“It may help that they know about us, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “He’ll have gone to ground. Easier to find.”
“Find who?”
“You’re persistent,” said Von Leinsdorf, admiring his sandwich. “I’ll give you that.”
Their table offered a view of an open produce market across the street. Von Leinsdorf kept staring in that direction. Bernie saw he was watching a plain young woman browsing through the market with a shopping bag.
“Follow me in a couple of minutes,” said Von Leinsdorf. “And, Bernie, don’t make me come back for you.”
Bernie watched him cross the street and enter the market. He moved down an aisle, a preoccupied shopper checking out vegetables, and then bumped into the young woman. Her bag fell to the floor. All apologies, Von Leinsdorf bent to help her retrieve the items that tumbled out. Within moments he’d engaged her in conversation, taken the bag from her hand, and paid for her groceries at the counter. Bernie finished his sandwich, took what remained of Von Leinsdorf’s with him, and followed them as they left the market.
Von Leinsdorf carried the woman’s bag as they strolled down the street. When another burst of rain fell, he opened the umbrella she carried and held it over her head as she arranged a scarf around her hair. He maintained a respectful distance from her, holding the umbrella at arm’s length, unthreatening and polite as a shy young suitor. Bernie shuffled along on the opposite side of the street, shoulders hunched, rain beating down on his helmet, about twenty yards behind them.
Two blocks later they stopped outside an apartment building. Bernie leaned back into the shadows of an alley across the street. He tried to formulate a plan, but he felt emptied out, cold, and miserable, and his mind refused to offer any clear ideas. From their body language and gestures, it was clear the woman was inviting Von Leinsdorf inside. He refused, she insisted, he agreed, as if it was the only gentlemanly thing to do, then waited while she fished out her keys and opened the door. Von Leinsdorf threw a glance back at Bernie-he knew exactly where he was standing-and followed her inside.
A minute later a light turned on in a window on the third floor. Drapes were quickly pulled across the window, muting the glow. Bernie glanced at his watch: 5:35. Three minutes later, Von Leinsdorf appeared in the doorway again and waved Bernie over. Bernie trotted across the street to join him.
“Come on, hurry,” said Von Leinsdorf, closing the door after him. “Keep quiet. Up the stairs. No one’s seen us yet.”
Bernie followed him up creaking stairs to the third floor and through the apartment door he’d propped open with a matchbook. Von Leinsdorf closed and locked the door as soon as they were inside. The furnishings looked more prosperous than the building’s exterior suggested, tasteful and modern.
“This’ll do for us,” said Von Leinsdorf. “This’ll do quite nicely. Would you like a cup of tea? She’d just put on the kettle.”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Through that door, off the bedroom.”
Bernie opened the bedroom door. The woman lay on her back on the bed, legs sprawled, one shoe kicked off, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. She’d been strangled with the peach-colored scarf she’d worn on her head, still taut around her neck. Pooled blood had turned her face a bruised shade of scarlet; small capillaries had burst around her protruding eyes. Bernie covered her with a blanket, numb inside, then moved to the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the faucet, the first running water he’d encountered in days.
The room’s austere plainness seemed unreal. A sink, a toilet, hand towels, a bar of soap. The woman who’d used them lay dead, less than ten feet away. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and for a moment didn’t recognize what stared back at him, his face black with grime, eyes that belonged to an older, hollowed-out man. As he washed his hands, clots of dried blood dropped onto the porcelain, streaking red when they contacted the running water.
Von Leinsdorf was waiting with a hot cup of tea when he returned. “This’ll bring you back from the dead, Brooklyn. Quite the scrounger, this one. She even had sugar and real cream in the icebox.”
Bernie took the cup while Von Leinsdorf parted the curtains and looked down at the street. Bernie sat on the sofa, sinking into the cushions, and took a sip of tea. The strong, bitter taste sent a shiver through him. He watched Von Leinsdorf, only a few feet out of reach. His free hand reached down to the syringe in his jacket pocket.
Stick him, and go find help. Make sure the Americans take him. They can make him talk, get the target out of him. They have to. Is it enough morphine to put him under? Will he kill me before it takes effect?
He realized Von Leinsdorf was talking to him.
“Our evening began with real promise, but I soon realized there was no future for us,” said Von Leinsdorf, glancing at the bedroom.
“What’s that?”
“She had another man in her life. His clothes are in the closet.”
“Whose clothes?”
“You know, I never had a chance to ask. Anyway, treat yourself to a bath, then put on a fresh outfit; you’re right, you do smell like the grave.”
“And wear what? We’re supposed to be soldiers.”
“That’s the beauty of it, Brooklyn. Her gentleman caller was a GI. His uniform’s in the closet. Freshly laundered by his little French whore. A sergeant in the quartermaster corps.”
He held up a khaki dress cap and twirled it on his index finger, looking at the sergeant’s insignia.
“Not overly ambitious, was she?” said Von Leinsdorf. “For a camp follower. No doubt she shacked up with some of our boys before the Yanks showed up with better cigarettes.”
“Maybe she saw you as a promotion.”
“Frankly, it wasn’t a face for an officer’s pay grade. I’ll fix us something else to eat. I paid for those groceries after all. Finish your tea.”
Von Leinsdorf moved toward the kitchen. Bernie stared down at an issue of Life magazine on the table beside him. General de Gaulle was on the cover, posed heroically, staring into the distance at some idealized future for France, or at least for de Gaulle. Bernie heard a clock ticking somewhere, far louder than it should have sounded. An alarming sense of dislocation swept through his chest; his heart skipped a beat; his body flushed with heat. He banged the teacup down on the table and staggered to his feet. De Gaulle’s face began to wobble. The lines of every object in the room swam in front of his eyes; the air turned rubbery. Von Leinsdorf was beside him in a moment, taking his arm.
“Don’t fight it, Brooklyn,” he said, his voice distorting. “I put something in the tea. You’ll sleep a few hours. Can’t have you running off while I’m at the cinema. I’ll come back with the others, if they’re there. That’s a good fellow. After all, you could use the rest.”
Von Leinsdorf eased him back down onto the sofa. Bernie was out by the time his head hit the cushions.
The first show ended at eight-thirty, a wave of GIs spreading out from the theater into the surrounding bars and restaurants. The rain had passed through, and the night air warmed slightly under a lowering cover of clouds. Curls of fog spun in off the river, obscuring the square. Carlson and the rest of the men stationed on the ground scanned the faces of the exiting soldiers as they moved toward their evening’s pleasures, while Grannit watched from his observation post. No one spotted his “Lieutenant Miller.”
A brief lull in street traffic followed before uniforms began to trickle into the square again, lining up for the nine o’clock show. Grannit poured himself another cup of coffee. Ole and the five supervising MP sergeants returned to the apartment for a final briefing.
“Keep your men out of sight until the crowd builds in again,” said Grannit. “Stay outside, watch the street. When they’re about to start the show, button it up, put a hat on every exit, inside and out. Five minutes into the picture we kill the projector, bring up the house lights, announce we’ve got a security situation. Then we’ll do it by the numbers. Bring ’em out row by row to the lobby, check IDs one at a time.”