Logan looked about the small room for the twentieth time.
Despite the hour, he had been unable to relax enough to sleep though he was extremely tired. He had been here for hours, imprisoned in what he took to be a holding cell. It was certainly far better than the dungeonlike accommodations where they had kept Poletski downstairs.
It was not the first time he had scanned the room for some possible escape route. But since being deposited there five hours earlier, all his attempts to come up with some way out had proved equally futile.
He had been taken straight to the S.S. headquarters on the avenue Foch, and he could not miss the irony that less than a week ago he had rescued three inmates from this very place. Now he was the prisoner, and if he were to remain locked in this room with only a bed and chair, his stay would no doubt be a long one. There were not even sheets on the bed—only a small blanket. Someone obviously planned the accommodations to deter escape through the window, though it was covered with steel bars, or, failing that, the possibility of hanging oneself from the bare light fixture in the ceiling.
Logan was not yet ready for such extremes.
As far as he knew he was still believed to be nothing more than a common curfew breaker. Except for a cursory frisk for weapons, he had not been searched.
His messages had not been discovered, and the moment he had been left alone he set about destroying them. He tore each one into tiny bits, then, prying the window open a crack through the bars, shoved them out where the scraps floated to the ground, mingling inconspicuously with the falling snow.
Yet he could not feel completely relieved. He was worried about this long wait. Any good confidence man knows that a delay in a scam plays against the con man. The primary rule was swiftness—never give the victim the chance to think.
In this case the victim—though he laughed inwardly at the inaptness of the analogy—was the Nazis, and the longer they mulled over what to do with this curfew breaker, the more chance they might have to discover his true intentions. He would have been immensely relieved to know that the long delay was due to nothing more sinister than bureaucratic foul-up. The efficient Nazis had locked him up, then simply forgotten about him. He could thank the opening of Verdi’s opera La Traviata for that; the cocktail party that had followed had occupied many officers, leaving headquarters short-staffed until late into the night.
By six o’clock a.m. he had gone over every inch of the room several times, fixed his cover story firmly in his mind, and was beginning to wonder about breakfast when he heard a key in the lock.
He began pacing nervously across the room like the harried, supposedly innocent citizen he was pretending to be. But when the S.S. captain walked in, in his trim black uniform, Logan was in complete possession of himself. The German was a young man for an officer, several years Logan’s junior, though his fair skin and blonde hair made him appear even younger. But for all his youthful appearance, his well-defined jaw was as firm as if it were set in granite, and his Aryan blue eyes were more reminiscent of ice than they were of the sky or the sea.
“Vous êtes, Michel Tanant?” he said in the polished French of either an educated man or a skilled con artist. Logan guessed from the captain’s bearing that it was the former.
“Oui,” replied Logan, then added in a frazzled voice, “Please, I’ve been kept here all night. I don’t understand.”
“You have violated the curfew.”
“Sit down!” ordered the captain.
Logan hesitated, then, complying like a whipped puppy, slumped down on the edge of the bed. The captain sat on the single chair and shuffled through a sheaf of documents that Logan recognized as his identity papers which had been confiscated upon his arrest. Have they discovered some flaw in them? he wondered. Even good forgeries were never perfect.
“I am Captain Neumann,” said the man. “Your papers appear to be in order. I see no reason to detain you. However, there are a few questions I would like to ask you. Afterward it may be possible for you to go.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said Logan with immense gratitude. “I assure you that if it had not been for my accident I would have—”
“You are from Lyon?” broke in Neumann impatiently.
“Oui.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
“Marie.”
“How many sisters has she?”
“Two.”
“What are their names?”
“Why, Aunt Suzanne and Aunt Yvonne . . .”
The captain was employing a method of interrogation popular with the Germans during snap controls or at roadblocks or borders. A suspect found himself bombarded with a barrage of questions any innocent man ought to be able to answer without thought. If a suspect stumbled or faltered over any reply, he stood immediately accused.
