In the shadows, the silhouette of a small man sat slumped on the edge of the bed. Zannis said, “Harry Byer?”
A white face turned toward him. “Yes,” the man said in English. “More or less.”
Zannis went downstairs to his room and collected his trench coat and valise. When he returned to Room 43, the officer said, “We’ve arranged a car. At oh-four-forty hours. A police car, actually. So your arrival at the Gare du Nord, which is closely guarded, will look authentic.”
“Stolen?”
“Borrowed.”
“Better.”
“And driven by a policeman. Well, at least somebody wearing the uniform.”
The aristocrat laughed, silver chimes, at the idea of whatever old friend this was, playing the role of a policeman. As she started to remove her earrings, Zannis noticed a bare ring finger. Now he realized that these two were probably not married but were, instead, lovers. This sent his mind back to Salonika and a fleeting image of Demetria, by his side, in an occupied city.
Zannis crossed the room, the bare boards creaking beneath his weight, and shifted the room’s single chair so that he sat facing Byer. Then, very laboriously, in his primitive English, he explained how the operation would work. When he showed Byer his photograph in the Greek passport, he was rewarded with at least a flicker of hope in the man’s eyes. “It might even work,” Byer said. He took the passport and studied it. “I do speak a little French, you know. I took it at school.”
“He does,” the officer said. “If you speak slowly.”
Zannis was relieved and switched to a mix of the two languages, making sure at the end of every phrase that Byer understood what he’d been told. “At the borders, Harry, and on the trains-at least as far as Yugoslavia-you can’t say anything at all, because you’re supposed to be Greek. And nobody will speak to you, once you’re wearing these.” He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. Byer stared at them. Zannis said, “Better than a POW camp, right?”
Byer nodded. “What did I do, to be in the Sante?”
“You murdered your wife and her lover, in Salonika.”
After a moment, Byer said, “Not the worst idea.”
Zannis ignored the irony. “It had to be a murder of some kind, for the Germans to believe that we’d gotten the French police to arrest you, after you’d fled to Paris.” He paused, then said, “The only plausible crime would be a crime of passion. You don’t much look like a gangster.”
Zannis stood, took a cigarette from his packet, then offered the packet around. Only the officer accepted, inhaling with pleasure as Zannis extinguished the match. He started to speak, but something caught his attention and he looked at his watch and said, almost to himself, “It’s too early for the police car.” Then, to Zannis, “Can’t you hear it?”
In the silence of the room, Zannis listened intently and discovered the low beat of an idling engine. The officer went to the window and, using one finger, carefully moved the blackout curtain aside, no more than an inch. “Come have a look,” he said.
Zannis joined him at the window. Across the street from the hotel, a glossy black Citroen, the luxury model with a long hood and square passenger compartment, was parked at the curb. The air was sufficiently cold to make the exhaust a white plume at the tailpipe.
The officer kept his voice low, his words meant for Zannis and nobody else. “The only people who drive these things in Paris are the Gestapo and the SS. It’s the official German car.”
Zannis understood immediately, though he found it hard to believe. “We had a problem at the restaurant,” he said, “with an SS officer. It seems he followed us back here.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He wanted your woman friend. He was very drunk.”
“Then let’s hope it’s him.”
“Why?”
“Because if it isn’t, we’ve been betrayed.”
“Is that possible?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
The aristocrat joined them at the window. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a car out there. See it? Zannis thinks some SS man followed you home from the restaurant.”
The aristocrat peered past the curtain. She swore, then said, “Now what?”
“We’ll have to think of something.”
“Will they search the hotel?” she said.
Byer said, “What’s going on?” His voice rose to a whine. “What is it?”
The officer said, “Keep quiet, Harry.” Then, “They might search the hotel. Maybe he’s waiting down there for a squad to show up.”
“Is there a back door?” Zannis said.
“There is, but it’s padlocked. And, even if we got out that way, what happens when our friend shows up with the police car?”
They were silent for a moment. The officer again moved the curtain and said, “He’s just sitting there.”
“There were two of them, and their girlfriends,” the aristocrat said. “Maybe they’ll just go away. They have to assume I’m in this hotel for the night.”
“Maybe they will. Or maybe they’ll wait until morning,” the officer said.
“Could anybody be … that crazy?”
Nobody answered. Finally Zannis said, “Can you somehow contact your friend and warn him off?”
The officer looked at his watch. “No, he’s left his hotel by now. The police car is up at Levallois, in a garage. The owner helps us.”
Again, silence.
Zannis’s mind was racing. He had seen, when he’d first entered the hotel, a metal shutter pulled down over a broad entryway. Not a shop, he guessed, because the sidewalk ended at either side of the shutter and a cobblestone strip led to the street. “If Byer and I aren’t here,” he said, “would it matter if a Gestapo squad searched the hotel?”
The officer thought it over. “No, it would just be the two of us in a room. And, when our friend arrives, he’ll see the Gestapo vehicles and drive away.”
“I think we’d better do something now,” Zannis said. He put on his trench coat and grabbed the handle of his small valise.
“Good luck,” the officer said. He shook Zannis’s hand, and the aristocrat kissed him on both cheeks and said, “Be careful.”
“Let’s go, Harry,” Zannis said.
In the dark lobby at the foot of the staircase, the night clerk snored on, dead to the world. Zannis shook him by the shoulder and he woke with a start and said, “What … what do you want?” His breath smelled of sour wine.
“Is there a garage in this hotel?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in there?”
“A car, belongs to the guy who owns the hotel. He can’t drive it-the Bosch tried to confiscate private cars, so some people hid them.”
“Is the car locked?”
The clerk sat up straight. “Say, what do you think-” Zannis drew the Walther and showed it to the clerk, who said, “Oh,” then, “The key’s in the office, in the desk.”
Zannis gestured with the Walther and the clerk stood up, went into the office behind the reception desk, and searched in the bottom drawer until he found car keys on a ring.
“And next,” Zannis said, “I’ll want the key for the back door.”
“On a nail, just next to you.”
“Harry?”
Byer came around the desk; Zannis gave him the key. “Run this upstairs. Tell them to open the back door and get out right away.”
Byer hurried off and Zannis turned back to the clerk. “The shutter over the garage doorway, it’s locked?”
“Of course.”
“From inside? Is there an entry from the hotel?”
“No, it has a lock at the bottom, you have to go out to the sidewalk.”
“Get the key.”
Muttering under his breath, the clerk searched the middle drawer, threw pens, a rubber stamp, an ink pad, and miscellaneous papers on the desk. At last he found the key, and started to hand it to Zannis, who waved him off. “Is there gas in the car?” Zannis said.
“Yes.”
“Battery connected? Tires still on?”
“I charge the battery twice a week, late at night. The boss wants it ready to drive.”
“He does? Why?”
“The hell would I know? Maybe he wants to go somewhere.”