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17 Evasive Maneuvers
Spring 1947
Steven Taylor was feeling the need to move on once more. Sure, it was
interesting being in Washington as there was never a shortage of things to do.
For the first few days, it was fun being in the spotlight, but that incident
with the Hope focused more attention on him than he wanted. Now he just wanted
to go somewhere he wouldn't be recognized, or, even if he were, no one would
care.
The only problem was where. Major cities were out, yet he didn't want to be in
Hicksville, either. And he was not about to head home. That would be like
throwing in the towel. He sipped at his second scotch and settled comfortably
back into his seat in a booth in the hotel lounge. Two older men in civilian
clothing walked up to the bar discussing the merits and faults of each branch
of the military. One seemed to have the swaying gait of a man who had spent a
number of years on the water. No question which branch he favors. They
sat at the right side of the bar where Steven could just see their faces. Navy
was a wiry man with a slightly receding hairline, just going gray at the
temples. Army had a more hefty build and still kept his salt-and-pepper hair in
a crew cut. He didn't hear the orders placed but it looked like Army preferred
his scotch neat while Navy took it with soda. It soon came to an argument
between the Army and the Navy. They tried to enlist the aid of the bartender,
but he had been a Marine. Then Buzz-cut spotted Steven. "Maybe you can
help us out. Which is better: Army or Navy?"
"Just look at him," said the other, measuring water into his scotch.
"100% Navy."
"Sorry, no."
Buzz-cut jabbed Temples with his elbow. "Ha!"
"Didn't really serve with the Army either. I was given an honorary rank,
however."
The two men looked at each other, momentarily confused. Steven could almost
hear them think aloud as they tried to work out who would get an honorary rank.
It didn't take long to realize he had been with Intelligence.
"So, where did you see action?" the Army fan asked.
"Occupied France, Berlin, North Africa, London, Rome, and Moscow," he
said, ticking them off his fingers. He couldn't help but laugh at their faces.
He held out his hand. "Steven Taylor."
"A pleasure," said Navy. "Name's Johnny, and this poor misguided
soul is Smitty."
"The papers were filled with stories of your visit. You don't strike me as
the political type, so what are you doing here?"
"Truman wanted to hear what I thought of Nuremberg and Berlin."
"I'd say you deserve a break. How long are you staying in town?"
"Not long. I planned to head out within the next two days." He waved
off the bartender. "Just have to decide where I want to go."
"I may be biased, but I think you'd love Annapolis. It's nice and quiet
this time of year."
"Sounds perfect. I'll head out tomorrow." With that decision made,
Steven put his money on the bar. "Good night, gentlemen. Thank you for an
enlightening evening."
Steven left the bar and waited out in the lobby for about an hour until Johnny
and Smitty left. He went back inside and talked to the bartender. "What do
you know about those two?"
"Army and Navy? They come in about once a month. They're best friends, I
can tell you that. Asking about family and stuff. They do the Army/Navy debate
sometimes and I think they keep a running record of which has more
supporters." He gave a little laugh. "They're OK guys. No need for
you to worry about being set-up or anything."
"What makes you think I'm worried about that?" Even though that
very fact was bugging me.
"C'mon, I've heard the stories. You wouldn't have come back to check on
them otherwise."
"Yeah, I guess. Thanks." Steven headed back up to his room. If these
two were on the level, then Annapolis would be all right.
*****************************
As it turned out, Navy was right. Annapolis was just what he needed. You
wouldn't think it the state capital, especially down at the waterfront where
its colonial charm was strongest. He sat outside one of the many restaurants,
luxuriating in the early spring sunlight. As it approached noon, the area became
busy, shoppers and workers stopping for lunch. How he craved a normal life,
going to work than home again. Somehow, he knew that would never be the case.
Even if he did settle down, get a real job, his past would always be
there, haunting him in some way or another.
Rocking his chair up on its back legs, he leaned back against the building and
sighed in contentment. He could almost get used to this idleness. Not for too
long, of course, but he could move from city to city, taking in new experiences
without responsibility. Finances might become a problem, though.
"Mind if I join you?"
Steven opened his eyes and squinted. A suited figure slowly came into focus.
"Aren't you a bit far from your stomping grounds?"
"Not as far as you," said the man as he sat down. "I never
expected to see you here."
"Perhaps that's why I chose it. How did you find me, anyway? Somebody spot
me and call it in? No, wait. You had me followed."
He smiled. "Nothing so dramatic. I asked around at the hotel, and, after I
couldn't find you there, the bartender told me of a conversation you had."
"Ah, the Army-Navy debate." Steven took a sip of his coffee.
"So, why did you want me, Pete?"
"It's something that needs to be kept quiet." He looked around
nervously at the nearby tables. There was a buffer zone of empty tables around
them, so there was no worry of being overheard if they kept their voices down.
"Obviously, or you would have used one of your own."
"Yes, well." Pete cleared his throat. "I need you to retrieve
sensitive information from Berlin."
"I was just there in October...."
"I had heard."
"Where in Berlin is this information?"
"You're willing?"
"I owe the Hammer and Sickle. Where?"
"All right...."
**********************
Steven got himself on a transatlantic flight the following day under one of his
many aliases. At least the dilemma of where to go next had been solved for him,
thought perhaps not as he'd planned. As only a few people knew his face,
disguise was unnecessary. How he would get to Berlin from England through the
post-war landscape without using any sort of pull might be a bit tougher.
He sat back in his seat and went through his options. Let's see. There's
always Simon Townshend, reporter. I could say I'm doing follow-ups to Paris -
no-- damn! Thanks to Gaston, the world knows about that. The reporter angle
could still work, though. Every country is sending journalists, so I should be
able to finagle my way. Then, of course, there are the necessary papers to be
acquired... Christ, the logistics involved now are enough to drive anyone mad.
But a little finesse, a little cash, and it would work. Settled on his
plan, Steven took a quick nap.
Once in London, he phoned the Swiss Embassy. They were very accommodating, and
once they had all the pertinent information, told him to stop by the following
afternoon and his papers would be ready.
The next stop would be transportation. With all the planes and ferries going
between England and France, he should be able to hop one. He'd inquire at the
Swiss Embassy tomorrow to see what they knew.
************************
The clerk at the Swiss Embassy had told him of a US supply plane that would be
leaving in the morning. It was the earliest he could leave England, and, since
he had to be in Berlin within the week, he took it. Arrangements had been made
and now he was keeping to shadows, hiding his face from the Americans that
manned the base. He was told to put his satchel on the plane. He left his
well-worn brown jacket there as well and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt in
order to assist with the loading. He spoke in a thick accent and purposely
misheard words to make conversation difficult. He didn't need to develop any
more lies he could be caught in.
When they reached Paris and began to unload, one of the crew came back.
"You need to go to Berlin?" He spoke slowly, as if talking to a child
or an idiot.
"Oui, je faut aller pour Berlin," he answered. Are they going to
save me the trouble of planning the next leg?
"Stay on the plane. We go to Berlin."
"Ah. Merci." Luck was always a welcome traveling companion. He
got off to stretch his legs and grab a bite before the plane resumed its trip
to Berlin.
**************************
When the plane landed at Templehof, Steven fell into French, thanking them profusely.
He even gave a few a Gallic farewell. That would certainly give them some
stories to tell. He strode across the hastily defined U.S. airbase, acting as
if he every reason to be there and wasn't on some shady mission.
Once clear of the base and in the street, Steven checked his watch and he saw
he still had time before dark. He took a deep breath. Time for some
reconnaissance. He was not looking forward to being only yards away from the
Russians, but if Pete was right in the details he had confided he had to
retrieve those documents.
