a roadblock.
“Easy,” Michael said quietly. “Don’t slow down too soon.” He saw perhaps eight or nine soldiers with rifles and a couple of security officers with machine guns. Again, his hand was on the Luger. He rolled down his window once more and prepared to act indignant.
His acting wasn’t necessary. The two security officers looked at his insignia and the sleek black car and were sufficiently impressed; even more so when they looked at Gaby behind the wheel. A formality, the man in charge said with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. Of course the colonel knew about the partisan activity in this sector. What could be done about it except to exterminate the rats? If we might see your papers, the security man said, we’ll check you through as quickly as possible. Michael grumbled about being delayed for a meeting in Paris and handed his papers over. The two security men looked at them, more as a demonstration that they were doing something than with true attention. If those men worked for the Allies, Michael thought, I’d have them thrown in prison. Perhaps thirty seconds elapsed, and then the papers were returned to him with crisp salutes and he and the pretty fraulein were bidden a good journey to Paris. Gaby drove on as the soldiers moved the wooden barricades aside, and Michael heard her release the breath she’d been holding.
“They’re looking for someone,” Michael said when they’d gotten away from the roadblock, “but they don’t know who. They figure whoever parachuted in might want to get to Paris, so they’ve got their watchdogs out. If they’re all like those two, they might escort us to Adam’s door.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” Gaby again checked the sky; no trace of silver. Yet. The road was clear, too, the countryside slightly rolling and dotted with apple orchards and stands of hardwood trees. Napoleon’s country, she thought idly. Her heart wasn’t beating so hard now; getting through the roadblock had been a lot easier then she’d expected. “What about Adam?” she asked. “What do you think it is he’s trying to get out?”
“I haven’t thought.”
“Oh yes you have.” Their eyes met in the mirror. “I’m sure you’ve thought about it quite a bit, just as I have. Yes?”
This line of conversation was indelicate, and both of them knew it. Shared knowledge was shared pain, if they landed in the hands of the Gestapo. But Gaby was waiting for an answer, and Michael said, “Yes.” That alone wouldn’t do; Gaby was silent, still waiting. He folded his gloved hands together. “I think Adam’s found something he obviously feels is important enough to risk a lot of lives to get out. My superior thinks so, too, or I wouldn’t be here. And needless to say, your uncle wouldn’t be dead.” He saw her flinch just a fraction; she was tough, but not iron- cased. “Adam’s a professional. He knows his business. He also knows that some information is worth dying for, if it means winning this war. Or losing it. Movements of troops and supply convoys we can get anytime, by the radio codes from a dozen agents all over France. This is something that only Adam knows about, and that the Gestapo’s clamped the lid on. Which means it’s a hell of a lot more important than the usual messages we get. Or at least Adam thinks it is, or he wouldn’t be calling for help.”
“What about you?” Gaby asked. He lifted his eyebrows, not understanding. “What would you die for?” Gaby glanced at him again in the mirror, then quickly away.
“I hope I won’t have to find out.” He gave her a hint of a smile, but the question had lodged inside him like a thorn. He was prepared to die for the mission, yes; that was already understood. But that was the reaction of a trained machine, not a man. What, as a man-or half man, half animal-was he prepared to lay down his life for? The human-woven net of politics? Some narrow vision of freedom? Love? Triumph? He explored the question, and found no easy answer.
And suddenly his nerves let go of their chill alarms and he heard Gaby say softly, “Oh,” because there in front of them on the long straight route to Paris was a roadblock with a dozen armed soldiers, an armored car with a cannon-snout showing, and a black Citroen that could only be a Gestapo vehicle.
A soldier with a submachine gun was waving them down. All faces turned toward them. A man in a dark hat and a long beige overcoat stepped into the road, waiting. Gaby hit the brakes, a little too hard. “Steady,” Michael said, and as the Mercedes slowed he peeled off his gloves.
2
The man who peered in through the rolled-down window at Michael Gallatin had blue eyes so pale they were almost without color, his face chiseled and handsome in the way of a Nordic athlete-a skier, Michael thought. Perhaps a javelin thrower, or a long-distance runner. There were fine lines around his eyes, and his blond sideburns were going gray. He wore a dark leather hat with a jaunty red feather in its band. “Good morning, Colonel,” he said. “A small inconvenience, I fear. May I see your papers?”
“I hope the inconvenience is small,” Michael answered icily. The other man’s face kept its thin, polite smile. As Michael reached into his coat for his packet of papers, he saw a soldier take up a position directly on the other side of the car. The soldier’s submachine gun barrel wandered slightly toward the window, and Michael felt a knot of tension clench in his throat. The soldier was staking out his lane of fire; there was no way Michael could pull the Luger from his holster without being shot to tatters.
Gaby kept her hands on the wheel. The Gestapo agent took Michael’s papers and glanced in at Gaby. “Your papers also, please?”
“She’s my secretary,” Michael said.
“Of course. But I must see her papers.” He shrugged. “Regulations, you know.”
Gaby reached into her coat. She brought out a packet of papers that had been made for her yesterday, when she’d decided to go to Paris with him. She handed them over with a crisp nod.
“Thank you.” The Gestapo agent began to inspect the photographs and documents. Michael watched the man’s face. It was a cold face, and it was stamped with a cunning intelligence; this man was no fool, and he’d seen all the tricks. Michael glanced toward the roadside, and saw Lieutenant Krabell and his driver there. The driver was checking the engine as Krabell’s papers were being laboriously examined by another Gestapo agent.
“What’s the problem?” Michael asked.
“Haven’t you heard?” The blond-haired man looked up from his reading, his eyes quizzical.
“If I had, would I be asking?”
“For a communications officer, you’re certainly out of touch.” A brief smile, a hint of square white predator’s teeth. “But of course you know there was a parachute drop in this sector three nights ago. The partisans in a village called Bazancourt helped the man escape. There was also a woman involved.” His gaze slid toward Gaby. “Do you speak German, my dear?” he asked her in French.
“A little,” she answered. Her voice was cool, and Michael admired her courage. She looked the man straight in the eyes and didn’t waver. “What do you want me to say?”
“Your papers speak for you.” He continued his inspection, taking his time about it.
“What’s your name?” Michael decided to take the offensive. “I’d like to know who to lodge my complaint against when we get to Paris.”
“Johlmann. Heinz, middle initial R for Richter.” The man kept reading, not intimidated in the least. “Colonel, who’s your superior commander?”
“Adolf Hitler,” Michael said.
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Again, that brief show of teeth. They looked like they were good at tearing meat. “I mean your immediate superior in the field.”
Michael’s palms were damp, but his heart had stopped pounding. He was in control of himself, and he would not be rushed. He glanced quickly at the soldier on the other side of the car, still holding the submachine gun ready, his finger on the trigger guard. “I report to Major General Friedrich Bohm, Fourteenth Sector Communications, headquarters in Abbeville. Our radio code is ‘Tophat.’ ”
“Thank you. I can get through to Major General Bohm in about ten minutes on our radio equipment.” He motioned toward the armored car.
“Be my guest. I’m sure he’d like to hear why I’m being interrogated.” Michael stared up at Johlmann. Their eyes met, and locked. The moment stretched, and in it Gaby felt a scream pressing behind her teeth.
Johlmann smiled and looked away. He studied the photographs of the colonel and his secretary. “Ah!” he said speaking to Michael, his cold eyes brightening. “You’re an Austrian! From Braugdonau, yes?”
“That’s right.”
