5
Enraged, Camille no longer resembled a sweet, elderly lady. Her eyes glinted with red, and her face was inflamed from the roots of her snowy hair to the point of her chin. “Bringing a German to my home!” she shrieked, in the throes of a fit. “I’ll have you executed as a traitor for this!” She glared at Michael, and looked at Arno Mausenfeld as if he were something that she’d just scraped off the sole of her shoe. “You! Get out! I’m not running a shelter for Nazi bums!”
“Madam, I’m not a Nazi,” Mouse replied, with stern dignity. He drew himself up as tall as he could, but he was still three inches shorter than Camille. “Neither am I a bum.”
“Get out! Get out before I-” Camille whirled away, ran to a dresser, and opened it. Her hand came out with an old, heavy Lebel revolver. “I’ll blow your dirty brains out!” she hollered, all her Gallic graciousness gone, and she aimed the pistol at Mouse’s head.
Michael caught her wrist, tilted the pistol up, and scooped it from her grip. “None of that, now,” he scolded. “You’ll blow your own hand off with this antique.”
“You deliberately brought this Nazi to my home!” Camille raged, showing her teeth. “You’ve compromised our security! Why?”
“Because he can help me do my job,” Michael told her. Mouse wandered into the kitchen, his clothes even more wretched and filthy in the light. “I need someone to get a message to the man I’m after. It needs to be done fast, without attracting a lot of attention. I need a pickpocket-and there he is.” He nodded toward the German.
“You’re out of your mind!” Camille said. “Utterly insane! Oh my God, I’ve got a madman under my roof!”
“I am not!” Mouse replied. He stared at Camille, his heavily lined face dark with dirt. “The doctors said I definitely am not a madman.” He picked up the soup-pot lid and inhaled. “Nice,” he said. “But bland. If you have paprika, I could spice it up for you.”
“Doctors?” Gaby asked, frowning. “What doctors?”
“The doctors at the nuthouse,” Mouse went on. He pushed his hair out of his eyes with dirty fingers and then dipped those same fingers into the pot. He took a taste of onion soup. “Oh, yes,” he said. “This could use some paprika. Possibly a touch of garlic, too.”
“What nuthouse?” Camille’s voice was shrill, and it quavered like an out-of-tune flute.
“The one I escaped from six months ago,” Mouse said. He picked up a ladle and scooped out some soup, then slurped noisily. The others were silent, still watching him; Camille’s mouth was open, as if she were about to let loose a dish-rattling scream. “It was a place over on the west side of the city,” Mouse said. “For crack-ups and people who’d shot themselves in the foot. I told them when they signed me up that I had weak nerves. Did they listen?” Another noisy slurp of soup, and the liquid ran down his chin to his shirt. “No, they didn’t listen. They said I’d be in a field kitchen, and that I wouldn’t see any action. But did the bastards say anything about the air raids? No! Not a word!” He took a mouthful of soup and sloshed it around between his cheeks. “You know Hitler paints that mustache on, don’t you?” he asked. “It’s the truth! That cockless bastard can’t grow a mustache. He wears women’s clothes at night, too. Ask anybody.”
“Oh, God save us! A Nazi lunatic!” Camille moaned softly, her face now matching the color of her hair. She staggered back, and Gaby caught her before she fell.
“This could stand a whole clove of garlic,” Mouse said, and smacked his lips. “It would be a masterpiece!”
“Now what are you going to do?” Gaby asked Michael. “You’ll have to get rid of him.” She glanced quickly at the revolver he held.
For one of the few times in his life Michael Gallatin felt like a fool. He’d grasped at a straw, he realized, and he’d come up with a bent twig. Mouse was happily drinking soup from the ladle and looking around the kitchen- obviously familiar territory to him. A bomb-shocked German escapee from a mental hospital was a fragile lever on which to move closer to Adam; but what else did he have? Damn it! Michael thought. Why didn’t I let this madman go? There was no telling what might happen if-
“You said something about a financial arrangement, I believe,” Mouse said, and put the ladle down into the pot. “What might you have in mind?”
“Coins on your eyes when we float your body down the Seine!” Camille shouted, but Gaby shushed her.