Logan’s cover had included none of the previous information, but it didn’t matter. The captain would never check up on any of it. He was not even listening to the answers, only scrutinizing Logan’s demeanor while responding. As Logan rattled off his answers, he did not hesitate, but answered as if such names had always been part of his life, not merely thought up that instant.
“Where do they live?”
“My aunts?”
“Yes.”
“Aunt Suzanne lives in Lyon, but Aunt Yvonne married an artist and now lives in Arles—you know, following in the footsteps of Van Gogh and all that—”
“Where is your father?” interrupted Neumann, not the least bit interested in turning this interrogation into a conversation.
“He’s dead.”
“And your mother, Michelle . . . ?”
“It’s Marie—and she’s dead also.”
“Buried in Lyon where your Aunt Yvonne lives?”
“No, she’s the one in Arles—with the artist.” Then Logan added, as in a wounded tone, “I simply don’t understand the meaning of all this.”
“Your mother is buried in Lyon?”
“Yes. Next to my father. But please—”
“That is all, Monsieur Tanant,” said the captain crisply, rising. “You will come with me.”
“But where—?”
“Quickly!” snapped the captain. Logan jumped up obediently.
They exited the tiny room. That, at least, was a small relief. Logan still had no idea what was to become of him. Neumann had left the impression that he was about to be released, but then that could be only another clever trick—raise a man’s confidence so that he lets down and gets sloppy.
Logan knew he had been scrupulously careful with his responses. Perhaps too much so. There was such a fine line, and one could not always tell when or if he might have inadvertently crossed it.
He and Neumann walked side by side. Logan was quick to note that the captain did not think him a dangerous enough prisoner to draw his gun. Still, he would never be so foolish as to attempt a break in the heart of S.S. headquarters with dozens of armed soldiers close at hand. Using a surreptitious disguise was one thing. But a pitched race through these halls was quite another. He’d never make it to the end of the corridor.
Nevertheless, he would remain watchful and ever vigilant of his surroundings. One could never tell when an acceptable opportunity might arise.
They turned a corner and Logan saw the main stairway just ahead. His hopes began to rise.
Three officers were ascending and had just reached the landing. Suddenly Logan’s short-lived hopes plummeted. There, at the top of the stair, was the last person Logan had ever expected to see again—Colonel Martin von Graff!
Only now Logan could plainly see it was General, and he wore the uniform and insignia of the S.S. rather than the Abwehr. If he recognized him, Logan was finished.
But General von Graff and his companions walked briskly past, only exchanging salutes with Neumann.
It seemed too good to be true, thought Logan, as he walked steadily on toward the door. They had met in person only that one time. Much had happened since. It was possible he had—
“Captain Neumann,” came von Graff’s commanding but cultured voice from behind them.
Logan felt the blood drain from his face. All the disciplined training in the world could not have prevented it. Desperately he tried to gather back his composure. There was always a way out—a bluff! He had to think fast!
Neumann turned smartly to face his superior. “Ja, mein General?” he said.
“Why do you have this man?” he asked, eyeing Logan.
“He was caught violating curfew,” answered Neumann. “He was brought in last night for questioning.”
“I see . . .”
Von Graff paused, apparently in thought, most likely trying to remember where he had seen the face before, and then analyzing this unexpected turn in the same way that Logan was also doing at that very instant.
“Take him to my office,” von Graff finally said decisively. “I must take care of a small matter and then I will be there. I will be ten minutes at most—remain with him the entire time!”
“Ja, mein Herr!”
Logan understood enough German to know what had transpired. But he still did not know whether this was a boon or a disaster.
Von Graff continued on his way, and Neumann took his prisoner more firmly in tow back down the corridor the way they had come. Apparently there was more to this Michel Tanant than met the eye. And young Captain Neumann kept well hidden his own queasy stomach—for he had been about to release him!