He walked slowly, not even paying attention to where he was going. He
registered buildings, streets, and people while his feet were on automatic
pilot. He only stopped when he could see the fence marking the end of the
American sector. It was then that he realized with a start he was just around
the corner from Prinz-Albrechtstrasse. Even though he had confronted his past
just last year, his proximity to the prison where he had been chained for three
months still had his heart pounding and hands sweating. It was at Number 8
where he had been held and questioned for months by the Gestapo. He felt his
wrists and expected them to be raw from the chains chafing. He looked at them
surprised to only see pale scars. He took a deep breath of the fresh--but
damp-spring air and relished every moment knowing he would never be in that
dank cell again.
Just a little way down the Wilhelmstrasse in the Russian sector, had been the
heart of the Reich and the location of most of the Ministries. It held a
bizarre mix of memories for him. It was in one of these buildings that he met
with Hitler on numerous occasions while acting as a double agent.
He picked up his pace and continued up towards the Tiergarten and the British
sector. He didn't cross the border, but watched how the guards handled
everything. It didn't seem to involve much; show your papers, give your reason,
and you're in. If he left early enough, it should give him enough time to get
through and become reacquainted with the territory. He turned back and walked
the streets of the American sector before finding a middle-of-the-road boarding
house. He paid in advance for a week and headed straight up to his small but
tidy room. Tomorrow was going to be busy.
*****************************
After a quick breakfast of coffee and a kreuller, Steven left the house and
took the U-Bahn to Anhalter-Bahnhof, close to the sector border. His clothes
today were dirty and well-worn, and he adopted the limp of a returned soldier.
His papers proclaimed him to be Linus Roebling, currently living in Kreusburg.
When his turn arrived, his papers were examined and the soldiers were satisfied
with his answers because they waved him through. He smiled as he walked away,
the feeling akin to the "old days".
There was a chill in the air and everything seemed either blue or grey. He
could smell smoke from a number of fires in homes and even a few he noticed lit
in barrels placed intermittently through the city. He shoved his gloved hands
into his pockets as he continued down the road. He stopped briefly to get his
bearings before heading north. He arrived 30 minutes early at the Platz der
Republik. He kept the bombed out shell of the Reichstag to his right as he kept
an eye on the open square. He walked around, checking all avenues of escape.
Ten minutes before the rendezvous, he took out a royal blue scarf and draped it
over his shoulders then prepared to wait.
It wasn't long before he saw a uniform approaching. As he got closer, Steven
could discern the British insignia and sergeant's rank. It made sense as the
documents were in British hands--still safely secret, it would seem, as no
other power was bidding on them. The sergeant sat on the opposite end of the
bench and Steven looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He was near
Steven's own age with sandy brown hair in a military cut.
"You're the one sent for the papers?"
"Yeah. I was just in the States a few days ago," he answered,
adopting a Brooklyn accent. "He didn't even tell me what it was."
"Hah," the young Mancunian scoffed. "I don't even know what it's
for and I've been working on the damn translation for weeks."
"Almost done?"
"Should be by tonight. Come by the Commission around midnight? It's
usually rather empty around then."
"Fehrbelliner Platz, right?"
The sergeant nodded and left. With the rest of the day to fill, Steven walked
around the British sector, taking in all the changes that had been made since
the previous autumn and marking what buildings were no longer and what roads
were still blocked. He was able to take the U-Bahn to Spandau and stood outside
the citadel prison, just watching, for at least an hour. He knew the
inmates--it was information that he had smuggled from Berlin in 1943 that
helped condemn them. He had been satisfied when the trial was done, another
chapter in his life complete. Standing here now it seemed he was forced to
re-read it.
As it started getting dark, he returned to the city center. He then found a
small café where he grabbed some rouladen and a beer. A few hours left, he went
to a cabaret where he relaxed and behaved, to all observers, as if he had
nothing on his mind.
He arrived at Lancaster House, the home of the British Control Commission of
Germany, a few minutes before midnight. He stood in the shadows, contemplating
the best way into the building when a side door opened and the sergeant waved
him in. Well, that takes the fun out of it.
"C'mon, this way," the Brit whispered urgently. "Don't want
anyone else to see you."
Steven followed the sergeant up three flights of stairs and into a small room
crammed with desks and file cabinets. They crossed to the far side of the room
and the sergeant retrieved the crisp manila folder from a battered file cabinet
and handed it to him. "It's in there."
"And the original German?"
"Don't be daft! Can't give that to you. Each document is numbered and
accounted for. If it's missing, I could be court-martialed."
"All right." He noticed the man try to hide another folder beneath
some others in the desk. He caught the man's eye and winked broadly. "I
think we should make this look realistic, don't you? We don't want people
thinking someone just waltzed in here and you handed them over."
"Stage a fight, you mean. Let's go at it."
The two men pushed each other around to upset papers and put furniture out of
place. The sergeant's thick, meaty arms crushed Steven's waist, and the air
burst from his lungs. Steven sent a pair of chops at his block and tackle
shoulders.
"What? Was that a love tap, yank?"
He lifted Steven off the desk and squeezed. Steven reeled back his arm even as
the lights danced before his eyes. He drove his fist into the soldier's nose.
Cartilage cracked beneath his fist, and the sergeant howled. His grip slackened
just slightly, but slightly was enough. Steven slipped through Manchester's
arms and with a sharp, sweeping kick whipped his legs from beneath his body.
Screaming the Sergeant went down and stayed that way.
"Must look real," Steven said as he snatched up the original German
files and other translation before leaving, closing the door behind him.
As he snuck down the hall, he heard footsteps approaching, and ducked quickly
into a dark office. He cracked the door open and watched as another soldier
reached the top of the stairs. He was not a guard, as he did not look about,
but strode purposefully as if he had his own destination. Once the footsteps
had faded, Steven crept quietly down the hall and left the same way he had
come.
He made his way back to the boarding house after securing the files in a safe
place to be picked up on his way out of the city. Once back up in his room, he
collapsed onto his bed, hoping for at least five hours' sleep. Now that he had
the information, he had to get it back to Pete in DC as soon as he could. He
fell asleep making plans.
************************
The following morning he woke relatively early, packed his belongings, and
wiped every surface-just in case. He placed a few extra marks in an envelope
and placed it on the dresser. As he reached the first floor, he could hear the
radio on in the front parlor. At this point, the only station going was
American, and, unfortunately, his landlady didn't know much English.
"Herr Roebling, you speak English, ja? Mine is not so good. Could
you tell me what they are saying? It sounds important."
Steven walked closer to the radio. "Someone broke into the British
Commission, and, after a struggle, a British soldier was stabbed with a knife
and died," he translated. What the hell? Steven struggled to keep
his face neutral and unconcerned.
"Do they have any idea who it was? I mean, was he...?"
He knew she meant was the suspect German. "He knew his way around and they
think the soldier surprised him during the burglary. They say there was a
witness who saw him leave. The man gave a full description. He then identified
- " Steven coughed, and continued. "His description of the burglar
matched that of Steven Taylor." A setup!
"Oh, him," said his landlady. "I'm not surprised at that."
"Why not? What do you know of him?"
"He has pretended to be so many things in his life, why not a hero? He
made headlines even here in Berlin." She switched off the radio and went
into the kitchen.
Steven stood there stunned. Pete? Would Pete go through these lengths, send
me halfway across the world, murder an ally soldier, just to blacken my name?
Dear God, why? To turn people against me? Make them think I reverted to a
thief? His landlady set a bowl of lumpy, unsweetened porridge on the table.
Not willing to risk her suspicion, he sat down to eat. As he struggled through
the bowl, he barely listened as his landlady complained once again about the
hardships she was enduring just to get enough food. He finished breakfast and
made his goodbyes
"You will be back, Herr Roebling?"
