The French beat us that time, Von Leinsdorf remembered grudgingly. Well, that was once.
Turning right onto the Rue de Rivoli, he settled on a bench at the edge of the Tuileries, directly across from the entrance to the Hotel Meurice. A line of Allied flags rippled in formation, a harsh wind stirring up a dark, scudding sky. Dozens of military vehicles for ranking British and American officers were parked out front, flying pennants, jutting into the avenue. When Von Leinsdorf had last been here, the hotel served as the German Army’s headquarters, until the surrender of the city. An artillery shell had since collapsed two of the arches—covered with scaffolding, under repair—that spanned its classical nineteenth-century facade.
He remembered climbing those same steps for the first time, proud and in awe, his father’s sleek leather glove holding his hand. His father was still a high-ranking diplomat and they had been treated like royalty, shown all the sights, squired around the city in a chauffeured car. The happiest days his family had ever known, less than a year before they ended in a single day.
Twelve years later, after the Germans had taken France, he returned as an SS officer on leave, self-made, on his own merits. Everyone in that hotel, in Paris, showed him a respect that not so long before he’d had reason to believe would be denied to him forever. With that visit had come the assurance that his father’s disgrace was at last behind him.
The sound of the chair hitting the floor in the next room.
The old man’s obsequious, servile smile, the fluttering of his hands whenever a superior turned a corner. How pathetic and defeated he had looked when they found him out. The image still sickened Von Leinsdorf. The womanly tears as his father confessed the secret he’d kept from his wife and son all those years; everything they believed about him a lie. Packing his own bags for exile, unshaven, doubled over, sobbing as he folded every collar and crease like a ghetto tailor, the life already kicked out of him. The shameful legacy of the Jew visible in him from a mile away.
Von Leinsdorf had vowed to forget the man. He would cut the scar from his soul.
The creak of the rope when he walked in and found him swinging from that beam. The old man’s pleading eyes meeting his, clawing at his own throat, his life ending with one last misgiving. Von Leinsdorf never moved. He watched him die and then he turned and left the room.
No one had ever worked harder to erase a memory; why would it come back now? Because Paris had fallen? Did that mean all his work had been for nothing? This hotel, the site of the only triumph he’d ever known, was back in the hands of the enemy, Americans and British crawling all over the city, smug and entitled, as if the war were already won.
They would soon be hearing from him about that.
The rattle of a passing bus broke his reverie. He studied the hotel, noting the security outside, the traffic patterns passing through its doors. After twenty minutes he crossed the street and climbed the stairs, leaning on his cane.
Stammering in excited French and broken English, he explained to the guards at the door that an unexploded German shell had been found in his neighborhood. They tried to explain that he needed to report such a matter to his local police or SHAEF’s offices near the Place Vendôme. With the wounded dignity of an outraged Great War veteran, his tirade resulted in a spell of breathlessness. The guards assisted him into the lobby to recover, promising he could speak to the next available officer. After bringing him a glass of water, they promptly forgot about him. Von Leinsdorf settled into a chair that offered him a view of the elevators and the front desk. He watched a steady stream of British officers who had taken up residence in the hotel as they came and went.
He waited for an officer of a specific age and size. Such a man hurried through the door at eleven-thirty-five, carrying two suitcases and an attaché case. Von Leinsdorf rose from his chair and hobbled past the front desk, patting his face with a handkerchief, in time to see this British lieutenant, just arrived from London, identify himself, receive his room key, 417, and carry his bags toward the lift.
Von Leinsdorf waited five minutes, then entered an enclosed lobby phone booth and placed a call through the switchboard to room 417.
“Hallo?”
“Is that Lieutenant Pearson?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been ringing you for over an hour. This is Major Smyth-Cavender over at SHAEF. Where the blazes are you?”
“I literally just walked through the door, sir.”
“Some problem with the flight, was there?”
“A bit delayed, actually, sir.”
“Yes, well, RAF’s got their own problems. We’ve had a cock-up down the hall here ourselves, pushed the clock right out of round. How are your quarters?”
“Fine, splendid.”
“Beats a damp foxhole by a crushing margin. So listen, Pearson old boy, since there’s no rush, why don’t you pop round and meet me at Maxim’s. Do you know where that is?”
“No, sir.”
“Hard by the hotel there; ask at the desk. It’s our officers’ club for the moment. I’ll stand you to a glass and a spot of lunch, act the welcoming committee. Shall we say quarter past noon then?”
“That’s only ten minutes, sir.”
