As Time Goes By (14 page)

"Why not go for Hitler and be done with it?" asked
Rick. "If you want to kill the beast, you don't cut off
its tail, you cut off its head."

The major looked at Rick as if he were mad. "I'm afraid we can't do that," he explained. "It has already been decided at the highest levels of government that
under The Hague convention, the assassination of rival
heads of state, even belligerents, will not be counte
nanced. This is war, not a street brawl."

Rick thought of the debris outside in the London
streets and wasn't so sure. "Looks to me that that's
what the Luftwaffe's trying to do. Knock off Churchill,
I mean."

The major waved away Rick's objection. "Aerial
bombing's one thing, assassination's another," he said.
"If Bomber Harris's RAF blows the F
ü
hrer to hell, I
can assure you we none of us will shed a tear about it. In any case, clandestine operations in Berlin are out of
the question. We have very few Intelligence assets
there." He slapped his swagger stick against his thigh.

"So why Heydrich?" asked Rick. "How'd he draw
the short stick?"

"Because we can," Major Miles replied.

"Because we have to!" exclaimed Lumley. "I mean,
how do these bloody Czechs expect us to beat back the
Hun when they won't even lift a finger to help?"

"Because we must," said Laszlo beneath his breath.

"What are you talking about?" Rick asked Lumley.

"The Czechs aren't putting up much of a fight at
all," said Lumley. "Ever since this chap Heydrich arrived and shot a few of their johnnies, there's been
hardly a peep out of them. Why, even the bloody frogs
are giving a better account of themselves."

"Ahem," said Renault.

"Anyway," Lumley concluded, "it's high time we
lit a fire under the bastards. Something to get their Irish
up, so to speak."

"I'm sure they'll be very grateful," Renault re
marked.

"Frankly," said the major, "we've been worried
about the loyalties of the Czechs for some time. Bohe
mia and Moravia have always been as much German as
Czech, culturally speaking, and they appear to be wear
ing the Nazi yoke a little too lightly for comfort."

"I thought your man Chamberlain was supposed to save Czechoslovakia for democracy," Rick observed.

"That's water under the dam," retorted Sir Harold. "Winston's the PM now, and he is determined to rectify his predecessor's errors of judgment."

"If he doesn't, we most certainly will," said Laszlo.

Rick wasn't convinced. "I don't see why Heydrich is any worse, or any more dangerous, than the other
top Nazis—especially when Heydrich is in Prague, not
Berlin, where the decisions are made."

"You might feel very differently, Monsieur Blaine,"
said Laszlo, "if Heydrich were
Gauleiter
of New
York."

"I might." •

The major glanced at him. "Mr. Laszlo has informed
me of your willingness to support the cause of the Resistance throughout Europe, Mr. Blaine," he said. "He
has also briefed me on your background and your
skills, which information we have thoroughly investi
gated ourselves."

"Which is why you tossed my room and stole my
passport."

"We had to make sure you were who you purported
to be," replied the major. "We couldn't take the risk
you were an impostor sent by the Germans to discover
the whereabouts of Mr. Laszlo...."

"What if I had been?"

"We would have killed you," Sir Harold responded with no particular emotion. "Fortunately for all of us,
Mr. Laszlo vouched for you upon presentation of your passport, as well as making a visual identification this
evening while you were enjoying Mrs. Bunton's hospi
tality."

"Which the hound and which the hare?" wondered
Renault. "And which the fox?"

Major Miles threw Rick's and Sam's passports on
the table. "At this moment, Mr. Blaine," he said, "I
think I do not flatter myself when I say that I know
more about you than your own mother."

Rick thought back to his meeting with another
major, Strasser, in Renault's office in Casablanca, and of his dossier in the Nazi's clammy hands. Surely the
English couldn't have any more information on him
than the Germans did. It was time to find out. "My mother never did know me that well," he remarked,
wishing he had a drink.

"But we do," continued Miles. "We know you ran arms into Ethiopia for the emperor Haile Selassie in
1935 and 1936 in his futile resistance to Mussolini.
Very brave of you—and extremely quixotic, if you
don't mind my saying so."

"I've always had a soft spot for the underdog," ob
served Rick. "It's the American way."

"Extremely unusual, too. Tell me, Mr. Blaine"—
now it was the major's turn to light up a cigarette—
"what made you leave New York City so suddenly in
October of 1935?"

"I really don't think that's any of your business,"
said Rick as calmly as he could.

"So suddenly and with such finality that it is said that you can never return to your native land." The
major tapped an ash into the wastebasket. "What made
you go to, of all places, Ethiopia?"