"I am not sure, but I doubt it. I plan on looking for a job in Tiergarten,
so I may take a room there."
"Good luck to you then."
"Danke, Frau Meyer."
He left the boarding house and put Herr Linus Roebling in his bag and
resurrected Monsieur Luc Renault, Swiss journalist. A few minor changes in his
appearance altered him enough that no one in the British Commission would
immediately recognize him. Hopefully, if all went right, he would get his
information and be gone, leaving no one the wiser.
*************************
He arrived at Lancaster House, and, using his Swiss pass, was allowed in to see
the officer in charge of handling the press. He gave Steven the official story
on the murder, the one that he had already heard on the radio. "So, you
are saying that the soldier was killed by Monsieur Taylor in a fight?"
asked Steven in his accented English. The officer nodded. "But - we have
all followed his career, no? I understood that he never killed anyone in any of
his thefts."
The officer scoffed. "He has killed in self-defense."
"Did he initiate the attack?"
"Only Taylor knows."
"What of the soldier who witnessed the attack? May I speak with him?"
"I don't think he is available at the moment."
"Then I shall come back to talk with him later in the day if I may."
"I'll notify the sergeant at the desk that you will be returning. Do you
have a number where you can be reached should he return before you?"
Think quick, Taylor. "No, I will be working on other leads in the
city. Merci."
Steven knew he had to get something concrete before he could convince past
associates that he was not responsible. Since Pete seemed to be the one who set
him up, he had to have someone here in Berlin, an extension to do all his grunt
work. And he had to keep in contact with him. So where would a call from DC not
draw attention? Allied Command in the American Sector. He'd need one of his
best disguises to even get near the place.
He crossed back over the checkpoint and resolutely made his way towards Allied
Command. He had to find a way inside, and he had to get some proof of Pete's
involvement. He doubted the phone calls would be logged, but there had to be
incriminating evidence somewhere. He found a spot out of sight amongst a small
group of trees across the street from the building where he could watch the
comings and goings and formulate a plan.
After watching a dreary procession of olive drab for almost three hours, Steven
suddenly stood up straight. There, leaving the building, was the British
soldier he had seen in the hall the night of the murder now dressed as a GI.
Steven let out a low whistle. So that's how I was fingered! The SOB tailed
me, snuck into Lancaster House knowing I was there, killed the clerk, and then
told everyone he saw me running from the scene. What did Pete do to convince
this guy to do it? I can't confront him now, but at least I have a connection
that I can use.
Knowing there was no reason to stay in Berlin and increase the risk of being
caught, he left the city using Luc Renault, and headed west. With luck he could
reconnect with friends from his Resistance days who might help.
*************************
Within hours, the word had come back to Washington that Steven Taylor was
wanted for the murder of a British soldier in Berlin, as well as the theft of
sensitive German documents. Sitting behind his little desk in a room he shared
with two other agents, Pete couldn't believe that Steven had fallen for his
story. The man was always so cautious, a trait stemming from his time as a
thief and then enhanced during the war. Maybe he just didn't believe 'good old
Pete' was capable of it.
He looked at his watch. Time to call Berlin. Griffin was a greedy SOB but as a
skilled infiltrator, he was good at his job. When he finally came to the phone,
Pete was impatient for good news. He would have to wait a little longer.
"No one's seen him. There haven't even been any rumored sightings. And
none of his known aliases, or any using those same initials, have come up
either."
"Damn! He knows the city too well. He could be anywhere."
"I doubt any of his contacts will want anything to do with him now with a
murder rap hanging over him."
"That was part of the plan," Pete said. Griffin could be
incomprehensibly thick sometimes.
"Do you think he could have gone east?"
"He's not that scared or desperate yet." Pete thought for a moment.
"If you wanted to pass hassle-free between zones, what would be your best
cover?"
"A neutral passport," answered Griffin after a pause.
"I know Steven once used a Swiss ID. Go to all the checkpoints and find
out what Swiss nationals came through and when. We have to get him before he
leaves the city."
**************************
Steven stopped his "borrowed" Jeep when he thought he was far enough
away from Berlin. Deciding it was time to actually look at the file, he pulled
out the folder from under the seat and studied the pages. According to what
Pete had said, he had believed that the documents had something to do with a
secret pact with Germany that would be damaging beyond words. Now he knew that
story had been concocted just for him. These documents had nothing to do with
any pact, secret or otherwise. What he was looking at now were detailed
diagrams with mathematical equations and what looked like chemical formulae. If
he had to make a guess, he would say it was another atomic bomb, maybe
something even stronger.
Knowing these plans were way too important to cart around with him and knowing
he might need some future leverage, he knew he had to stash them somewhere
safe, somewhere where no one else could lay their hands on them. There was only
one place he could think of.
A few years back, after a particularly nasty close call, he decided to create
his own little nest egg in case of emergency and began secreting away money and
small objets d'art in a Swiss account. What safer place for the original
German documents? He'd need the translations to prove his innocence and
hopefully bring down Pete in the process.
He drove into town, abandoned the Jeep, and boarded a night train bound for
Zurich. Once in his compartment, he looked for a decent hiding place for the
papers. Not finding exactly want he wanted, he settled for slipping the file
under the bunk and pushing it back against the wall. He'd wake before anyone
could even reach them. This done, he stretched out for a decent night's sleep,
not knowing when he'd next have the chance.
***************************
That night as Steven caught forty winks on the train, Griffin went to the gate
leading into the British sector and asked for a list of all Swiss nationals who
had crossed in the last three days. After a drawn out discussion with the guard
on duty, he finally got what he needed. There was only one who even came near
Taylor's general description. A journalist named Luc Renault passed through a
few times, the last being the day after the murder.
"Must've gone to Lancaster House to write the story," commented the
guard.
"Must've." Great. Now I have to go to Lancaster House myself and
hope that no one recognizes me.
He took the Jeep to British HQ, parked right in front of the main doors, and
strode inside to the main desk. The harried clerk looked up at the American
officer. "May I help you, sir?"
"I'm Captain Griffin, here to investigate the murder. I need to speak to
your press officer."
"One moment, sir."
Griffin cooled his heels pretending to study the architecture, while his mind
thought on how Pete botched this job by bringing Taylor into it. He
could have obtained the files just as easily without attracting media
attention. Not only didn't they have the file, but Taylor had slipped through
their hands with them.
"Captain Griffin, I am Lieutenant Lawler, the press officer. You're here
because of the murder?"
"Yes. We have reason to believe that Taylor returned here the day after,
posing as a Swiss reporter."
"There was a Swiss journalist here. I never thought it could be him. He
asked a number of pertinent questions, too."
"Such as?"
"How did we know it was Taylor and why would he kill when he never did so
before during a theft. Now I understand why he was so well-informed about
Taylor."
"Was there anything else?"
"Yes. He wanted to speak with the soldier who identified him."
"And did he?"
"No because he was not available. I asked for a number where we could
reach him and he said he would be back later."
"I doubt he will be back, but if you do see him, contact me at Allied HQ,
then try to stall."
"Excuse me, Captain. There's a phone call for you," called the clerk.
Griffin walked over and picked up the phone. "Griffin."
"Sir, we just received news. It seems one of our Jeeps is missing."
"Any idea how long?"
"A few hours maybe."
"Wonderful. I'll be right there." He hung up the phone. "A new
lead has come up that I need to investigate. If you remember anything else,
call me."
He drove back to HQ and called a briefing of all Intelligence officers under
his command. "This missing Jeep could be what Taylor used to leave Berlin.
Given the window, he can't have gotten far, so I want all local officials
notified."
"Excuse me, sir, but where would he be going?"
