Walking into the bathroom, he removed his shirt and jacket and studied himself in the mirror. He eased off the false mustache, washed the gray from his hair, the makeup from his face, and used Pearson’s razor and soap to give himself a close shave. He pulled a black eye patch from his pocket, covered his left eye with it, then turned to the uniform he’d just stolen from the basement.
“Pearson, old boy, dreadfully sorry, I had one foot out the door and our G2 rings me with the catastrophe du jour,” said Von Leinsdorf.
“Isn’t that always the way?” said Pearson, rising from the table to shake the major’s hand.
Callow, late twenties, weak and sweaty grip. Perfect.
“They’ve not done you any favors with this table. We call this sector Outer Siberia.”
“Really?” Pearson looked around as if he expected to be seized and carted away.
“Don’t be afraid to buy yourself a better table. Nothing like the same service here since the gendarmes dragged Albert the maître d’ off for crimes imagined. For all their bloody whining, you’d think they preferred feeding the Nazis. Maybe they tipped better. First time in Paris?”
“As a matter of fact it is, sir.”
“Not what it was, of course, nor what it will be.” Von Leinsdorf snapped his fingers, summoning a waiter. “Best let me order, old thing, or you’ll end up with stewed boot on your plate. Garçon, bring us a decent claret, not that swill you decant at the bar, one of those ’38 Lafittes you walled up in the basement before the Huns marched in. This is Lieutenant Pearson, just across the pond. Treat him exceptionally well, he’s an important man, you’ll be seeing a lot of him. We’ll both have the tournedos, medium well. Salade vert apres, c’est ca?”
Pearson, as he’d expected, was cowed into respectful silence by the performance. Von Leinsdorf tore into a basket of bread. He caught a glimpse of himself in the beveled mirrors on the walls, his image fractured and multiplied, and wondered for a split second whom he was looking at.
“It’s all black-market fare, of course, but one can’t afford to be a moralist; an army travels on its stomach. What do you know about the G2? Have you met him before?”
“General Strong? No, sir.”
“Runs a first-rate shop. One of our finest men. Even gets along with the Americans. Do you know his deputy, Brigadier Betts?”
“Only through correspondence, sir.”
“A capable second, Betts. So they’re bringing you on board to calculate petrol use or something, have I got that right?”
“To analyze and increase the efficiency of petrol transport and distribution, yes, sir.”
“In anticipation of the push to Hitler’s front parlor.”
“I believe that’s the underlying incentive.”
“Sounds riveting. Trained at the War College, were you? Sandringham?”
“Actually, no, sir. British Petroleum. I’m on loan.”
“Their loss is our gain, we’re lucky to have you. How’s morale at home? With all this Ardennes business, it’s been a week since I’ve laid my hand on The Times.”
They chatted about London and the war effort and the exquisite challenges of domestic petrol distribution until their bottle arrived. Von Leinsdorf struggled to keep his uncovered eye open while attempting to appear engaged by this colorless bore. When he poured Pearson a second glass, along with it he emptied a small vial of the medicine that he palmed in his hand.
As they worked their way through the main course, Von Leinsdorf encouraged the man to drone on about the untapped yields of the Middle East while he shoveled in the food rapidly, in the English style, trying to finish his first decent meal in days before the drug took hold. When Pearson dropped his fork, complaining he felt dizzy and light-headed, Von Leinsdorf was instantly at his side and assisted him to his feet. Refusing offers of help from the staff, and berating them for serving his man some questionable beef, he escorted Pearson out the door and four blocks down the street to a side entrance of the Hotel Meurice. By which time Pearson was laughing and mumbling incoherently; Von Leinsdorf got them past the guards with a brief, apologetic shake of the head.
“Too much vin rouge,” he said.
He collected the key from the desk, moved them into an elevator, alone, and rode up to the fourth floor. Pearson was out on his feet by the time they reached the door to room 417. Von Leinsdorf carried him inside, dropped him on the bed, set out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and closed and locked the door.
32
Ile de la Cité, Paris
DECEMBER 21, 10:45 A.M.
Grannit’s eyes opened and automatically sought out Bernie Oster. He was sitting on the edge of a bed across the room, his right hand handcuffed to the bed frame, smoking a cigarette with his left. Bernie had suggested the cuffs himself before they bunked down, before Grannit had even considered it. For a moment, neither could summon the energy to speak. Grannit checked his watch; almost eleven o’clock. The fatigue that a full night’s sleep had only begun to remedy weighed on them even more heavily. They dragged themselves downstairs, and the hotel kitchen laid out its version of an American breakfast: scrambled eggs and mounds of fried potatoes, buttered rolls with dark jam, and thick black coffee. They ate in silence and abundance, then walked out onto the Ile de la Cité and smoked cigarettes in the biting wind while they stood at the rail and looked down the river.
“What’s that big church?” asked Bernie.
Grannit took a look. “I think that’s Notre Dame.”
“How’s their football team doing? I don’t see the stadium; is it around here?”
Grannit was about to respond until he saw the look on his face. “You always a wiseass?”
“Until Germany. Not a lot of laughs over here.”
Grannit turned and looked out over the city.
“I know you have to turn me in, no matter what,” said Bernie. “I want you to know I won’t ask you not to do that. I don’t expect any thanks. I just don’t want to die knowing that son of a bitch is still out there.”
“Why?”
“Once you told me about the general? A man like him’s so much more important. I’m nobody. What happens to me doesn’t matter at all.”
Grannit didn’t look at him.
“What did he say to you about Paris?”
“That he’d been here a lot. It’s his favorite city, but he’s not that nuts about the French.”
“Gee, you think? Where’d he learn the language?”
“English boarding school.”
Grannit flicked his cigarette into the river. “That could’ve prepared him for the SS.”
“Got some wiseass in you, too, huh?”
“Must be a neighborhood thing,” said Grannit, with as close as Bernie had seen to a smile.
“You never said. Which side of Park Slope you from?”
“South.”
“Really? What’d your dad do?”
“Let’s stay on Von Leinsdorf.”
Bernie remembered something. “Could you get a question to the MPs, have them ask it at their checkpoints?”
“What question?”
“Who plays center field for the Dodgers.”
“Most guys won’t even know that; it’s like a revolving door out there at Ebbets Field-”
“I know,” said Bernie. “I talked about it with Von Leinsdorf. He thinks it’s Joe DiMaggio.”
Grannit stopped short, looked at him, then took out his notebook and jotted it down. “Not bad, kid. So what about Paris?”
“His style, he’d go for the fanciest joints,” said Bernie. “Art, culture, he was up on all that stuff.”
“I don’t think he’ll be taking in a museum today.”