Now it was no longer a game to Logan Macintyre. No more jocular cons. The whole thing had soured, and the business turned dirty.
Lise had seen it coming. Perhaps he had sensed it, too. Now all his reasons for being where he was had faded into reality, and a hollow emptiness settled over both Logan Macintyre and Michel Tanant.
He had always mastered the art of distancing himself from death. Claude and Antoine and others in the underground had done the killing. Nat and Alec and two soldiers in a Vouziers wood faced the bloody battlefields of the war. But now Logan himself had tasted the guilt of blood on his own hands. Days later the thought of what he had done turned his stomach. True, he had grabbed the gun and fired out of the sheer instinct for preservation of life—both his and Nat’s. But such reasoning could not quell the self-reproach in his heart. It would never erase the horrible picture of the blood-spattered German soldier lying at his feet.
Nor would he ever be able to forget the awful helplessness of holding his dying brother-in-law in his arms.
Lise tried to convince him it wasn’t his fault. And of course, it wasn’t. But Nat’s death had been a truly heroic one—a wounded man, throwing himself at an enemy soldier, saving the life of his brother-in-law, his hero, by taking the fatal bullet in his own chest.
What had he ever done himself that could compare in heroism? Nothing! His life was marked by duplicity and falsehood. His own wife didn’t even know where he was, and with her brother dead at his feet, all he could do was load the battered body onto the plane and watch it soar back into the night sky for England.
The facts may not have indicted him. But he could not escape the feeling of culpability. That night in the Vouziers wood had been a night of death, and Logan would never be the same again.
Logan gazed around the crowded cafe where he had just met Paul and passed some messages on to him for Henri. Paul was gone now, and Logan too should be on his way. He had to meet with von Graff in half an hour, and that surely was reason enough to linger. He watched absently as a group of drunken patriots sang La Marseillaise in celebration of Bastille Day.
Allons, enfants de la patrie!
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Yours children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
But Logan’s patriotic fervor could not be nudged. In the past year he had been in France, he had become as much a Frenchman as any Scot could hope to become. He should feel a pride in thus having united himself with his country’s ancient ally. With what pride would not the grand dame of Scottish legend, Mary Queen of Scots, look down on him for his efforts to help the kinsmen of her mother! Now, like so many noble Scotsmen of past times, he had even killed for the glorious cause.
But there was no joy in the heart of Logan Macintyre today. And as he sat listening to the rousing song, all he could think was that those poor blokes were likely to end up in front of a firing squad for their efforts.
Wearily Logan rose. He could not prolong his meeting any longer.
———
Von Graff wore an unhappy expression, one that seemed to mark his aristocratic features more and more of late.
“You were gone from Paris a whole week!” he stormed.
“My girl wanted a holiday,” Logan replied stoically.
“Yet you did not see fit to inform me?”
“I didn’t see that it was your business.”
“Everything you do is my business!”
Logan shrugged.
Von Graff rose ominously from his chair.
“Anyway,” Logan went on defiantly, “I thought we agreed that I would have no watchdogs.”
“And I kept our bargain,” said the general, sitting back in his chair more composed. “This is how I found out.”
He held up a document which Logan assumed was his application for travel papers.
He eyed it indifferently.
Von Graff laid down the application, and after studying Logan’s expression for a moment, spoke again.
“What’s wrong with you, Herr MacVey?” he said in a more sympathetic tone than he had yet used. “Are you growing weary of the double game—mixed loyalties—betraying your own countrymen—all of that? It happens, believe me . . . only too often.”
Logan followed von Graff’s lead. After all, it was more than half true.
“I think the week in Reims helped,” he replied. “Sometimes it’s just nice to forget about everything. I guess that’s why I went without saying anything.”
“There was Resistance activity some forty kilometers from Reims last week.”
“Oh?”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I try not to blow up trains when I’m on holiday.”
“It was not a train.”
“What then?”
“Nothing was blown up at all, Herr MacVey. I thought you might already know that important fact.”
Logan lifted up his eyes to squarely meet von Graff’s. “After all these months,” he said, “I think I’d be somewhat immune from these tiresome cross-examinations.”
“No one is immune,” replied von Graff. “Even I must face them.”
“You, General?”
“When the Jewish section chief, Herr Eichmann, visited Paris recently, I was hard-pressed to make as good an account of my months here as I would have liked.”
“Had you up against the wall, did he?”
“I hoped I might be able to report more significant arrests.”
“But at least you didn’t have as many significant escapes,” said Logan optimistically. “You must admit I’ve done that much for you.”
“Perhaps. But the escapes do go on, and L’Escroc remains unapprehended.”
“L’Escroc has been lying low lately.”
“True, but by now I had hoped to see more results from your operations.”
“I’ve set you up with several ideal opportunities,” parried Logan. “Can I be blamed if your strong-arm boys haven’t kept up their end?”
“All right, MacVey, no blame is laid,” conceded the general. “But tomorrow night we may all have a chance to reprieve ourselves.”
“A new assault against Free France, eh?”
“Not exactly. A new thrust which Hitler apparently feels is equally important to the subduing of resistant regimes: there is to be a raid on Parisian Jews. Some thirty thousand are scheduled for arrest.”
“Thirty thousand Jews!” exclaimed Logan in unmasked shock.
“It’s all part of Herr Eichmann’s Final Solution. It should come as no surprise really. Berlin’s racial loyalties, shall we say, are well known. It would come as no surprise to me if this is merely the beginning.”
“Such an action will play havoc with the terms of the Armistice,” said Logan. “The Führer will lose much support.”
“The Armistice is a sham and always has been. Even Pétain knows that. As far as the Führer’s popularity goes—I doubt it will suffer much. He’s never been popular with the Jews anyway.”
Herr von Graff attempted a chuckle, but even he was capable of realizing how inept humor seemed at that moment. “Besides,” he went on, “the French police will conduct the raid—no German soldiers will be involved at all.”
“So why are you telling me all this?”
“I want you on your toes,” replied von Graff. “An event of this magnitude is likely to bring the underground out in droves—especially its leaders. We could make quite a score in addition to the Jewish scenario—perhaps even L’Escroc will show his face.”
“Shall I dangle this information about today, and see if I get any bites . . . stir up the pot, so to speak?” Logan knew he would have to warn the underground of the raid; he hoped with von Graff’s affirmative answer to be able to protect his Trinity cover at the same time.
“We prefer the utmost security,” replied von Graff. “However, we know there has already been some leaking. Not enough to endanger the scheme, however.”
“No mass exodus of Jews?”
“Where would they go? Most are marked well enough by their foreign accents and identification papers. All the railroad stations and exits from the city are being stringently watched. And the punishment for getting picked up with false papers is far worse than the prospect of a labor camp.”
“That’s where they will be sent, then?”
“That is my assumption. What else would they do with them?”
“But I cannot imagine facilities large enough for such an army of prisoners.”
“No matter. What happens to them after the raid is not our concern, now is it?”