"Good question. There's a strong chance that he will avoid his known
haunts, but I want London and Paris notified immediately." The room
cleared out. He gripped a pencil tightly, nearly snapping it in anger. He is
not getting away from me!
************************************
Steven got off the train in Zurich and, after a stop in the men's room to clean
up and change identities, he hailed a cab to take him to the bank. He gave the
clerk the number to his primary account. There must have been a flag on it, for
the man picked up the phone, dialed an inside number, and asked for a Monsieur
Thibaut.
"Is there something wrong?" he asked after the man had hung up.
"Non, monsieur. We were just told to notify the manager when you came
in."
"Ah." They can't have heard the news. I mean, what would they care
anyway? "Vartan" is one of their best clients.
He looked up as an older man in a three-piece suit greeted him. "Monsieur
Vartan, it is good to see you again. You fared well during the war?"
"I survived." He looked around the lobby. "You seemed to have
thrived."
"People always need to protect their belongings, during war
especially." He led Steven through the secure area to the vault and safe
deposit boxes. The time of his visit was recorded in a log and he wrote his
signature in the space provided. He was then ushered to a private viewing room
to await the arrival of his items.
He opened the box and was greeted by money in all its various glory. He
pocketed francs-Swiss and French-before removing papers confirming Michel
Vartan's identity. He then buried the German file beneath some velvet bags
containing objects of a more "delicate" nature that he wished he had
the time to gaze at.
Mission completed, Monsieur Vartan left the bank and took a taxi to the Hotel
Eden du Lac. There he was greeted warmly by the reception clerk who was
something of a fixture. "M. Vartan, how good to see you again."
"Merci, Bertrand. Things have been going non-stop for me. I need a place
to relax and forget the world for a time," Steven told him as he signed
the register.
"We can certainly accommodate you, monsieur. Your usual room?"
"That would be lovely." He liked the room for its proximity to
various escape routes.
"How long will you be saying?"
"Only one night, I'm afraid. I need return to Paris tomorrow."
Steven followed the bellhop to his room then tipped him generously before
closing the door. As he passed a mirror, he realized that the first order of
business would be a nice steamy shower. All he could manage in Berlin was a
sponge bath which did help take away the stink, but he felt like he had a
number of layers of dirt over his skin. As he undressed, he hung his clothes
around the bathroom to steam them so they wouldn't look like he had slept in
them. Maybe later he could find a decent off-the-rack suit befitting a Parisian
businessman.
He stepped into the shower and just stood there as the water washed over him.
As good as it felt, he knew there were other things he needed to do before he
could relax. After scrubbing himself red and washing his hair, he dried off and
put on his suit which now looked presentable. The room gave him a chill after
the warmth of his sauna.
He sat at the desk by the window, the winter scene soon fading as he thought
out his plans for the next few days. If the plans are what I think they are,
I need to find a physicist, one who owes me a favor or two... He smiled to
himself. And only one fits the bill. Thing is, is Jonteau in Monte Carlo or
Paris? I could call Gaston. He knows about Vartan and didn't spill the beans
about him when he blabbed about Townshend. If he doesn't know where to find
Jonteau, I'll take whichever train leaves first. He sighed, picked up the
phone, and asked the hotel operator to place a call to Paris, giving her the
number to Gaston's café. A few moments later, the phone was ringing in Paris.
"Café Gaston."
"Gaston, c'est Vartan."
There was a hesitation and Steven feared he would hang up.
"Give me one good reason why I should believe you."
"I was set up." He felt Gaston needed more of an explanation. "I
was led to believe the files were compromising so I took them. I didn't kill
anyone."
"And the files? What are they?"
"I'm not sure. That's why I need Jonteau."
"All right. I believe you. I just wanted to hear you say it."
"Is Jonteau in Paris? I need him to look at this stuff."
"How would I know if he were here?"
"You make a point of knowing everything in Paris. Plus the fact that you
helped get him out of Nazi hands."
There was a pause as Gaston thought. "Genevieve did come by a few weeks
ago. Said she saw you in Monte Carlo last year."
"Yeah. Anyway, did she say Dad was there too?"
"She did say he wanted his old life back and was reconnecting with friends
."
"Great. I'll be in Paris tomorrow evening. I'll stop by the café."
"Back door. The gendarme will have been put on alert."
"Mustn't upset business, must we? Merci, Gaston. A bientôt."
***************************
Griffin sat back in his chair in his office, his eyes aching from staring at
paperwork.
"Sir!" called one of his lieutenants, "we have a report on the
missing Jeep."
"Where is it?"
"At a train station in Halle."
"How long do they think it's been there?"
"Since maybe 1700 or 1800. No later than 1900."
"Damn! He could be anywhere."
"I asked what trains left within that timeframe." He handed Griffin
the short list. "There's only one place, don't you think?"
"It was the obvious choice--which is why we didn't think of it. Get me
Templehof on the phone. I need to get to Switzerland."
"And if Washington calls?"
"Tell them the truth: I'm out after Taylor."
********************************
With the plans secreted away and itinerary made, Steven used his free time to
stroll the streets of Zurich as if he hadn't a care. He knew if he acted
anxious or jumpy that would stay in people's memories. It was something he had
perfected over the years. So he strolled through shops, bought pretty,
unremarkable trinkets. Not wanting to be encumbered with his purchases, he had
them delivered to the hotel. He now sat at a corner table in a bustling café,
once again sipping coffee and reading a paper. The story of his pursuit was no
longer front page material, and, after seeing through the verbosity, the
article merely stated that all of Berlin was being searched and the officer in
charge of the investigation, Captain Griffin, stated that there was no way he
could escape the city. Wonder what he's thinking now? Oh, man, this could be
the guy working with Pete! The position would be perfect! Too bad a photograph
wasn't included. He looked at his watch. They've found the Jeep by now
and will have realized that Luc Renault has gone to Switzerland. Fortunately,
he disappeared at the train station. That ought to slow them down. Finding
he had reached the bottom of his coffee, Steven paid and left, a spring in his
step.
************************************
Griffin arrived at the air force base late that afternoon, channels and red
tape having slowed him down. He was loaned a Jeep from the motor pool and
headed for Switzerland. He made Zurich his first stop, as it would be easy for
Taylor to lose himself in a city. Armed with a photo of Taylor and an artistic
rendering of him as Renault, he stopped at the main train station. None of the
cabbies waiting for fares remembered picking up a man matching either
description. Frustrated by the delay, Griffin decided to begin checking all
hotels and hostels. Thinking the best place to lie low would be at a cheap
hotel, he began to check all the dives he could find and worked his way up,
only stopping for a quick bite near 1800.
With no luck by midnight, he stopped and bunked down at the American consulate.
There were no questions asked, but he knew they knew it was about Taylor. Lying
on his bed that night, he mulled over his options. He won't leave until
tomorrow morning, taking advantage of his lead to rest up for what he'll do
next. But just what will that be? Yeah, the man is a brain, but I don't think
even he can figure out those German papers. He'll go to someone who can.
When he started this "investigation", Griffin had looked back on all
Taylor's known connections-casual or otherwise. He now played them over in his
head, hoping to find the one name that would decide his next move. He had
almost drifted off when it came to him: Jonteau. Of course, the physicist he
rescued from the Nazis. He went to sleep planning to take the first train to
Paris.
*****************************
Early the next morning, Steven allowed himself the luxury of a taxi to the
train station. One of the perks of being Vartan was going First Class all the
way. After breakfast in the dining car, he retreated to his private compartment
and read the paper to find out what was going on in the rest of the world outside
of his own problems, and to see how far back in the pages the story of his
pursuit had fallen. The mention he found of his own case was small, but gave
him pause It seemed that at the time of the article,. Griffin was
"unavailable for comment"- a first, and for Steven a chilling alarm.
