Leaving the soldier at the gate, Yves led the Gestapo agent back down the gravel path, then through the graveyard until they reached the Callon family mausoleum. “Very nice, very handsome,” the crow said, looking at it so briefly that Yves was now certain that the agent had been watching him all the time from somewhere nearby. The agent grasped the door handle, gave it a quick tug, then stepped away. “Open it, please. I’d like to look inside.”
It took all Yves’s willpower to keep his hands from shaking as he fitted the key into the lock. He pulled open the grate, and the officer entered the mausoleum. Yves hesitated, then followed him, peering over his shoulder as the Gestapo man gazed around the tiny room.
The crow missed nothing. He stamped his feet upon the floor slabs to check their solidness and immobility, then he turned his attention to the bench. Running his gloved hands across the marble, he suddenly reached up to seize the Madonna statuette and tip it back, looking to see if there was a hollow space beneath its base. He then ran his fingers through the roses, but was unable to turn over the urn. Convinced that it couldn’t be easily moved, he grunted beneath his breath, then reached for the left urn.
“Do you know why I’m doing this?” he asked, as his hand shifted through the roses, disturbing their careful arrangement.
“No, I do not,” Yves managed to reply.
The Gestapo agent glanced over his shoulder at him. “Do you know someone named François Latreau?”
“Oui… of course.” Yves’s mouth had gone dry. “I work with him at Peene… in the Baltic, I mean.”
“Yes. He’s another janitor who was hired from this city, same time as you were.” Looking away again, the Gestapo man pushed aside the roses and thrust his fingers into the urn, probing its fluted neck. “He was arrested yesterday.”
“He was?” Yves had to fight to remain calm. Every nerve in his body felt as if it’d gone numb. “For… for what?”
“Espionage. He was caught photographing something… well, interesting.” The Gestapo agent was trying to get his hand through the urn’s narrow neck into the well. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?”
“N-no. Nothing at all.” Yves wanted to scream. He’d left François behind with the understanding that he wouldn’t attempt to gather any more information on his own. They’d managed to survive this long because they worked as a team, but apparently Gold had decided not to wait until Silver returned from Paris. Maybe he’d spotted something that he couldn’t resist. Or perhaps he’d just gotten cocky. Whatever the reason, he’d been caught. And the Gestapo was suspicious of Yves Callon as well.
The crow’s hand withdrew from the urn. There was nothing in it. He turned around again, and Yves started to step back to let him leave the crypt. But then the Gestapo man suddenly reached forward to grab him by the lapels.
“You’re sure of this?” he asked, pulling him just an inch closer, his eyes locked on Yves’s. “I’m not. You’re very nervous, M’seur Callon. I wonder why that is.”
“I… I…”
Then Callon did something he himself didn’t expect. He substituted anger for fear, and let it show.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” he snapped, staring back at the crow. “You seriously think that, just because I clean toilets with some guy, that makes me a spy, too?” He hissed in disgust. “That’s the thanks I get!”
The Gestapo agent’s eyes widened in surprise. Seldom had anyone spoken to him this way. “I see,” he said, letting go of Callon’s coat. “You’re quite adamant, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am… and I’ll thank you not to disturb my parents’ tomb!” He reached past the officer to rearrange the roses and return the Virgin Mary back to its proper place. “Is that all you want to know?”
The Gestapo man didn’t reply but instead put his hands in his pockets and watched as Callon fussed over the items on the shelf. “My apologies,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to give offense.”
Yves sighed in exasperation as he turned to leave. He’d just stepped out of the crypt, though, when something prodded the back of his ribs. Startled, he looked down to see a Walther in the crow’s hand.
“However,” the crow said, “I’m afraid I’m still going to have to detain you for questioning. Just to be certain.”
Callon heard tires crunch against gravel. Looking around, he saw a black Peugeot roll to a halt on the nearby road. Another soldier climbed out, submachine gun in his hands.
“Don’t run,” the crow quietly added. “That’s what your friend did when he was caught. He was shot.”
The fear came back, and this time there was no surge of anger to dispel it. Yves had no choice but to raise his hands and let the officer march him to the waiting sedan. He knew where he was going: the Gestapo headquarters at the Felgendarmerie, which many had entered but few had left.
The sedan’s doors slammed shut, then the driver did a U-turn on the narrow path, nearly scraping its bumper against a couple of tombstones. The soldier standing guard at the gate raised his arm in a stiff salute as the Peugeot made its departure from the Cimetière du Montparnasse, then reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.
Lighting one, the soldier barely noticed the bearded old man who’d stood aside to make way for the sedan. The old man watched as the Peugeot drove away, then he continued through the gate, walking into the cemetery as if on a small Christmas Eve visit with the dead.
BLACK UMBRELLA
JANUARY 19, 1942
A dense morning fog from the Potomac was shrouding Bolling Field when the C-60 Lodestar touched down. From their seats in the back of the U.S. Army Air Force transport, the two men who were the plane’s only passengers could barely see anything through the haze. The younger of the two, wearing the blue doeskin uniform of a British Navy officer, fought back a yawn as the aircraft’s wheels skipped across the tarmac and its twin engines reverse-propped. A glance at his wristwatch—7:00 A.M.—then he looked at the older man seated across the aisle from him.
“Bang on time,” he murmured, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “You don’t suppose we could drop by the nearest pub, do you, sir? I could use a drink.”
“No, I don’t suppose we could.” His companion glared at him, not at all amused by the half-serious suggestion. “And considering why we’re here and where we’re going, you might want to take things a little more seriously.”
“Sorry, General. Didn’t mean to offend.”
Major General William Donovan grunted quietly and looked away. Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming reminded himself that the U.S. Army’s coordinator of information wasn’t known for his sense of humor. They’d met only yesterday at Naval Intelligence headquarters in London, when Donovan had been introduced to him by Fleming’s boss, Rear Admiral John Godfrey. Along with the attaché case that rested on the seat beside him, Godfrey had given Fleming his orders: accompany Donovan on an overnight flight to Washington, D.C., where the two of them were to deliver a high-level briefing regarding the classified material they would take with them.
Within hours, they were in the air, flying overnight across the Atlantic, with only a brief stop in Greenland to refuel. The C-60’s wing lights were blacked out until the plane was well over the ocean, to prevent it from being spotted by any Messerschmitts that might be prowling the English coast; a couple of RAF Spitfires had escorted them as far as Ireland before turning back. Since then, Fleming had come to realize that Donovan considered him to be little more than a nuisance, a young bureaucrat forced on him by British intelligence. The general seldom said a word during the entire trip, preferring instead to read and reread the translated German document Fleming was carrying. Donovan was notorious for a flinty personality and demanding that things be done his way.