Callon walked the rest of the way up the hill, past the sandbag barricades surrounding the Palais et Jardin du Luxembourg, the seat of the deposed French government, its fountains and gardens now off-limits to all Parisians, until he reached the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Turning right, he strolled a block down the boulevard, then turned onto Rue Boissonade. His steps took him past a hospital until, at last, he reached his destination, the Cimetière du Montparnasse.
One of the city’s oldest cemeteries, it sprawled across a hilltop overlooking the Left Bank, its grounds surrounded by a tall redbrick wall. Many of Paris’s greatest authors, painters, actors, and philosophers lay here, but also some of its ordinary citizens, among them Yves Callon’s parents and grandparents.
Slowing his pace, Yves sauntered through the cemetery’s open gate. As expected, a German soldier stood watch just outside the gatehouse. He looked cold even though he was bundled up in a greatcoat, a cigarette dangling from a brutish-looking mouth. He stared at Yves but said nothing; the bouquet told him all he needed to know. Giving the soldier the slightest of nods, Callon began walking down the gravel path into the graveyard.
Most of the cemetery’s graves were located aboveground, within concrete tombs topped by crosses, urns, testament plaques, weeping angels, and so forth. Like many family gravesites, though, the Callon tomb was located within a small mausoleum not much larger than a telephone booth. Built of concrete, with a crucifix atop its sloped tile roof, it had small glazed windows on three sides and an iron grate as its door. Stopping at the door, Yves shifted the bouquet from one hand to another as he fished in his pocket for his key ring; as he did, he searched the area from the corners of his eyes. For the first time since Notre Dame, the crow was nowhere to be seen. But there were many mausoleums all around him, and the Gestapo man could be hiding behind any one of them. In any case, Yves had to assume that he’d been followed into the cemetery and therefore continue taking precautions.
An old iron key unlocked the grate. Yves pushed it aside and stepped into the cold little room. There was just enough space in here for one person, or two if they stood very close together. The floor beneath his feet was made of concrete slabs carved with the names of his parents and grandparents. If he were to have the slabs removed, Yves would have found their coffins interred beneath the ground. He and his brother and sister would eventually be laid to rest there; Yves felt a chill when he considered that, if he wasn’t careful, his residence in this place could be sooner rather than later.
Behind the slabs was a white-marble bench, waist high, with a statuette of the Virgin Mary at its center and a flower urn on either side. The urns were carved limestone, tall and wasp-waisted, heavy enough to hold bouquets without falling over. Bunches of dead flowers—daisies from the looks of them, probably left some time ago by his brother, who was cheap about such things—were still in the urns, their dry petals scattered across the bench. Yves removed the dead flowers and put them aside, then unwrapped the roses and placed them on the bench.
The windows were too high and narrow for anyone outside to peer through, and his body blocked the doorway, but, nonetheless, Yves took care not to let himself be seen doing what he was doing. As he separated six roses from the bouquet, he quickly slipped his right hand into his coat pocket. Beneath the identification papers was the film cartridge. Concealing it within his palm, he picked up the roses he’d selected and covered the cartridge with their stems. Then, raising the roses to the urn on the left side of the Madonna, he let the cartridge fall into the vase. The soft clink it made when it hit the bottom was muffled by the roses he inserted atop them.
Yves put the rest of the roses in the other urn. He carefully arranged the flowers, then took a few moments to silently stand at the bench, head bowed as if in prayer. Then he picked up the dead flowers and left the mausoleum, locking the grate behind him.
There. It was done. With any luck, the cartridge would soon be on its way to England. It would take a while, of course. The resistance would have to send it by way of special courier to Norway, where it would then be put aboard one of the fishing boats that secretly crossed the North Sea to Scotland. The French coast was effectively closed, but the underground had found ways of getting information out of occupied Europe to the British Isles. Weeks might pass before the Minox cartridge reached its destination, yet Yves had little doubt that it would get there.
The crow was nowhere to be seen as Yves left the graveyard, dropping the dead flowers in a waste can on his way out. As he approached the front gate, though, he saw the Gestapo agent standing beside the soldier. Both were smoking, and as Yves came closer, he heard coarse laughter at some shared joke. The crow turned toward Yves as he approached the gate. The Gestapo agent made no effort to avoid being seen. It was obvious that he was waiting for him.
Stuffing his hands in his overcoat pockets and lowering his head, Yves tried not to appear nervous. The crow looked back at the soldier, and, for a moment, Yves had hope that he might be able to leave the cemetery in peace. But just as he was about to walk by, the Gestapo man raised a black-gloved hand to stop him.
“M’seur Callon? Bonjour.” Although his voice was heavily accented, the crow had the courtesy to address him in French. “May I have a word with you, please?”
“Oui.” Callon didn’t bother pretending not to know who he was speaking to. Everyone in Paris had learned to recognize the Gestapo on sight.
“Merci beaucoup.” The crow was younger than Callon by a decade, and while he seemed pleasant enough, the hardness of his eyes betrayed his true self. “I’m wondering what brings you here today.”
“Visiting my parents.” There was no way he could tell the Gestapo man that it was none of his business why he’d come here. The Nazis kept the people of the countries they’d occupied on a very short leash. “They’re buried here.”
“Ah, yes… for Christmas, of course.” The officer nodded. “I understand you work at one of our research facilities. The one in the Baltic.”
“This is correct, oui.” The very name Peenemünde was considered a state secret, and Yves was careful to follow the crow’s example by not speaking it in public. “I’ve come home for the holidays, and this is one of the things I meant to do while I’m here.”
“Perfectly reasonable. I applaud your thoughtfulness. May I see your papers, please?”
Although there was no reason why the Gestapo man would want to see his identification—he already knew who he was and where he worked—Yves obediently produced them from his coat pocket. The crow unfolded the dog-eared forms and took his time examining them, while the unsmiling soldier fastened his stony gaze upon him. Yves tried to maintain an air of patient indifference, but his heart had begun to beat a little faster, and he kept his hands in his pockets to hide their tremors.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the Gestapo agent said at last, almost reluctantly handing them back. As Yves put them away, the secret-police officer idly gazed around the cemetery. “Such an interesting place. I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”
“You should come back sometime. Some very famous people are buried here.”
“Along with your parents, of course.” A smile abruptly appeared on the crow’s face, as if he’d had a sudden thought. “Would you mind showing me their resting place? I’d love to see it.”
A cold hand wrapped itself around Yves’s heart, and for a moment he had an impulse to refuse. I’m rather busy just now, he almost said, but refusal was out of the question, and even hesitation could be suspicious. “Yes, of course,” he said instead, and tried to cover his nervousness by coughing into his hand. “This way, please.”