If Griffin was no longer in Berlin buddying up to the press, Steven had no
doubt that he was after him. Could he be on this train? He would know I
wouldn't spend more than a day unwinding, and, well, Paris is an obvious next
step. To be sure, I'll take the Metro to Gaston's.
The train pulled into Gare du Nord around 1:00 pm and Steven was one of the
first off. With his travel bag strapped over his shoulder and his garment bag
in hand, he strode through the station like the businessman he pretended to be.
Once down with the crowds, he knew Griffin wouldn't find him, even if he did
look here first. He decided to go to his apartment first. He changed into a
clean suit and touched-up his disguise. It wouldn't do for him to get caught so
close to getting help. Feeling a bit better, he returned to the Metro and got
off at Maubert-Mutualité, right down the street from where he wanted to be.
Gaston's café looked as though it was doing a good business, considering it was
now mid-afternoon. Keeping his promise, he stepped around to the back door and
through the kitchen. When the cooks and waiters stared at him as if he were
mad, he only smiled. He entered the main dining room, caught Gaston's eye, and
then slipped away into his office.
He didn't have long to wait. Gaston entered his office and shut the door behind
him. "You're early," he said, before hugging him and kissing both
cheeks.
"I took an early train." Steven smiled at the other man.
"Business looks good."
"People are glad to have their city back."
"And the fact that you played a part in that hasn't hurt either."
Gaston merely shrugged. "Do you think Jonteau will see me?"
"After what you have done for him, I think so."
"There might be a problem. The man in charge of the case, a Captain
Griffin, might be here and I think he knows about my connection to
Jonteau."
"Why has he come all this way from Berlin himself? Could he not have an
officer here follow you?"
"I'm not sure--I can't be without seeing him--but I think he is the
murderer."
"So he has to be the one to arrest you to keep you from talking to anyone
else."
"And odds are that I'd be 'shot resisting arrest'. Can't have a messy
trial either."
"This man in Washington plans to sell this information to the highest bidder
and retire to some paradise, eh? Why did he choose you? He must have realized
the danger."
"As you know, I can't resist a challenge. He came to me when I was bored
and presented his idea. It sounded like just what I needed so - " it was
Steven's turn to shrug - "I jumped at the chance. I was getting ready to
leave Berlin with the plans when I heard about the murder. If my landlady
hadn't needed me to translate the radio report for her, they would have gotten
me in Berlin."
"If this man is the killer, we have to get him to confess in order to
clear you."
"Without duress and in front of reliable witnesses. That's going to be the
hard part."
"Why don't you stay here while I try to get in touch with Jonteau. I'll
send you something to eat."
"Merci, Gaston. I appreciate what you're doing."
"Rogues like us have to stick together, non?" He left the
room.
Steven sat down at Gaston's desk and just glanced at the miscellaneous bits of
paper on it-mainly bills and invoices. Not wanting to pry, he picked up the
newspaper. Some of the front page stories were the same as those from the Swiss
paper, but were concerned with how France was being affected.
He heard the door open. "Monsieur, Gaston asked me to bring you
some food."
"Wonderful. I'm famished." He set down the paper and stared at the
woman. "Genevieve?"
She looked at him. "Have we met?"
Steven realized that she had never seen him as someone else. Thankfully, he saw
a framed photograph on the wall. "I saw you in that photograph. Gaston
told me your story. What are you doing back here?"
She smiled. "I needed a job and Gaston hired me again." She set the
tray down on the desk. "And you, Monsieur..."
"Vartan. I am a business associate and friend of Gaston's. I just returned
from a business trip in Switzerland. Gaston was kind enough to let me eat in
his office while I did some research."
"Then I shall let you continue."
"Thank you, Genevieve."
*********************************
After leaving M. Vartan in the office, Genevieve sought out Gaston and found
him talking with a young couple outside. She walked up beside him.
"Excuse-moi, Gaston, may I speak with you?"
He looked at her as if he knew why. He excused himself from the couple and led
her to the side of the café. "What is it, Genevieve? Is there a problem
with your schedule?"
"No, it is about M. Taylor."
"Yes, that is most unfortunate."
"And most unbelievable. You know as well as I that he is no murderer.
There must be something we can do."
Gaston looked around to make sure no one could hear them. "I know the
whole story. He was set up. He believes that your father can help clear
him."
"You spoke with him? When? Why didn't you tell me?"
"He telephoned me from Zurich yesterday asking for help. I was going to
tell you later. I need to talk to your father. According to Steven he will be
able to understand the papers he took."
"Why would he need Papa to look at those papers?" She stared at
Gaston as the answer came to her. "A weapon or something equally dangerous
the Germans invented."
"Maybe. Of course he wouldn't say anything over the phone. What he did say
was that he would be in Paris tonight. If I could see your father and arrange a
meeting, then I can pass word to Steven and he won't need to show himself until
then."
"I know Papa will gladly see Steven after all he has done for us. Why
don't you come to the apartment and ..." She stopped when she saw his
face. "What is it?"
"I can't go to the apartment. You will have to act as a go-between."
"Of course you can. Don't be silly."
"Genevieve, the men who set him up know of his connection to us. They will
have your apartment watched should Steven approach either of you."
"If you show, then they will know he contacted you." She sighed.
"I had hoped that when we returned to Paris, life would go back to what it
was-and unfortunately it has."
****************************
Gaston left Genevieve taking meal orders and went back to his office. Steven
looked up, startled. He relaxed upon seeing Gaston. "What were you
thinking, sending the food in with Genevieve? I almost blew it."
"You didn't. She came to me asking how we could help you. I told her you
needed her father. She said she would talk to him to arrange a meeting. I hate
having to put her in that position, but there is no other way."
"I know the feeling." He stood and headed for the door. "I'll
call you around 11:00, okay? Thanks again, Gaston." He shook his hand
before disappearing through the kitchens.
Gaston could only shake his head. With all Steven was going through, he was
still worried about his friends.
************************
After stopping at the American Embassy to make his presence and mission known,
Griffin went to Jonteau's apartment in the Latin Quarter. The man who answered
his knock was of medium height and not quite what he expected. His salt and
pepper hair was neatly combed and his suit was immaculate.
He smiled knowingly at Griffin' slight hesitation. "No absent-minded
professor here, Captain," he said, seeing the bars on his collar. "I
expect you are here about M. Taylor. Please, come in."
Griffin entered the apartment and took a seat on the couch as Jonteau sat
opposite him on a chair. "You've heard what happened in Berlin."
"How could I not? It was front page news. But why are you in Paris?"
"Taylor got past us in Berlin and I have reason to believe that he has
come here to see you. It seems the documents he stole have to do with physics
and since you are the only physicist he knows..."
"I haven't seen him since last summer in Monte Carlo when he risked his
life to save my daughter. He also rescued me from the Nazis. I do not believe
he would murder anyone."
"He was seen leaving the scene of the crime."
"Was he seen with the weapon in his hand? It is purely circumstantial
evidence and until the man confesses of his own volition, I will not believe
it."
"That will be for a judge to decide. It is my job to bring him in. If he
does contact you, you can reach me at the American Embassy." Griffin
jotted down his name and the phone number then handed the paper to Jonteau.
"Thank you for seeing me, Doctor."
"I'm sure you'll find the man innocent, Captain," said Jonteau as he
walked him to the door.
"Maybe, Doctor."
As he took the elevator to the ground floor, Griffin resolved to have the
apartment watched. There was no way this man would call him if Taylor showed.
Again he cursed Pete for using Taylor in the first place and forcing him to
trek across Europe like this. He smiled crookedly. He could just take it out on
Taylor when he found him.