"I didn't," Rick told him. "I stopped in Paris first,
and left Sam there to scout the place." He tightened his
lips. "I guess it's no secret that I was in the saloon
business back home, and I heard Paris might be a nice
place to open another one. I heard right."

"Why did you go to Addis Ababa, then?" the major
wanted to know.

"Let's just say I don't like bullies and leave it at
that," replied Rick.

Major Miles shuffled some papers. "We also know you fought in Spain with the Loyalists against Franco. Once again, very brave, very quixotic—and very dan
gerous. You saw a good deal of action—in between
making quite a tidy little sum running arms to the Re
publicans."

Rick took a deep drag on his cigarette. "That's not a secret, either," he said. "Tell me something your crack Intelligence service has discovered that the rest of the
world doesn't already know."

Sir Harold ignored the insult. "Then in May or June of 1939 you turn up in Paris and stay until the day the
Germans march in."

"I didn't have much choice about leaving," Rick ex
plained. "With my record in Spain, I had to get out
unless I wanted to end up like Laszlo, as a guest of the
Reich. The fact is, Major, Nazis don't much like me,
and frankly, I don't much like them, either."

"I find it hard to reconcile this, shall we say, idealism
with the persona of a passive neutral that you have ob
viously so carefully cultivated in Casablanca."

"Suit yourself," replied Rick. "It's pretty tough for
me sometimes, too." He finished off his cigarette and
ground it out in an ashtray. He'd had about enough of
this. "You know," he said heatedly, "I went over this with Major Strasser in Casablanca, and I'll be damned
if I'm going to sit here and go over it again with you.
A man's entitled to keep at least part of his private life
private. Why I've done what I've done is my business
and nobody else's. Now, if there are no further
questions
..."
He got up as if to leave.

"Wait, Richard, please." It was her voice. It was
her.
When she had entered the room, he did not know. But
she was there.

He wanted to turn to look at her, but he didn't. He
couldn't. Not right now. He sat down again.

Victor Laszlo spoke up. "Please, Monsieur Blaine,
my wife and I are quite serious about needing your
help. You cannot blame us if Sir Harold has investigated you. In an operation of this importance and this
sensitivity, we must make absolutely certain where
each man's loyalties lie.

"Monsieur Renault we understand," continued
Laszlo, nodding in Louis's direction. "He is a man for
whom money and pleasure are paramount. This is the
sort of man with whom we can do business. But you
are another story. I do not insult you again by offering
you money.
..."

"You offered me a hundred thousand francs for those
letters of transit, remember?" Rick said. "Or was it two
hundred thousand?"

"And you refused to accept my offer. Instead, you
gave them to me—or perhaps I should say, you gave the letters to her."

"That's true," muttered Rick.

"I was prepared—
we
were prepared—to do anything
to get out of Casablanca. Ilsa's feelings for you were
immaterial to me, as long as she and I could escape, to
continue our work here." Laszlo poured himself a
small glass of water from a carafe on the table. "A
world war is no time to let personal emotions interfere
with a cause. Your decision to join us superseded in
my mind any designs you may have had on my wife. Therefore, let us seal the bargain we made in Casa
blanca."

Laszlo stood. "I offer you my hand, not in friendship, for I know that we can never be friends. Instead, I give it to you in comradeship."

Several seconds elapsed before Rick extended his
hand. Victor took it. "Laszlo, I'll do everything my
conscience will allow me to do for both you and Ilsa.
Just how much that is will be determined by me and
me alone. Agreed?"

"Once again," said Laszlo, "welcome back to the fight."

"There's just one more thing," added Rick. "I meant
what I said to Ilsa at the airport. That what I've got to
do she can have no part of. We agreed on that."

He could hear her footsteps as she walked over to the table. Her voice was loud in his ear. He could smell her perfume. He turned and, suddenly, was lost in her eyes.

"Major," she said, "would you please explain how things stand to Mr. Blaine?"

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Sir Harold stood. "Mr. Blaine," he began, clearing
his throat. "Since the entry of the United States of
America into the war, the circumstances of the conflict
have profoundly changed."

Rick sat impassively, listening, his heart pounding.

"This war is no longer simply the struggle of one
lone, free nation, England, against the Third Reich.
This war is no longer a competition among empires— the British versus the German. This war is no longer simply an academic question of whether fascism or
communism or democracy is the superior form of gov
ernment.

"This war," he said, striking the table with his fist,
"is a battle to the death."

