And on the schwarzer Markt where all such things were bought and sold. ‘Boart is at 450 guilders a carat, having gone up from three in the summer of 1940 and just before the Blitzkrieg.’
‘So in round figures a kilo would be worth what?’ asked Hermann.
‘In Reichskassenscheine about 2.25 million,’ said Uhl.
The Occupation marks, and at twenty to one in France, about 45 million francs, or 1 million dollars or 225,000 pounds sterling.
‘She was a borderline sorter, Kohler,’ said Ludin, ‘and will not only know of the value but which stones are roughly equal, either as gems or industrials.’
‘A half-and-half sorting out those that are half-and-half, Louis. Either one or the other.’
‘Ah here, at last, is Standartenfuhrer Gerhard Kleiber,’ said Uhl, jumping to his feet to raise an arm in salute.
‘Who?’ exclaimed Hermann.
‘Exactly,’ said Frensel, having also leaped up to salute.
‘And the one, Louis, from the Warsaw ghetto uprising of April and May. The one who, under Brigadefuhrer Jurgen Stroop, who thought it would be all over in a day or two and not three weeks, volunteered to flush the last of the recalcitrants from the sewers.’
Kleiber didn’t waste time or words. In rain-spattered cap and open grey topcoat, with Iron Cross First Class at the throat, Close-Combat Clasp in gold on the chest and silver Wound Badge for three or four, he slapped a letter down in front of Hermann and said, ‘Read it to that “partner” of yours.’
Verdammt! felt Kohler. Lebeznikov was watching from the kitchen doors. Kaltenbrunner had signed and dated the letter, and had furiously stamped it with everything the Reichssicherheitshauptamt shy; had including, in red wax, his signet ring. ‘Flown in from Berlin, Louis. It seems we’re now members of this Sonderkommando and are to be made a party to all of its secrets. If anyone, including that one who has just vanished out the back door of the kitchen, should try to horn in on things and stop us, all we have to do is show them this.’
Tree-lined and pleasant in the morning’s growing light, with mist rising off the nearby Seine, the turning leaves of the avenue Foch gave impressionistic touches to those of the Bois de Boulogne. Behind the wheel for a change, St-Cyr told himself they should see it as it once was. After all, it could well be their last time.
Funnelled by the wide and beautiful avenue, the view rose gradually and magnificently to the more distant, wooded hills of the Fort Mont-Valerien, in Suresnes, and those of the suburb of Saint-Cloud. ‘October is surely Paris’s month, Hermann. Haussmann, as you can see, must have had this in mind when he laid out the avenue in 1854. A triumph, isn’t it?’
‘That fort’s the main execution ground and those woods around it hide the hurriedly dumped corpses of far too many, as you well know, so please don’t forget it. This summons has to mean trouble.’
Hermann had had a bad night. ‘Maman was not overly tall, nor was Grand-mere. Their feet never extended beyond the foot of that bed, nor have my own.’
At 0646 the old time, 0846 the new, had come the fist-pounding shy;, at 3 Rue Laurence-Savart in the 20th. It was now 0859 hours, Monday, 4 October.
Number eighty-four didn’t hold the office of Brigadefuhrer und Generalmajor der Polizei/Hoherer SS und Polizeifuhrer of France Karl Oberg, the butcher of Poland. That was at number seventy-two, but number eighty-four was also on the north side and just before the boulevard Lannes and the place Dauphine.* Though there was but a scattering of cars, all of the Occupier, one ancient hackney gave momentary thoughts of the belle epoque whose sumptuous mansions these houses had once been, the street internationally famous. Indeed, the Palais Rose was at number fifty.
‘Stop daydreaming!’ said Hermann, longing for a fag.
‘Ach, Inspektor, had you taken the time to notice, you would have seen that the Standartenfuhrer’s temporary office is on the second floor.’
‘That was him at the windows holding a Schmeisser and satchel shy; of ammo while watching for us, was it?’
‘Death in the offing by piano wire, is it, for having kept things from him and Herr Ludin?’
The office was in what had once been the billiards and smoking room. Firmly pressing a nicotine-stained forefinger down on the green baize and on Queen Wilhelmina’s head, a disgruntled Kriminalrat shoved a coin toward them.
‘When and where?’ managed Kohler, picking it up and passing it to Louis.
‘The Porte de Versailles at 0810,’ said Kleiber, watching them closely.
Three of Bolduc’s bank vans also used that entrance, as did a certain Werner Dillmann. ‘But not arrested?’
‘Half the load in payment as usual, I gather,’ said Kleiber.
‘The coin having been slipped to some trustworthy who was told to bring it here?’
‘And now, since I have already had the safehouse where she is surrounded, you will soon see how things are done.’
From the avenue Foch to the Gare de l’Est was not far with the colonel at the wheel of his tourer. Serving northeastern France, Belgium, the Netherlands and beyond, there was constant activity: Wehrmacht trucks and men in plenty with duffel bags and rucksacks, staff cars, too, and gazogenes, buses, horse-drawn wagons, velos and velo-taxis and plenty of citizens with suitcases, some even with sacks of potatoes. To the west of the station, St-Cyr knew that along the nearby rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis were shops, cafes and restaurants; to the east, where they were now heading, wholesale garment works, haberdasheries and hosiers, and once off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin, rag dealers, stamp mills, machine shops and such.
A captain, an SS Haupsturmfuhrer, crashed his heels together and gave the salute. ‘All secured as ordered, Sturmbannfuhrer. Those to be interrogated, waiting.’
The fool, felt Kohler. Under guard and down the street a little were gathered eighty or so from the surrounding flats and ateliers, all of them justifiably enraged and miserable.
The courtyard of 22 rue du Terrage was long and narrow and well chosen, the cheek-by-jowl houses and ateliers on either side of a ground floor and one storey, but a labyrinth. Broken shutters were above the door to a former stable into which that passeur’s truck would have been hastily tucked. Outside a carpenter’s tin-plated atelier and home, salvaged lumber stood waiting. Old windows being refurbished were next to a glazier’s, metal-work outside another. Bricks in front of a mason’s, prevented anyone from easily stealing a chained cement mixer with two flats. Downspouts, electrical cables and wires seemed everywhere, even two old dogs that sensed that things were not quite right and had hidden under a broken bench.
‘Totally of the people, Hermann, and not a soul now but ourselves.’
Only at the far end was there any sign of tidiness in flaking paint and bricks that climbed to faded, lace curtains. The courtyard’s cast-iron communal tap constantly dripped. Laundry had been strung but could no longer be watched, and to the scent of leather tanning on the Quai de Valmy, came the not-too-distant pounding of a stamp mill.
‘A “safehouse,” Hermann, the Standartenfuhrer having announced our presence well beforehand.’
All exits sealed. ‘But safe for whom?’
‘In April, our informant told us of this house, in July, of yet another,’ said Kleiber. ‘Both have been dealt with.’
‘There isn’t anyone here, Colonel,’ said Hermann. ‘The instant those trucks and cars of yours careened into the district, word shot out and the ones we want vanished. Ach, this is the tenth, mein Lieber. Belleville and Menilmontant are nearby, La Villette, the largest of the city’s abattoirs, but a little to the north.’