*******************************
The next morning, Steven made his way back to Gaston's, this time as himself.
Gaston was waiting for him "The Jonteaux are not here yet," he said
as he held the door open. There was only one other in the kitchen busy checking
ingredients. He didn't even give the man with his boss a glance. Gaston took
Steven into the main dining room and poured him some coffee.
Steven took a seat a table from where he could see all the exits.
"Thanks."
"No problem." Gaston sipped his own coffee. "And the file?"
"It's somewhere safe."
"You didn't bring it, did you?"
"What do you take me for? I'm no novice, Gaston. Why would I risk them
catching me with it?"
"I'm sorry. I had to ask."
"It's okay. I'm just a little jumpy at the moment. A supposed friend set me
up after all."
Gaston went to the front and peered out the window. "They should be here
any minute. I asked Genevieve to get here before opening when there are less
prying eyes."
"I think I have an idea of how to get this guy Griffin. We'll need some of
your old group."
Intrigued, Gaston sat and Steven explained his plan. The session was
interrupted by a tapping on the window of the front door. "We need to
smooth it out," he said as he walked to the door, "but it should
work." He unlocked and opened the door.
Steven stood and looked at Genevieve and her father. They had finally
readjusted to life in Paris after the war--and he--had come around and caused
upheaval. Steven stood up from the table. "Genevieve, Dr. Jonteau, thank
you for doing this. I know the risk you're taking."
Genevieve ran over and hugged him. "We couldn't let you go through this
alone when we could help."
"M. Taylor, I must tell you that I had a visit from a Captain Griffin
yesterday afternoon," said Jonteau after shaking his hand. "He is
convinced you are guilty."
"He needs me to be found guilty--or dead. That way no one will ask
questions."
They all sat at the table and Steven told the Jonteaux his story and theory.
"My word against his without proof means nothing. We need him to confess
and be heard by outside witnesses." He reached into his inside pocket.
"But first take a gander at these." He handed Jonteau the envelope in
which he had placed the files.
Gaston looked at him. "I thought you said you didn't have them with
you."
"Did I?" He turned to Jonteau. "Well, are they worth a man's
life?"
"Nothing is worth a murdered man's life, M. Taylor. However, should these
fall into the wrong hands, many more will die."
"But who's to say which are the right hands?"
"I would say burn them so no one will profit from them, yet, as a
scientist, I know how much work went into this."
"I'm leaving the file with you so you can hide it somewhere no one will
immediately associate with you. Don't do anything to it just yet, as it's part
of my defense,"
Steven told him. "When Griffin finds me, that will be my bargaining chip.
He'll need me to take him to it."
"You mean if he finds you," said Genevieve.
"No, I mean when. It's part of my trap for him. You two will place a call
to the Embassy about me staying in Le Marais and he'll come to get me. I make
sure that Griffin's confession is overheard as he tries to kill me. Simple
really."
"How can you be sure he'll come alone?"
"He wants me dead and can't have any witnesses when he does it. I know his
mindset." He drained his coffee. "We have to iron out a few spots,
but it should work."
He could see Genevieve wasn't convinced. "Come on," he grinned
conspiratorially. "When this is over, we'll all go out and celebrate.
Gaston and I will have this finished like clockwork tonight."
He could hear voices as more staff arrived, signaling the café's imminent
opening. "I'd better make myself scarce. Thank you guys for helping me
out. Gaston, I'll talk to you later."
He slipped out through the now-busy kitchen and disappeared into the morning
crowds.
*****************************
Later that afternoon, Gaston placed a call to the American Embassy. He asked
for and was connected to Griffin. "I have some information regarding the
Eagle," he said disguising his voice. "You'll get word that he will
be in Le Marais, but that is just a trap. You can find him tonight at Au Lapin
Agile in Montmartre."
"And how do I know this isn't a trap?"
"We spoke this morning and he told us he was planning to get you alone
with no one else around. He had it leaked on purpose. Believe me or not, I've
done my duty telling you."
"And just what do you get out of this?"
"The man out of Paris and in jail where he belongs--or worse."
Griffin chuckled on the other end of the line. It wasn't a pretty sound.
"My thoughts exactly. He gets away with too much if you ask me. Thank you
for telling me this, monsieur. You'll be there to witness the event?"
"And let him and the others know I turned him in? I'll find out about it
like everyone else in the paper." Gaston hung up the phone and took deep
breaths. Now he just had to wait. He heard business picking up and went out to
lend a hand.
*****************************
Griffin replaced the phone and smirked. It seemed he would be getting Taylor
tonight after all. He checked his watch. It was about 9:00 in DC and Pete would
be at his desk going through the motions of the ideal agent while his mind was
thinking on what he would be doing with the money they got from this deal. At
least that's what I'd do if I weren't spending all my time chasing the Eagle.
He made the call to Washington. "Good morning," he said cheerily.
"What are you so happy about? The news is all over Washington how Taylor
is leading Army Intelligence all over Europe."
"I just got a tip that Taylor will be at a club in Montmartre
tonight."
"You can't get him with a crowd watching."
"Give me some credit. I'll get him into some alley and stab him, fake a
robbery. The whole 'What goes around comes around' scenario."
"Sounds good." Griffin could hear him nodding over the phone.
"You better not screw this up. If you don't have a clear chance, put it
off until you do."
"I'll call you tonight when it's done." He hung up before Pete could
criticize him. There will definitely be some renegotiating about the split
after this.
***************************
That evening when she got home, a breathless Genevieve rushed into the
apartment and pulled her father away from his desk. She told him what she had
overheard Gaston say on the phone. "I can't believe he would treat Steven
that way!"
"Perhaps that conversation was part of the plan," said Jonteau.
"What?"
"By telling Griffin that Le Marais is a trap and that Steven will be alone
at Montmartre will make Griffin overconfident and he will make mistakes."
"So I should make the phone call?"
"It will add credence to the story."
"But why didn't he tell us the full plan?"
"I really can't say. Perhaps if you truly believed what you were saying,
Griffin would believe it as well."
"Then I guess I had better do a good job." She took the slip of paper
Griffin had left for her father and placed the call.
****************************
Later that night Steven sat in Au Lapin Agile at a table where he could see and
be seen and get a good head start in the chase that was to come. As he sipped
his wine and listened to the chanteuse, he thought on the cabaret's famed
history of clientele--Picasso once paid his bill with a painting--and wondered
if this incident would be included should a book ever be written. For him to
find out first-hand, this had to go off without a hitch. No time for
daydreaming. The singer finished and he applauded with the rest of the patrons.
He hated deceiving the Jonteaux but he needed them to believe that was the plan
in order for Griffin to believe Gaston. The man had to come here alone. After
this was done, it would be Pete's turn.
A group of men came in acting rather boisterous. They must be on the Parisian
equivalent of a pub-crawl. Cabarets didn't mind if the crowd was loud-they
usually liked it when people sang along--just as long as they didn't get
violent.
He checked his watch. Griffin would be arriving soon. Gaston's men were
covering the streets in the area, ready to converge when necessary. Setting up
something like this took him back years. He always felt most satisfied when all
the planning of an operation like this paid off, but it sure was hell on the
nerves.
The singer started an upbeat folk song that required audience participation,
probably in order to direct the rowdiness of the new audience. With all the
swaying and arm-raising, he almost missed Griffin' entrance. Jonteau's
description was dead-on. The two men locked eyes and Steven stood quickly,
knocking his chair over backwards. Practically seconds later, the group of men
began to argue over the words of a song and began taking sides. Soon after, a
fight started, providing Steven with the distraction he needed to make his
escape. Once across the street, he stopped by the corner, and made sure his
hesitation would look natural as he waited for Griffin.