Michael hesitated. Was the man useless, or not? Maybe no one but a lunatic would dare try what he was about to propose. But they’d only get one chance, and if Mouse made a mistake they might all pay with their lives. “I work for the British Secret Service,” he said quietly. Mouse kept poking around the kitchen, but Camille gasped and almost swooned again. “The Gestapo is watching an agent of ours. I have to get a message to him.”
“The Gestapo,” Mouse repeated. “Mean bastards. They’re everywhere, you know.”
“Yes, I do know. That’s why I need your help.”
Mouse looked at him, and blinked. “I’m German.”
“I know that, too. But you’re not a Nazi, and you don’t want to go back to the hospital, do you?”
“No. Of course not.” He inspected a pan and tapped its bottom. “The food there is atrocious.”
“And I don’t think you want to continue your life as a thief, either,” Michael went on. “What I’d like for you to do will take maybe two seconds-if you’re any good as a pickpocket. If not, the Gestapo will pick you up right on the street. And if that happens, I’ll have to kill you.”
Mouse stared at Michael, his eyes startlingly blue against his grimy, seamed face. He put the pan aside.
“I’ll give you a piece of folded paper,” Michael said. “That paper should be placed in the coat pocket of a man I’ll describe to you and point out to you on the street. It’ll have to be done fast and appear as if you simply bumped against him. Two seconds; no longer. There’ll be a team of Gestapo men following our agent, possibly watching him along the route he walks. Anything that looks slightly suspicious is going to draw them down on you. My friend”-he nodded at Gaby-“and I will be close by. If things go wrong, we’ll try to help you. But my first loyalty is to our agent. If that means I have to shoot you along with the Gestapo, I won’t hesitate.”
“Of that I’m certain,” Mouse said, and plucked an apple from a clay bowl. He examined it for worms, then bit into it. “You’re from Britain, uh?” he asked between crunches. “My congratulations. Your German is very good.” He glanced around the tidy kitchen. “This isn’t what I expected the underground to be. I thought it was a bunch of Frenchmen hiding in sewers.”
“We leave the sewers for your kind!” Camille shot back, still feisty.
“My kind,” Mouse repeated, and shook his head. “Oh, we’ve lived in the sewers since 1938, madam. We’ve been force-fed shit so long we began to enjoy the taste. I’ve been in the army for two years, four months, and eleven days. A great patriotic duty, they said! A chance to expand the Reich and create a new world for all right- thinking Germans! Only the pure of heart and the strong of blood… well, you know the rest.” He grimaced; he’d bitten into a sour spot. “Not all Germans are Nazis,” he said quietly. “But the Nazis have got the loudest voices and the biggest clubs, and they’ve succeeded in beating the sense out of my country. So yes, I do know the sewers, madam. I know them very well indeed.” His eyes looked scorched by inner heat, and he tossed the apple core into a basket. His gaze returned to Michael. “But I’m still a German, sir. Maybe I am insane, but I love my homeland- perhaps I love a memory of my homeland, instead of the reality. So why should I help you do anything that might kill my countrymen?”
“I’m asking you to help me prevent my countrymen from being killed. Possibly by the thousands, if I can’t reach the man I’m after.”
“Oh, yes.” Mouse nodded. “Of course this has to do with the invasion.”
“God strike us all!” Camille moaned. “We’re ruined!”
“Every soldier knows the invasion is coming,” Mouse said. “It’s no secret. Only no one knows-yet-when it will be, or where. But it’s inevitable, and even us dumb field kitchen cooks know that. One thing’s for sure: once the Brits and the Americans start marching over the coast, no damned Atlantic Wall’s going to stop them. They’ll keep going all the way to Berlin; I just pray to God they’ll get there before the damned Russians do!”
Michael let that comment pass. The Russians, of course, had been savagely fighting their way west since 1943.
“My wife and two children are in Berlin.” Mouse sighed softly and ran a hand across his face. “My eldest son… was nineteen when he went to war. On the Eastern Front, no less. They couldn’t even scrape enough of him up to send back in a box. They sent me his medal. I put it on the wall, where it shines very pretty.” His eyes had become