“Take you five to get there. You can unpack later.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
Von Leinsdorf hung up the phone and ducked through a nearby door into a service stairwell. He took the stairs to the basement and moved along a low corridor, following the smell of steam until he found the laundry. No one was there. Stepping into a storage area, he removed his overcoat and jacket and replaced it with a valet’s coat, gloves, and hat. He walked into the bustling laundry area and searched through a hanging line of cleaned and pressed military uniforms ready for delivery. After finding what he was looking for, he walked out holding the suit up in front of his face. He waited for the service elevator, followed an Algerian house keeper pushing a linen trolley on board, and rode it up to the fourth floor. The house keeper stepped off first. He started down the hall in a different direction, looking at room numbers, then made a show of patting his pocket, groaned, and turned to the house keeper.
“Merde, j’ai oublié ma clef de passage. Cher, ouvriez-vous une salle pour moi pour satisfaire?”
“Quelle salle?”
Von Leinsdorf pretended to look at the ticket attached to the suit. “Quatre cents dix-sept.”
“Oui, oui,” she said wearily.
She led him around the corridor to the room and knocked twice.
“House keeping,” she said.
When there was no answer, she opened the door with her pass key. Von Leinsdorf slipped her an American five-dollar bill. She pocketed it and turned away, sensing that perhaps this was something she didn’t wish to know any more about.
“Merci beaucoup, chéri.”
He entered, then closed and silently locked the door behind him. He hung the suit on a hook, closed the blinds, and turned on a lamp. He laid Pearson’s two suitcases on the bed, opened and quickly searched through them, taking out the man’s kit bag. He opened the man’s attaché and scanned a cache of letters and documents inside, pleased by what he found.
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.”
“Wait a second. He mentioned this hotel he liked once. I got the idea he must’ve stayed there. A good place to take a girl to dinner if you wanted to get laid.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“There’s a thousand fucking hotels in this city,” said Grannit.
“I know; it was like a guy’s name, I think— Jesus, I’m so tired. Maybe if I saw a list.”
Grannit headed back inside the hotel. The concierge handed them a dog-eared prewar Michelin guide from behind the counter. Bernie paged through it while Grannit placed a call to military police headquarters. He was on his way back when Bernie held up a finger, pointing with his other hand to a page of the book.
“Hotel Meurice.”
When Von Leinsdorf left that morning for the Hotel Meurice, he told Eddie Bennings to stay inside their rented garret until he returned that afternoon. Eddie promised he would, content to start his day with the K rations they’d brought up from the car. Within ten minutes, prompted by an enticing view of Montmartre and the attention span of a hummingbird,
Eddie had talked himself into needing a cup of coffee for an eye-opener—what the hell, it was Paris, he’d only go out for a few minutes—and then there was that bakery he remembered around the corner where they sold those buttery brioche. That led him to look for a newsagent, where he picked up Stars and Stripes, see if they had the latest college football scores. The tabac next door to the newsstand was open for business so he picked up a pack of cigarettes, and when he saw the attached bar, he thought, What the fuck, after what I’ve been through the last few days, what’s one beer?
Three beers later, after exchanging pleasantries with the barkeep, a comely young woman sat down beside him at the counter and they struck up a lively conversation about her enthusiasm for all things American. Taken in by her adorable broken English, and forgetting that he was supposed to be a Danish businessman trying to secure postwar oil leases, he owned up to being American, and twenty minutes later he was banging the living daylights out of the mademoiselle in her room at a fleabag pension.
The trouble didn’t start for another twenty minutes, after they’d satisfied their physical needs and shared a few minutes of mutual, if not entirely sincere, postcoital appreciation. As Eddie was pulling on his pants, the young lady revealed that the joy they’d just shared was less the spontaneous expression of mutual affection he’d supposed it to be, so much as a routine, age-old business transaction for which she now expected to be paid accordingly. Eddie took exception, arguing, not without reason, that in order for such an arrangement between two parties to be considered binding it first required that he, the buyer, receive from her, the seller, adequate notification—prior to commencement of services and well before their conclusion—and then give answer to said proposal in the affirmative. The girl, who was seventeen, malnourished, and dumb as a ball-peen hammer, countered that as dazzled as she had been by his all-American personality, she had forgotten to mention it, and although she’d be happy to write off their brief encounter as a freebie, her pimp waiting in the tabac across the street would take a much dimmer view. Eddie responded that as far as he was concerned this fell under the category of “that’s your problem, bitch.” He slapped her around to reinforce his position, put on his overcoat, and left her place of business.