He heard Griffin shout and raced down the cobbled street past the vineyard and
cemetery then up one of the fabled set of lamp-lit stairs. He saw a flash of
light and knew he was on track. He led Griffin deeper into the heart of
Montmartre and its twisting roads. He made sure to stay away from the crowds
that frequented the Moulin Rouge, knowing he wouldn't get a confession if
Griffin knew he had an audience. With that in mind, he knew where he had to go.
He turned into an alley that ran close to Place du Tertre and hoped that
Griffin didn't realize how close they were to Parisians enjoying the nightlife.
****************************
The young man was perfectly content at this moment. His transfer to the Sûreté
had been finalized and he was about to share dinner with the most beautiful
woman in Paris. He loved dining at the cafés of Montmartre and Chantal chose
the restaurant knowing that. They strolled hand-in-hand across Place du Tertre
towards La Mère Catherine and talked about possibly moving to the area.
A movement in the shadows caught his eye, and then another. Something wasn't
quite right. "Chantal, why don't you go ahead to the bistro. I need to
check on something."
"What is it, Pierre?"
"I'm not sure, but I can't just ignore it." He saw a gendarme on the
other side of the square. "I won't be alone." She hesitated. "If
it will make you feel better, call for help from inside."
"Very well, but you had better not die on me." She kissed him and
continued on to the bistro.
Pierre crossed to the gendarme. "May I help you, sir?"
He showed the man his ID. "I need your assistance." He explained what
he saw as the two hurried to the alley just beyond the place.
At the mouth of the alley he and the officer, a nervous type named Claude,
stopped when they saw a fight in progress. Pierre didn't move. "Shouldn't
we stop it?" questioned Claude.
"No, not just yet. I want to get a little closer and hear what they're
saying."
"Are you sure?"
"They're so intent on each other, they won't notice us." He
remembered the shadows he had seen. "Besides, I don't think we're
alone." He motioned Claude to follow as he slowly crept closer. Something
told him there was more to this than just a mugging.
**************************
Steven scanned the alley as if looking for a place to hide and heard Griffin'
footsteps behind him. He wheeled about in feigned surprise. The smirk of the
soldier's face was almost feral. "Nice to put a face to the name,
Taylor," he commented, advancing.
"Sorry I can't say the same," Steven returned as he backed away.
Steven watched the knife gripped in Griffin's fist. Too eager to kill him,
Griffin forgot one of the prime rules of combat. He attempted to strike first.
Steven counted on it. The Eagle swept to the line of Griffin's arm, gripped his
wrist and with all his weight slammed his heavier foe against the cold brick
wall. Griffin howled and dropped the knife. Steven, with his toe of his shoe,
stabbed the blade and slid it across the ground, away from the brawl. Griffin
took the only way left open to him to break Steven's hold. Griffin bucked
Steven off his back and sent him flying. Griffin whirled around and reached for
the knife, coming up empty.
Steven smiled at his look of shock. The Eagle calmly picked up the knife next
to his leg. In one smooth move that simultaneously carried him back to his
feet, Steven gave the knife back to Griffin - very fast, and straight into the
shoulder. Griffin's shocked look took on an almost comical air. The heavier man
dropped to his knees.
Steven, still smiling, walked toward his cursing foe. He stretched out his hand
to pull the knife out of Griffin's shoulder.
Steven's legs crashed from under him. The ground hit him hard, and his head
cracked against the ground. The nausea he felt assured him of a concussion.
When he regained his senses, Griffin had the knife to his throat.
"Soft, Taylor. You should have killed me."
"Plenty of time."
"One of my shoulders has a steel plate. Guess which one?"
"Must I?"
"After hearing so much about you, I was hoping you would put up more of a
fight. Not so much fun this way."
"You must have thought killing that man in Berlin like shooting fish in a
barrel. He put up less of a fight than me, being unconscious and all," he
grunted as he attempted to push away the knife.
"It would have been so much easier if you hadn't been involved. I could've
killed him, taken the files, and been well on my way now." Having the
advantage of leverage, the tip of the knife pricked Steven's neck and Griffin
grinned crookedly.
The blood began to trickle down his neck and Steven exerted more pressure to
push it away. "Nice idea, make it look like a robbery. Knife won't attract
attention either."
"You chose the place. I'm just taking advantage of it."
Steven could see the mad glint in Griffin's eye and knew that if Gaston's men
didn't come now, his family would have to live with the shame of a false
accusation. The thought of his family pushed him to try to gain some leverage
with his legs, but Griffin had positioned himself right at the knees so that
proved impossible. He was near exhausted and searched his reserves for a burst
of energy. Damn it! Where are Gaston's men? He heard running feet. About
bloody time! There was a rush of air on his face and all pressure was
removed.
"Are you all right?" asked a concerned French voice.
Steven looked up and saw the gendarme. He had wanted a trustworthy witness, but
this was ridiculous. "Did you hear?" he asked. "He murdered
someone," he continued, playing the victim.
"I heard everything, Steven," said a second voice in accented
English.
He saw a proffered hand and grasped it. Once standing, he felt a little
light-headed. "DuBois? What're you doing here?"
"Saving you, I think." He nodded to the men who were restraining
Griffin. "It seems you had it in hand."
"I needed backup for when he got out of control. So tell me how you
stumbled onto this."
"I was here for dinner when I saw movement in the shadows. I enlisted
Claude here, and you know the rest. We'll have to take him into custody and
you'll have to tell your story."
"I can't just stroll into a police station. They'd toss me into a cell and
call the Embassy."
"I have an idea."
Steven groaned.
******************************
Pierre and a small contingent of Gaston's men walked into the Embassy with
Griffin in custody. Steven and Chantal followed, the French woman fussing over
his wounds, which helped him to hide his face. Pierre approached the sergeant
at the front desk and lodged his complaint against Griffin. "This officer
was attacking this man in an alley in Montmartre. When we arrived, he had a
knife to his throat."
"This is a serious accusation," the sergeant said.
"We all witnessed it," Pierre said, waving a hand to include the others.
"There was also an on-duty gendarme, Claude-I never got his last name. He
had to return to his patrol but will file a report on the incident."
"This is crazy!" scoffed Griffin. "You're not going to take the
word of these French low-lifes over an officer?"
"I don't know the profession of these other gentlemen," said Pierre,
"but I am with the Sûreté and I learned we all worked with the Resistance
at one point during the war. I think that puts us on or above the same level as
the accused."
The sergeant was out of his depth. "I'll need an officer to handle this.
If you'll just--"
"But it's Taylor!" declared Griffin. "I've followed him all the
way from Berlin! Just look at him for Chrissakes!" He fought against the
men holding him.
The sergeant motioned for the waiting MPs to come forward to take control of
Griffin. "There should be a free room down the hall," he told them.
With a smart salute, the two men took the still-spouting Griffin away. He
turned back to Pierre. "If you go down this hallway to the left, the third
room on the right should be available. Someone will be with you shortly."
"Merci, Sergeant."
Around twenty minutes later an officer entered the room. "I am Major
Cooper, the senior intelligence officer," he addressed them in French. "Serious
accusations have been made on both sides and I plan to resolve this with the
least amount of fuss. I've already spoken to Griffin and he related facts which
are quite damning to you, Mr. Taylor."
"That was the whole point," Steven replied. "I hope you're ready
to hear the truth now."
"I believe I'm ready to hear your story. I'll decide on its truthfulness
later."
Steven relayed his story and then each of the men who heard Griffin confess
gave their testimony.
"This backs up the impression I got when I called Berlin. It seems he
received--and placed--a number of calls to Washington."
"But when something major is happening, aren't you in contact with DC a
lot?"
