Liquidate Paris (24 page)

Farin sighed.

'I could wish I were in London at this moment!'

'I believe you,' agreed Bauer, with a short laugh. 'Paris isn't the most .comfortable place on earth, is it? Mind you, Germany's no bed of roses, either. The Admiral's already burnt all his papers. And you know who's been appointed Oberbefehlshaber for the West? Generalfeldmarschall Walter Model! None other. There's a man who can sniff out treachery a hundred kilometres off. I believe even Hitler himself is none too keen on the fellow.'

'The man's an uncivilized brute,' said Farin, very feelingly. 'You heard the tale of von Rundstedt's champagne, of course? Model's spies discovered he had sixty cases of the stuff in his cellar. Five minutes later--five minutes, mark you!--the whole lot had been poured down the drain. What a waste! How unnecessary!'

'They say he sleeps with a copy of
Mein Kampf
beneath his pillow. I can well believe it. He and von Choltitz are not so much men as military robots.'

The two conspirators stood brooding a while, and then at last the diplomat finished off his cognac and picked up his coat and brief-case with a new air of determination.

'We must see what can be done. Paris must be saved at all costs. I shall present myself to von Choltitz straight away and try to judge what chance we stand with him. It would help if we could only find something against him--some hold over him--something that might interest friend Model.'

'I doubt we could ever do that. The man's the very model of
perfection
. Nevertheless, I wish you the best of l
uck.' Bauer
held out a hand and the other grasped it firmly. 'I'll keep in touch through the usual channels, of course--always assuming that I'm still around to do so.'

'I shall trust that you are.'

Farin stood listening at the door for a moment before opening it. .

'I think it best if we leave separately. The very paving stones have eyes these days... Au revoir, Hauptmann L'

'Au 'voir.'

Normandy had become a second Stalingrad. Fifty thousand men had been taken prisoner; forty thousand men had lost their lives. The 27th Panzer Regiment was reduced to one-fifth its original strength, and the remaining fifth was sent to Paris for reasons that had not as yet been divulged to it.

With a glum satisfaction that he took no pains to conceal, Generalfeldmarschall von Rundstedt reported that 1,800,000 Allied troops had landed in Normandy; and that against these 1,800,000 were pitted a mere 200,000 Germans. No .armoured division now possessed more than ten tanks; many had as few as five; some had even less. Regiments had dwindled to the size of companies. The situation was desperate, as von Rundstedt frequently pointed out to his colleagues.

But the situation went on being desperate and even old man Rundstedt lost patience in the end.

'What's the use of ringing me up forty times a day?' he screamed down the telephone. 'I can't tell you what to do! I can't produce troops out of a top hat! I can't make tanks out of pieces of cardboard! The only sensible course is to surrender, I've said so time and again but the cretins in Berlin won't hear of it! They ought to be locked up, the whole damned lot of them! I tell you, we're run by a bunch of lower-grade morons!'

He slammed the receiver back on to its cradle. The telephone slipped and crashed to the floor. Von Rundstedt merely snorted, snatched up his coat and stormed from the room. His coat was as bare of ribbons as that of the lowest private, and yet he was the most decorated man in all Germany. Through some quirk of his own, General-feldmarschall von Rundstedt never wore his decorations unless specially ordered to do so. He crammed his helmet on to his head, marched through the outer office and briskly saluted.

'I bid you farewell, gentlemen... By this time tomorrow you will have a new officer commanding you. I have the feeling that I am about to be removed!'

THE GUARD-ROOM AT THE HOTEL MEURICE

Two civilians wearing leather coats and with hats pulled well down over their eyes were sitting in the guardroom at the Hotel Meurice. They had no particular business there, but nevertheless they had made themselves at home. One sprawled in a chair, hands in pockets, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The other leaned back with his dirty shoes resting on the table, his hard grey eyes flickering about the room and resting momentarily on each object as if it were his own personal property. The man on guard duty was for the most part ignored.

'Hey, Heinrich, you know what?'

The man sprawling in the chair shifted position slightly and jerked his head at his companion, who merely grunted and raised one eyebrow.

'What?'

'I'm pissed off with this place. This town bores me.'

'Ah-huh.'

'It does. It really does. We were better off at Lemberg. Things really moved in Poland, eh?'

'Ah-huh.'

