near the altar had ceased playing the sacred music that filled every corner of the vast sanctuary, and the only light came from the candelabra on the massive stone columns and the intricate panes of the great stained-glass windows. Although the morning service was concluded, a few worshippers still lingered in the oak pews, heads bowed in meditation.
Yves walked slowly down the center aisle toward the nave. He paused within sight of the altar to cross himself and take a quick bow, then he found a seat in the third row. He sat there for a while, hands clasped together, head lowered as if in prayer, then he stood up again and quietly walked toward the small, grottolike chapels that stood in a row along the sanctuary’s right wall.
Each of Notre Dame’s chapels was dedicated to the memory of a particular saint; they had their own altars and pews, and some had confession booths. Above each altar was a crucifix, and on either side was a wrought-iron rack for novena candles. Yves entered the chapel nearest the nave, the one dedicated to L’Arc de Joan. No one else was there except the old man who’d been feeding pigeons outside.
Yves took the candle he’d picked up in the foyer and, lighting it from another candle, placed it in the middle row of the rack on the left side of the altar. He paused a moment to murmur a prayer—heartfelt this time even though he’d stopped practicing his faith a few years ago—in the memory of his mother and father. The old man’s eyes briefly shifted in his direction as he turned to leave, but no words were spoken between them.
Nonetheless, a message had been passed.
The crow stood at the back of the sanctuary, hands in pockets, hat disrespectfully unremoved. No doubt he’d observed every move Yves made. He didn’t bother to look away as Yves walked by, but Yves continued to pretend not to see him. A brief pause in the foyer to adjust his muffler and put his cap back on, then he left the cathedral, thanking the priest at the door on the way out.
The Gestapo agent was still behind him as he crossed the Petit Pont again and strolled down the Quai de Montebello until he reached the Boulevard Saint-Michel. There he turned left and began walking up the broad, tree-lined avenue, passing the Napoleonic-era fountain where the winged angel Michael, sword raised in victory, towered above a defeated and cowering Lucifer. Like the statue of Charlemagne, only its size kept the Nazis from tearing it down and carrying it away to be melted down for its iron, the fate of so many of the city’s other statues. The archangel brought a sly smile to Yves’s face. One day, he promised himself, the statue would symbolize triumph over evil of another kind.
However, the statue was one of the few things untouched by the Nazi presence. As with the rest of Paris, it was impossible to miss signs of the German occupation. Above the street, red swastika flags hung from the windows of offices and hotels the Germans had claimed for their own. Indeed, the Third Reich’s flag was ubiquitous throughout the city; it even fluttered from the top of the Eiffel Tower, a deliberate offense to every French citizen who saw it. There weren’t many people on the sidewalks, but it seemed as if there were an armed soldier on every corner. A Duesenberg limousine drove past, the first car Yves had seen this morning; two German officers were seated in the back, callous eyes regarding the beautiful city they’d raped. There were few stores or cafés open, though, so their conquest was probably tempered by scarcity.
The boulevard took him uphill, away from the Latin Quarter. Just past the Pantheon and the Sorbonne, he spotted a florist he’d visited over the years. Stepping into the small shop, he purchased a bouquet of red and yellow roses, a dozen in all. As the proprietor carefully wrapped them in paper to keep them from wilting in the cold, he casually gazed at the arrangements in the window. The crow was across the street, examining women’s clothes on display in a shop window. The agent’s surveillance methods were so obtuse that Yves wanted to laugh. Instead, he paid the florist and left. The Gestapo agent continued to follow him from the other side of the street.