"These calls started almost two weeks before the theft and murder."
"Planning the whole deal." Steven was quiet as he thought. "I
think I have a plan to get Pete."
******************************
Pete received confirmation on Taylor's death from the Embassy in Paris. In the
same call he learned that Griffin was in a Parisian hospital, recovering from
wounds incurred in the fight. His previous work with Taylor had made him the
obvious Washington contact, and now it was his duty to go to Paris and debrief
Griffin. For himself, he wanted--no, needed --proof that Steven was dead and
that there was no one left to connect this back to him. All that cash would
make bearing the guilt easier.
The Embassy had a car waiting for him. The driver was young and gave him
deferential treatment. "If you aren't too tired after your trip, sir, Maj.
Cooper thought you might want to go directly to the hospital to see Capt.
Griffin."
He looked at his watch. It was still early Paris-time and he was nowhere near
tired. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he had this cleared up. "Sounds
good. Is Maj. Cooper at the hospital?"
"Yes, sir. He wanted to be there in case Capt. Griffin said
anything."
Pete clenched his fists. He had better hope Griffin stays quiet. "Good
thinking on his part. Can't have him divulging any secrets."
The driver dropped him off and he was met by a near carbon-copy in the lobby.
"Mr. Cavenaugh?" Pete nodded. "I'll take you up to Maj.
Griffin."
No other words were exchanged and soon Pete was outside the room. "What?
No guard?"
"He must be inside." The soldier opened the door but the room was
empty save for Griffin asleep in bed. "I'll see if I can find him. Do you
need anything, sir?"
"No, I'll just wait until he wakes up."
"Very good, sir. I'll be back with the major ASAP." He left.
Pete set his overcoat and hat down on the visitor's chair and approached the
side of the bed. Griffin lay there, still as the dead, the only thing giving
him away was the slight fall and rise of his chest. "Just you and me,
Griffin. I was hoping this meeting would have been under different
circumstances, but your idiocy has forced me to come here at no small risk. All
I asked for was a simple frame-up and you couldn't even carry that off."
***************************
In the small closet, Steven put a restraining arm on Cooper. "We need
more," he mouthed. Through the small crack, he looked at the man in the
room and wondered how this could be the same man he had entrusted his life to
on no fewer than five occasions. Greed. That had to be it. It was the needing
of more than what you already had that could drive a man over the edge. During
his time as a thief he had seen in a number of times and fought off the
temptation himself. Pete had access to any number of secrets and the contacts
to find buyers for those secrets. This is far worse than craving jewels or wealth;
this is condemning thousands to line his own pockets. He closed his eyes and
breathed slowly to control his anger. Pete made a major mistake when he pulled
me into this and now he's gonna learn the consequences!
"Now I understand how you couldn't catch Steven," Pete was saying.
He's a tough one to catch even when he doesn't know the territory. We made the
mistake of doing this in Berlin. I was hoping we could have driven him to the
East and let everyone else think he had done this for the Russians. They, of
course, would have killed him. You did finally get him, I'll give you that.
Stabbing him in a Parisian alley was a nice touch. Too bad you couldn't get
away and make it look like some random theft. But enough about him. It's all a
question of loyalty. If I didn't think you'd turn on me to save yourself, I'd
leave right now."
Steven nodded to Cooper and the officer slid open the door. "Peter
Cavenaugh, you are under arrest for attempted murder, conspiracy to commit
murder, and treason."
Pete tried to act as if he hadn't been caught in the act. "Listening at
keyholes, Major? I could easily deny everything. Your word against mine."
"His is not the only testimony," said Steven as he came to stand
behind Cooper.
"But who would believe you?" he scoffed.
"That's not what I meant." Steven lifted the blanket on the bed to
reveal a tape recorder. "I meant your own words."
Confronted by the overwhelming evidence, Pete made a dash for the door only to
be impeded by the presence of three armed guards. He raised his hands in
defeat.
"It wasn't easy keeping to the shadows in the City of Lights, but I know
Paris a lot better than I do Berlin," Steven stated.
Pete said nothing as he was taken away.
The two men moved Griffin to a wheelchair and Steven put on a white orderly's
jacket and pushed him along behind Cooper.
"Taylor, we'll contact Washington and let them know what happened and then
we call the Brits and tell them we have the murderer in custody and then we'll
have to call a press conference. You'll be there?"
"I'll be somewhere in the building should you need me," he said
noncommittally. The elevator doors opened. "Your men have an ambulance
ready?"
"Around the corner. Straight to the Embassy, ok? No side trips for your
own purposes."
"Do you think I have something nasty planned for him? Come on."
Cooper said nothing, but looked at him. "All right, maybe I did have a
little spot of agonizing torture planned in this nice underground cavern I
found, but it's not necessary."
A slow grin spread across Cooper's face. "Good to see you haven't lost
your sense of humor. See you at the Embassy."
Steven drove the ambulance to the Embassy and, after delivering Griffin into
the hands of the MPs, disappeared into the woodwork. There was an added bustle
to the activity within the building and he knew it was because of what had just
happened. He found a phone and called Jonteau to tell him everything had worked
out and to make reservations for dinner.
He toyed with the idea of waiting in Cooper's office but knew his presence
would only annoy the man. Instead he found a change of clothes so he would look
presentable then went to where the press conference would be held and waited.
About twenty minutes later the room began to fill with reporters,
photographers, and newsreel cameras. They didn't even notice him, he was just
another uniform. Cooper then came out and gave them all the facts of the
situation, downplaying Steven's role. "With the confession of both men
involved, Steven Taylor's name is now cleared of any wrong-doing."
The floor was opened to questions and the reporters tried to get Cooper to
elaborate on what he had already told them. One reporter took a different tack.
"These documents that were taken, have they been turned over to the proper
authorities?"
"Not as of yet. We have been assured that they are being examined by
physicists."
"Assured by Taylor, no doubt. Couldn't he have taken them to the Russians
and cut his partners out of the deal?"
What a load of-- Infuriated, Steven left his position and stalked to the
podium, discarding his hat as he did so. He looked directly at the reporter who
had made the offensive comment, though he addressed them all. "Now, anyone
will tell you that the Russians would rather kill me than deal with me, so you are
just misinformed. Upon my arrival in Paris a few days ago, I arranged for a
meeting with Philippe Jonteau, the physicist, and handed over the plans so he
could decipher their purpose. Once a decision is reached, they will be dealt
with appropriately. As to why I did it," he took a sip of water,
"someone played upon my loyalty to this country and my desire to protect
it. That's all I have to say. Thank you." He stepped away from the podium
and removed the uniform he had used as a disguise. He was outside and in a taxi
well before anyone else left the room.
After a stop at his apartment for a shower and change of clothes, Steven met
the others at Gaston's. Gaston had saved his best table near the fireplace
which was in high demand during the damp days of early spring. They enjoyed bouillabaisse
followed by blanquette au veau accompanied by champagne from Gaston's
personal cellar. His friends toasted him and he accepted with the proper amount
of humility. In return, he toasted them. "If I had been alone, I doubt I
would be here now. To quote a Frenchman, 'There's nothing worth the wear of
winning, but laughter and the love of friends'."
Jonteau took that moment to hand Steven the folder containing the papers.
"Studying them has confirmed my first impression. I have no doubt that if
the war had continued, the Germans would have used this on all of Europe,
decimating the population."
Steven took the file, and, as he opened it, the documents fell into the fire.
"Aren't you going to save them?" asked Genevieve.
Steven watched the flames engulf the paper. Only he, Jonteau and the dead
soldier had seen them. When he left Paris, he would take a detour to Zurich to
destroy the originals and that would be the end. "No," he said
flatly. "No. Let them burn."