'You remember that bird Tamara at Brest-Litovsk? What a woman!' He turned condescendingly towards the man on guard duty. 'You know what? That girl had a whole battalion of partisans under her command! Killed two of our generals with her own hands! Some girl, eh?' He shook his head. 'Seemed almost a shame to shoot her.'

'In Moscow,' said the grey-eyed one, suddenly, 'they brainwash you. Turn you into a different person and say you're cured. That's worse than shooting.'

'You know what?' demanded his companion, for the third time. 'If we lose this cursed war I've a damned good mind to join the Reds. I have really. When you get down to basics, their programme hardly differs at all from ours. I really think I shall become a Communist. I have an instinct in these matters. That's why I've managed to keep my head on my shoulders all these years. I was at Dirlewanger, you know. I was----'

'I'm not interested where you were before. You're in Paris now, that's all I know, so stop beefing and make the best of it.' Heinrich suddenly swung his feet off the table and turned accusingly upon the guard, an Oberfeldwebel of the artillery. 'I take it you realize that all conversations held in here are top secret?'

The Oberfeldwebel lifted an indifferent shoulder. He had never heard of the Japanese proverb 'see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing', but it was, nevertheless, the creed that he instinctively held--and to which he added, for good measure, 'think nothing.' Just to be on the safe side. It often was better not to think, when you were in the Army. Thinking could be uncomfortable, and thinking could get a man into trouble. Particularly like now, when you were stuck through no fault of your own with a couple of lousy Gestapo types who were quite likely to turn nasty for no better reason than that your face happened to displease them.

The Oberfeldwebel heaved a sigh and glanced involuntarily towards the clock. With any luck, the relief would arrive within minutes. He began laboriously to write out his report. What rotten luck it was to have been born in Germany just in time for the war? What did he care about Lebensraum and the like? As far as he was concerned, he had had all the living space anyone could require back home in Dortmund. Not very exciting, perhaps, but he asked nothing better than to go back there. Why had he had the rotten luck---- He abruptly switched off his thoughts and made his mind an obedient blank. Thinking was a dangerous occupation. Better not to encourage it.

The door suddenly clattered open. The Oberfeldwebel and the Gestapo Looked up in alarm, but it was only the arrival--admittedly somewhat unorthodox--
of
the new guard. Twelve soldiers
of
a tank regiment crashed noisily into the room.

'Hallo-allo-allo!' roared the first of them, Obergefreiter Porta, in a voice that caused the very walls to shake. 'What have we here?'

He pointed a finger at the Gestapo, who remained in their chairs, staring insolently up at him. Behind Porta crowded Little John. He immediately seated himself on the top of the desk, with his usual scant regard for discipline.'

'O.K.,' he said, cheerfully. 'We've come. You can tell 'em we're here and then you're free to scarper.'

'How dare you?' said the Oberfeldwebel, indignantly. He may not have thought much, but he did believe in discipline. 'Stand up and salute and announce yourselves properly! Where do you think you are? In a Biergarten? This is a Prussian guard-room, I would remind you!'

'Oh, get lost,' drawled Porta.

'If you're here to relieve the guard, why the hell don't you get on and do it?' .

Everyone turned, slowly, to regard the Gestapo. It was Peter, the would-be Communist, who had spoken.

'Who's them?' demanded Porta.

'I have no idea.' said the Oberfeldwebel, coldly.

'In that case, they'd better bloody well get the hell out of here! We don't want, civilians cluttering up our guard room. Unless, of course'--a thought suddenly struck Porta --'unless, of course, they're under arrest?'

'Obergefreiter!' roared Peter, leaping angrily to his feet. 'I am an Untersturmfuhrer!'

'Really?' said Porta, looking bored. 'Why tell me about it? I'm sure it's very hard on you, mate, I'm very sorry for you, but what do you expect me to do for you? I'm an Obergefreiter, like you said, and for the next twenty-four hours I'm on guard here keeping the bogeymen away from the old General upstairs. That's all I know, and I can't have civilians cluttering up the place.'

Heinrich suddenly yawned, pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out a card.

'Secret police,' he said, wearily.

Porta remained unmoved by this revelation.

'I don't care if you're secret police or secret road-crossing sweepers,' he told Heinrich. 'We still can't have you cluttering up our guard-room. Regulations is regulations, even for the Gestapo.'

'Has it occurred to you,' asked Heinrich, darkly, 'that we could be waiting here for the express purpose of arresting you?'