Ilsa winced at the noise. Laszlo didn't.

"To the death," repeated Major Miles. "I'm not sure how much experience you personally have had with such a struggle, Mr. Blaine."

"Enough to know I like to win," remarked Rick,
"but also enough to know that I don't count on it."

"Just so. Now, Mr. Blaine, our struggle is also your struggle." The major pointed to one of several wall
maps. "This," he said, "is what remains of Czechoslo
vakia." He rapped the map with a pointer. "Here is
Prague. You will notice that it is two hundred miles
northwest of Vienna, not terribly far from either Mu
nich or Berlin. In other words, Prague is not some
eastern backwater, remote and inaccessible, but a so
phisticated city located deep in the Reich and at the
very heart of the European continent. I cannot overem
phasize the city's strategic and psychological impor
tance."

That part made sense to Rick. If you wanted to rub
out the other guy, best to do it in one of his own joints.
It didn't hurt to have the aid of an insider, either, some
one to betray the victim when the time was just right. That was another lesson he had learned the hard way.
He still remembered the way Giuseppe Guglielmo had
looked as Tick-Tock stuck a knife between his ribs and
Abie Cohen shot off the front of his face and the
would-be
capo di tutti capi
died right there, on the Per
sian carpet he'd probably overpaid for, in his office
above Grand Central Station back in the good old days.

Miles's voice commanded attention. "We believe
that a bomb is the best way to dispose of Herr Hey
drich. Mr. Laszlo has made a convincing case for a
bomb attack, effected during one of Heydrich's daily
drives through the city."

Major Miles, Rick decided, was all business and no
heart. He was a good British officer. He would have
made a good gangster.

Sir Harold indicated a large map of the city of
Prague. "One of the arguments in favor of such a plan
is the very nature of the streets of Prague. The medieval city is essentially intact, which allows a potential assas
sin to get very close almost unnoticed. For that same reason, a sniper attack is less desirable. A rifle poking
from an open window is too easily spotted."

"You mean it's far too dangerous for a sniper, then?" asked Renault.

Major Miles's mouth twitched beneath his brush-cut
mustache. His opinion of the French, always low to begin with, had been further lowered by their pitiful
performance against the Germans in 1940. If he could have had his way, this operation would have no place
for a frog. But wartime allies made strange bedfellows,
and besides, the Free French had to be placated.

"No, Monsieur Renault," he corrected. "I mean it offers too much opportunity for failure. It could seri
ously compromise the success of the mission and
therefore embarrass His Majesty's government."

"We can't have that, can we?" Renault observed.

"No, we can't," said the major, missing the sarcasm.
"Poison is also out of the question because it presup
poses a certain intimacy between assassin and victim,
which we could hope for, but not count on. So, of
course, does stabbing. Thus, a bomb is the most effi
cient and effective way of disposing of him." The ma
jor's lips made a gesture that, for him, passed as a
smile. "It also ensures our team of their best chance of
escape. This is not, after all, a suicide mission."

"I'm not so sure about that," said Rick.

"Gentlemen," interrupted Laszlo.
 
"The major is
right. Everything must and will go perfectly. We cannot have any misunderstandings, however slight. Nor
can we have any compromises in our own security."
He looked at Renault, who stared back blandly.

Major Miles spoke up. "The government believe it
to be in the best interests of the war effort to give full
and unequivocal support to this operation," he said.
"
I
might also add that this plan has been personally ap
proved by President Eduard Beneš and ratified by the Czech government-in-exile."

Rick waved his lighted cigarette in the air. "So
where do Louie and I
fit in?"

Major Miles had a ready answer. "In Mr. Laszlo we
have an exemplar of the central European resistance to
Hitler. In Captain Renault, we will have a newly com
mitted representative of Free France. And in Mr. Blaine"—-he nodded in Rick's direction—"we have
personified the industrial might and moral strength of
the United States of America."

Despite himself, Rick felt a surge of patriotic pride.
He hadn't felt that in a long time. Since 1935 hardly a
day had gone by that he hadn't thought about New
York, but this was the first time he had felt like an
American again.

"Herr Heydrich has a number of weaknesses," said
Laszlo. "He drinks too much. Thanks to his overween
ing arrogance, he takes unnecessary chances. He is resolutely unfaithful to his wife, who spends as much time
in Berlin as she can, and he is fond of the company of
beautiful women to a degree one might consider exces
sive."

Rick didn't have to wonder who that "one" might
be.

"Although he is the head of the Reich security ser
vice, we believe his own personal security can be com
promised and breached."

