He sat, he sat, he sat. The train shook, rattled, and clacked. Twilight passed into lightless night. The vibrations played across everything. Men smoked, men drank from flasks, men tried to write letters home or read. It was not an express, so every half hour or so the train would lurch to a stop and one or two officers would leave, one or two would join. The lights flickered, cool air blasted into the compartment, the French conductor yelled the meaningless name of the town, and on and on they went, into the night.
At last the conductor yelled, “Bricquebec, twenty minutes,” first in French, then in German.
He stood up, leaving his overcoat, and went to the loo. In it, he looked at his face in the mirror, sallow in the light. He soaked a towel, rubbed his face, meaning to find energy somehow. Action this day. Much of it. A last trick, a last wiggle.
The fleeing agent’s enemy is paranoia. Basil had no immunity from it, merely discipline against it. He was also not particularly immune to fear. He felt both of these emotions strongly now, knowing that this nothingness of waiting for the train to get him where it had to was absolutely the worst.
But then he got his war face back on, forcing the armor of his charm and charisma to the surface, willing his eyes to sparkle, his smile to flash, his brow to furl romantically. He was back in character. He was Basil again.
“Excellent,” said Macht. “Now, Boch, your turn to contribute. Use that SS power of yours we all so fear and call von Choltitz’s adjutant. It is important that I be given temporary command authority over a unit called Nachtjagdgeschwader-9. Luftwaffe, of course. It’s a wing headquartered at a small airfield near the town of Bricquebec, less than an hour outside Cherbourg. Perhaps you remember our chat with its commandant, Oberst Gunther Scholl, a few days ago. Well, you had better hope that Oberst Scholl is on his game, because he is the one who will nab Johnny England for us.”
Quite expectedly, Boch didn’t understand. Puzzlement flashed in his eyes and fuddled his face. He began to stutter, but Abel cut him off.
“Please, Herr Hauptsturmführer. Time is fleeing.”
Boch did what he was told, telling his Uber- Hauptsturmführer that Hauptmann Dieter Macht, of Abwehr III-B, needed to give orders to Oberst Scholl of NJG-9 at Bricquebec. Then the three got into the Citroën and drove the six blocks back to the Hotel Duval, where they went quickly to the phone operator at the board. Though the Abwehr men were sloppy by SS standards, they were efficient by German standards.
The operator handed a phone to Macht, who didn’t bother to shed his trench coat and fedora.
“Hullo, hullo,” he said, “Hauptmann Macht here, call for Oberst Scholl. Yes, I’ll wait.”
A few seconds later Scholl came on the phone.
“Scholl here.”
“Yes, Oberst Scholl, it’s Hauptmann Macht, Paris Abwehr. Have things been explained to you?”
“Hello, Macht. I know only that by emergency directive from Luftwaffe Command I am to obey your orders.”
“Do you have planes up tonight?”
“No, the bomber streams are heading north tonight. We have the night off.”
“Sorry to make the boys work, Herr Oberst. It seems your seatmate is returning to your area. I need manpower. I need you to meet and cordon off the Cherbourg train at the Bricquebec stop. It’s due in at eleven-thirty p.m. Maximum effort. Get your pilots out of bed or out of the bars or brothels, and your mechanics, your ground crews, your fuelers. Leave only a skeleton crew in the tower. I’ll tell you why in a bit.”
“I must say, Macht, this is unprecedented.”
“Oberst, I’m trying to keep you from the Russian front. Please comply enthusiastically so that you can go back to your three mistresses and your wine cellar.”
“How did—”
“We have records, Herr Oberst. Anyhow, I would conceal the men in the bushes and inside the depot house until the train has all but arrived. Then, on command, they are to take up positions surrounding the train, making certain that no one leaves. At that point I want you to lead a search party from one end to the other, though of course start in first class. You know who you are looking for. He is now, however, in a dark blue pin-striped suit, double-breasted. He has a dark overcoat. He may look older, more abused, harder, somehow different from when last you saw him. You must be alert, do you understand?”
“Is he armed?”
“We don’t know. Assume he is. Listen here, there’s a tricky part. When you see him, you must not react immediately. Do you understand? Don’t make eye contact, don’t move fast or do anything stupid. He has an L-pill. It will probably be in his mouth. If he sees you coming for him, he will bite it. Strychnine — instant. It would mean so much more if we could take him alive. He may have many secrets, do you understand?”
“I do.”
“When you take him, order your officers to go first for his mouth. They have to get fingers or a plug or something deep into his throat to keep him from biting or swallowing, then turn him facedown and pound hard on his back. He has to cough out that pill.”
“My people will be advised. I will obviously be there to supervise.”
“Oberst, this chap is very efficient, very practiced. He’s an old dog with miles of travel on him. For years he’s lasted in a profession where most perish in a week. Be very careful, be very astute, be very sure. I know you can do this.”
“I will catch your spy for you, Macht.”
“Excellent. One more thing. I will arrive within two hours in my own Storch, with my assistant, Abel.”
“That’s right, you fly.”
“I do, yes. I have over a thousand hours, and you know how forgiving a Storch is.”
“I do.”
“So alert your tower people. I’ll buzz them so they can light a runway for the thirty seconds it takes me to land, then go back to blackout. And leave a car and driver to take me to the station.”
“I will.”
“Good hunting.”
“Good flying.”
He put the phone down, turned to Abel, and said, “Call the airport, get the plane flight-checked and fueled so that we can take off upon arrival.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One moment,” said Boch.
“Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer?”
“As this is a joint SS-Abwehr operation, I demand to be a part of it. I will go along with you.”
“The plane holds only two. It loses its agility when a third is added. It’s not a fighter, it’s a kite with a tiny motor.”
“Then I will go instead of Abel. Macht, do not fight me on this. I will go to SS and higher if I need to. SS must be represented all through this operation.”
“You trust my flying?”
“Of course.”
“Good, because Abel does not. Now, let’s go.”
“Not quite yet. I have to change into my uniform.”
Refreshed, Basil left the loo. But instead of turning back into the carriage and returning to his seat, he turned the other way, as if it were the natural thing to do, opened the door at the end of the carriage, and stepped out onto the rattling, trembling running board over the coupling between carriages. He waited for the door behind him to seal, tested for speed. Was the train slowing? He felt it was, as maybe the vibrations were further apart, signifying that the wheels churned slightly less aggressively, against an incline, on the downhill, perhaps negotiating a turn. Then, without a thought, he leaped sideways into the darkness.
Will I be lucky? Will the famous St. Florian charm continue? Will I float to a soft landing and roll through the dirt, only my dignity and my hair mussed? Or will this be the night it all runs out and I hit a bridge abutment, a tree trunk, a barbed-wire fence, and kill myself?