'Frankly,' no.' said Porta. 'To me that seems most unlikely.' Porta in his triumph put a hand in a pocket and pulled out a white armband marked with the letters Z.B.V. 'Ever heard of us?' he murmured.

The two Gestapo men glanced at the armband and then at each other.

'What the devil are you doing in Paris?' demanded Peter. .

Porta tapped the side of his large nose and said nothing. The door burst open again. This time it was Barcelona. He marched up to the Oberfeldwebel and smartly clicked his heels together. -

'Feldwebel Blom, 27th Panzers, 5th Company, reporting for guard duty.'

The Oberfeldwebel returned the salute, evidently relieved to find someone who conformed, however sketchily, to regulations.

'Oberfeldwebel Steinmache, 109th Artillery Regiment, handing over the guard.'

Barcelona relaxed out of his regulation stance.

'What about them?' he said, jerking a thumb towards Peter and Heinrich. 'What right have two civilians in a guard room? What are they doing in here?'

This time, the Oberfeldwebel lost all patience.

'Ask them, not me, mate! If you don't like the look of 'em, boot 'em out! You're in charge here now, not me, thank God.'

He snatched up his helmet, sketched another brief salute and left the room.

'I see,' said Barcelona, thoughtfully.

He seated himself in the Oberfeldwebel's chair and looked about the room. His gaze returned at last to Peter, who had been growing obviously more and more uncomfortable since his exchange of words with Porta. Or was it only since Barcelona's entry? The man was certainly very unhappy about something. He nodded his head at Heinrich.

'Let's go. Who wants to stay where they're not welcome?'

He pulled his hat further down over his eyes and buttoned his leather coat right up to the chin. Heinrich frowned.

'What's the hurry? I move when I'm good and ready.'

'I am ready,' said Peter.

He moved towards the door, and immediately, with the instinctive awareness that characterized so many of their actions, Little John and Porta moved with him and arrived there first.

'Hold it a minute!'

Barcelona sat with eyes narrowed, tapping his teeth with a fingernail, staring across at Peter. Suddenly he slapped a hand on to the desk.

'Senor Gomez, by all that's wonderful! After all this time! The world's a small place and no mistake--or did someone already say that? Never mind, I'll say it again... Well, well! ' He whistled softly between his teeth. 'I must admit, your new skin suits you quite well, Comrade!'

Peter turned imperiously towards the door.

'Kindly let me pass.'

Little John and Porta stood immovable. For a second the three men formed a frozen tableau, and then Heinrich, evidently sensing danger, joined his companion at the door.

'There's liable to be trouble,' he said, 'if you lay your hands on a member of the Gestapo.'

'Open that door!' demanded Peter, sounding a trifle hysterical. '

Very slowly, Porta stretched out an arm, swivelled the man round to face into the room, and pointed at Barcelona.

'Maybe you didn't realize the gentleman was talking to you?' he said. 'Maybe you'd like him to repeat it all?'

'I demand that you open the door!' screamed Peter.

'You don't demand anything,' contradicted Porta, with a broad smile on his face. 'You just pipe down, little man, and do as you're told.'

'Unless, of course----'

Little John left the sentence unfinished; merely pulled out a vicious-looking knife and stood toying with it. Barcelona had assumed a musing expression.

'Twenty-second of June 1938,' he murmured. 'Rambla de la Flores in Barcelona... I remember you gave us drinks in your suite at the Ritz... You remember that, comrade? I do. I remember it very well. Only'--Barcelona narrowed his eyes as he regarded the man--'in those days, as I recall, you swore allegiance to the Communist Party. What's happened to the red stars, comrade? Your eyes used to be full of them!'

'You're mad!' Peter struggled once more against Porta's large, restraining hand. 'You're raving? Can't you see I'm an Untersturmfuhrer with the Secret Police? You've got eyes in your head, haven't you? I suppose you have seen an Untersturmfuhrer before?'

'Oh, many times,' agreed Barcelona, smoothly. 'But I think you'll admit that it's not easy for someone who's known you as Comrade Gomez to suddenly begin calling you "Untersturmfuhrer"... What was your rank in Spain, Gomez? Captain, was it? Or was it major? Hombre! I still remember that fine speech you give us in your suite at the Ritz Hotel! You remember that speech, Gomez? Real soul-stirring stuff!'