The lieutenant froze. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” the man babbled as he recognized a colonel’s insignia.
“Well, don’t just stand there! What do you want?” Michael’s hand rested on the Luger’s grip.
“I apologize, sir. Heil Hitler.” He made a weak Nazi salute that Michael didn’t even bother to return. “Where are you going, sir?”
“Who wants to know? Lieutenant, are you wishing a tour with a ditch-digging battalion?”
“No, sir!” The young man’s face was gaunt and chalky under a mask of dust. The dark goggles gave his eyes a bulging, insectlike appearance. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I thought it my duty-”
“Your duty? To what? Act like an ass?” Michael was looking for guns. The young lieutenant didn’t have a holster. His weapon was probably in the sidecar. The motorcycle’s driver had no visible weapon, either. So much the better.
“No, sir.” The young man trembled a bit, and Michael felt a little pang of pity for him. “To warn you that there were air attacks on the road to Amiens before dawn. I didn’t know if you’d heard or not.”
“I’ve heard,” Michael said, deciding to chance it.
“They got a few supply trucks. Nothing vital,” the young lieutenant went on. “But the word’s out: with this weather so clear, there are bound to be more air attacks. Your car… well, it’s very shiny, sir. A very nice target.”
“Shall I throw mud on it? Or pig shit?” He kept his tone icy.
“No, sir. I don’t mean to be out of line, sir, but… those American fighter planes… they swoop down very fast.”
Michael stared at him for a moment. The young man stood rigid, like a commoner in the presence of royalty. The boy couldn’t be more than twenty years old, Michael figured. Damn bastards were robbing the cradles now for their cannon fodder. He removed his hand from the Luger. “Yes, you’re right, of course. I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant…?” He let it hang.
“Krabell, sir!” the young man-so close to death, without knowing it-said proudly.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Krabell. I’ll remember the name.” It would wind up scrawled on a wooden cross, stuck on a mound of French earth after the invasion swept through, he thought.
“Yes, sir. Good day, sir.” The young man saluted again-the salute of a puppet-then returned to his sidecar. The motorcycle driver started the engine, and the vehicle pulled away. “Wait,” Michael said to Gaby. He let the motorcycle get out of sight, and then he touched Gaby’s shoulder. “All right, let’s go.”
She started off again, driving at the same steady speed, frequently checking not only the mirrors but also the sky for a hint of silver that would be diving upon them, machine guns blazing. The Allied fighters commonly strafed the roads, supply dumps, and any troops they could find; on a clear day such as this, it was reasonable to believe the fighters were prowling for targets-including shiny black German staff cars. Tension knotted her stomach and made her feel slightly sick. They swept past a group of hay wagons, farmers at work, and saw the first sign that pointed to Paris. About four miles east of that sign they came around a curve and found themselves confronted with a roadblock.
“Easy,” Michael said quietly. “Don’t slow down too soon.” He saw perhaps eight or nine soldiers with rifles and a couple of security officers with machine guns. Again, his hand was on the Luger. He rolled down his window once more and prepared to act indignant.
His acting wasn’t necessary. The two security officers looked at his insignia and the sleek black car and were sufficiently impressed; even more so when they looked at Gaby behind the wheel. A formality, the man in charge said with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. Of course the colonel knew about the partisan activity in this sector. What could be done about it except to exterminate the rats? If we might see your papers, the security man said, we’ll check you through as quickly as possible. Michael grumbled about being delayed for a meeting in Paris and handed his papers over. The two security men looked at them, more as a demonstration that they were doing something than with true attention. If those men worked for the Allies, Michael thought, I’d have them thrown in prison. Perhaps thirty seconds elapsed, and then the papers were returned to him with crisp salutes and he and the pretty fräulein were bidden a good journey to Paris. Gaby drove on as the soldiers moved the wooden barricades aside, and Michael heard her release the breath she’d been holding.
“They’re looking for someone,” Michael said when they’d gotten away from the roadblock, “but they don’t know who. They figure whoever parachuted in might want to get to Paris, so they’ve got their watchdogs out. If they’re all like those two, they might escort us to Adam’s door.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” Gaby again checked the sky; no trace of silver. Yet. The road was clear, too, the countryside slightly rolling and dotted with apple orchards and stands of hardwood trees. Napoleon’s country, she thought idly. Her heart wasn’t beating so hard now; getting through the roadblock had been a lot easier then she’d expected. “What about Adam?” she asked. “What do you think it is he’s trying to get out?”
“I haven’t thought.”
“Oh yes you have.” Their eyes met in the mirror. “I’m sure you’ve thought about it quite a bit, just as I have. Yes?”
This line of conversation was indelicate, and both of them knew it. Shared knowledge was shared pain, if they landed in the hands of the Gestapo. But Gaby was waiting for an answer, and Michael said, “Yes.” That alone wouldn’t do; Gaby was silent, still waiting. He folded his gloved hands together. “I think Adam’s found something he obviously feels is important enough to risk a lot of lives to get out. My superior thinks so, too, or I wouldn’t be here. And needless to say, your uncle wouldn’t be dead.” He saw her flinch just a fraction; she was tough, but not iron-cased. “Adam’s a professional. He knows his business. He also knows that some information is worth dying for, if it means winning this war. Or losing it. Movements of troops and supply convoys we can get anytime, by the radio codes from a dozen agents all over France. This is something that only Adam knows about, and that the Gestapo’s clamped the lid on. Which means it’s a hell of a lot more important than the usual messages we get. Or at least Adam thinks it is, or he wouldn’t be calling for help.”
“What about you?” Gaby asked. He lifted his eyebrows, not understanding. “What would you die for?” Gaby glanced at him again in the mirror, then quickly away.
“I hope I won’t have to find out.” He gave her a hint of a smile, but the question had lodged inside him like a thorn. He was prepared to die for the mission, yes; that was already understood. But that was the reaction of a trained machine, not a man. What, as a man-or half man, half animal-was he prepared to lay down his life for? The human-woven net of politics? Some narrow vision of freedom? Love? Triumph? He explored the question, and found no easy answer.
And suddenly his nerves let go of their chill alarms and he heard Gaby say softly, “Oh,” because there in front of them on the long straight route to Paris was a roadblock with a dozen armed soldiers, an armored car with a cannon-snout showing, and a black Citröen that could only be a Gestapo vehicle.
A soldier with a submachine gun was waving them down. All faces turned toward them. A man in a dark hat and a long beige overcoat stepped into the road, waiting. Gaby hit the brakes, a little too hard. “Steady,” Michael said, and as the Mercedes slowed he peeled off his gloves.