"That doesn't sound too hard to me," Rick re
marked. "I've read about his driving around Prague in an open car."

"Yes," agreed Laszlo, "but that knowledge is useless without also knowing his schedule and his movements. Heydrich lies well protected behind the walls of Hrad
č
any Castle. We need someone who will be able to get
close to him without arousing his suspicions."

"In other words, you need a spy in his headquar
ters."

"Precisely."

"Who?"

"Me," Ilsa said softly.

Rick started, sending his cigarette ashes flying.
Might as well send her straight to hell and ask her to
keep tabs on the devil.
           

"I am proud to say that my wife, Ilsa, has agreed to
act as our agent-in-place in Heydrich's headquarters," said Victor. "That is to say, as our eyes and ears in the
command headquarters of the
Reichsicherheitshaup-
tamt
itself."

"You can't be serious," said Rick.

"I am," Laszlo replied. "Perfectly. So is Ilsa."

Rick looked at Ilsa, but her eyes betrayed nothing,
and her lips said nothing. Now it was clear: as far as Victor was concerned, this wasn't an impersonal act of
war, the way it was to Major Miles. This was a grudge
match between Laszlo and Reinhard Heydrich, the
worst kind of fight.

Laszlo rose and began walking around. Rick pre
pared himself for a sermon by lighting another ciga
rette.
        

"We have a chance to strike a blow for freedom that
is given to few men of our time. If I could, I would
destroy Hitler himself. We can't. Therefore, regretta
bly, we must settle for one of his lieutenants. Reinhard
Heydrich is the man we wish to kill."

"You mean the man
you
wish to kill," said Rick, "because he slapped you in a concentration camp for a
while. This is starting to sound personal to me."

"Very well," said Laszlo unemotionally, "the man I
wish to kill."

Rick was struck again by the man's imperturbability.
"Still, there's something here I don't like. No, it's not
the plan, or the bomb, or how we deliver the bomb.
That's your business, not mine. You're the experts. I
said a moment ago that this was starting to sound per
sonal to me, and I'll say it again. I don't like it. I've
had to kill a few men in my time, and I'm not proud of
it. It was war, and it had to be done, whether it was
Ne—" He caught himself. "Whether it was in Spain or
Africa or I don't know where. But when you kill a
man, you'd better do it quick and you'd better do it
right, or he'll come back after you with everything he's
got. Because now it's personal for him, too."

Renault spoke up. "I must say my friend Ricky is right," he began. "I do not for a moment doubt the
sincerity of Monsieur Laszlo's animus, nor do I ques
tion its origins. A stretch in one of the late Major Stras
ser's concentration camps is enough to put anyone off his feed. But I wonder, if you will permit a citizen of
France and a true son of Descartes to say so, if emotion
is getting the better of reason here."

Major Miles looked at Renault with a grudging
respect. "I cannot stress enough," he said, "the seri
ousness of this mission and the importance my govern
ment attaches to its success. You have all been selected
for it because of your skills, not your emotions."

"I wasn't aware I was auditioning," said Rick.

"Oh, but you were, Mr. Blaine," said the major. "In Ethiopia, and in Spain, when you went up against in
surmountable odds—and lost." Sir Harold turned to
Louis. "I can't say that your bona fides haven't given us some sleepless nights, Monsieur Renault. Your
abrupt departure from Casablanca hard on the heels of
Major Strasser's murder and Mr. Blaine's disappear
ance, however, has given you a convincing alibi as a nonperson. I have no doubt that you will impressively impersonate a Vichy official with the new identity we will give you."

"I believe your offer is the only one on the table,
Major," said Renault. "That makes it good enough for me."

"As for you, Mr. Laszlo, there can be no doubt about
your sincerity, or your desire to see justice done to the
defiler of your homeland." Laszlo nodded. "With you,
though, there is something more at work." The major
thumbed through a dossier. " 'Victor Laszlo,' " he
quoted, reading. " 'Born in Pressburg, now known as
Bratislava, Czechoslovakia. Languages: Hungarian,
Czech, German, French, and English. Nationality . . .' "
He paused. " 'None.' "

"A situation I have dedicated my life to rectifying,"
said Laszlo.

"There, there, Mr. Laszlo," Sir Harold soothed.
"One of the distinguishing peculiarities of this war is
how so many of those involved are not what they first
appear. Herr Hitler is not German, but Austrian. Mr. Stalin is not a Russian, but a Georgian. Even our own
Prime Minister, Mr. Churchill, is half American." The major paused to sip from a glass of water.