Dragonfly, page 16
A pause followed that told Victoria the news would not be welcome, to her or to the fencing master whose assistance to the OSS had exposed him to more danger than he’d bargained for. “What is it you are not telling me, Monsieur Vogel?”
Another weighty pause, then, apologetically: “He is a Standartenführer in the SS, mademoiselle.”
Victoria drew a sharp breath. Oh God. A colonel in the Schutzstaffel—the dreaded SS. “What…does he do? What are his duties?” There were two branches of the Schutzstaffel, administration and combat, both vile.
Victoria could hear the fencing master let out a sigh. “He is the chief of the counterintelligence division of the Sicherheitsdienst here in Paris, mademoiselle.”
The news got worse. The Sicherheitsdienst, better known as the SD, was the security service of the Reichsführer, a police unit as brutal as its equally vicious brother organization, the Gestapo. Its role was “to discover the enemies of the Nazi Party and to initiate countermeasures through official police authorities.” Those countermeasures involved unspeakable crimes against those deemed enemies of the Third Reich.
That would be Victoria Grayson, also known as Liverwort and Veronique Colbert.
“Have you ever met him?” she asked.
“Yes, but only once, years ago when we engaged in an international fencing competition. He was a formidable opponent. I bested him, but barely. I don’t believe he ever lost another bout. His request came by telephone.”
“How old is he?”
“I would estimate about thirty.”
Victoria imagined him older, closer to Jacques Vogel’s age, trim, still fast on his feet, but pushing past his prime. “That’s awfully young to be in charge of an organization like the SD,” she remarked.
“They rise quickly in German military ranks, but he would have soared up the SS ladder in any case. Colonel Albrecht comes from a very wealthy and influential family, members of the top hierarchy of German aristocracy. His forebears once ruled a powerful duchy until the unification of Germany in 1871, but his lineage and connections are not responsible for his rank and position, mademoiselle. You will see, so you must be very, very careful.” A faint trace of cheer entered his voice. “A good source of information, no?”
Not likely, Victoria thought. The SD boys were too well trained to let drop a crumb of intelligence. On the other hand, there were none within the ranks of the Nazi police organizations better at detection than the monsters in the Sicherheitsdienst.
“Now, I beg you not to be late. The colonel will arrive within the hour,” Jacques said. “Oh, and one other thing. Colonel Albrecht prefers his officer’s rank to his monarchic title of duke.”
Oh brother, thought Victoria.
Actually, she was late by half an hour and the man already getting into his fencing gear in the men’s dressing room when she arrived. Monsieur Vogel greeted her nervously. “The metro I usually take was jammed, and I had to wait for another one,” Victoria forestalled his rebuke when she saw his look. She’d be damned if she’d apologize to the colonel, or duke, for missing the hour of an appointment he’d arbitrarily imposed on her and disrupted her critical plans for the day.
Stepping into the changing area, by the men’s dressing room, Victoria saw the colonel’s SS uniform on a hanger topped with its chillingly recognizable peaked hat set with the death’s-head insignia, the skull and crossbones. The Iron Cross, the highest German military decoration for bravery, hung from a ribbon suspended from the same peg. At the start of the war, but for a few elite groups within the organization, the SS had dropped their infamous red armbands and all-black uniform for a more suitable field gray. In combat, the original choice had made the wearer an easy target for the enemy to spot. The SD must be one of the elite groups still authorized to wear the former color. The uniform hanging from the peg was pure black.
The colonel stepped out from the dressing room in full fencing gear as she appeared, wire mask tucked under his arm. He bowed. “Mademoiselle Colbert, I believe,” he said in perfect boarding-school French. “I am Derrick Albrecht. Thank you so much for meeting me on such short notice. I am quite sure my request must have inconvenienced you greatly.”
They were all so infernally polite and correct, the members of the SD, even in their interrogation rooms, so it was said. A spike of irritation at his courteousness—he didn’t give a damn that he had put her out—sharpened Victoria’s already thin-edged temper. “You are quite correct in your assumption, Colonel,” she said. The uniform and the fact that he fenced had given her some idea of his physical size, so his trim form and considerable height were not unexpected nor, considering his background, his pedigreed air. But his Ivy League crew cut, friendly eyes, and Gary Cooper “aw shucks” smile were at odds with her mental image of the man she’d expected to meet. One would never know that behind that boyishly handsome façade lay the face of evil.
Behind him, Jacques Vogel widened his eyes warningly and made a little sound in his throat correspondent to slicing a finger across his neck.
“Then I must find a way to make it up to you,” the colonel said, the eyes still friendly. “Sprichst du Deutsch?” (Do you speak German?)
“Nein.”
“Then after the bout, we shall discuss in French how I should make amends. Perhaps you will allow me to take you for a meal?”
Behind the colonel, Jacques Vogel nodded vigorously. Say yes!
“That won’t be necessary,” Victoria said and stepped aside to move to the women’s dressing room.
“It is necessary to me,” he said, putting out a hand to bar her way. “Otherwise, I shall feel like a heartless lout.”
Which is exactly what you are, Victoria thought, understanding that the invitation was not to be refused, and said coldly, “Very well then, since you insist, Colonel. I will meet you at the piste.” Beneath her jacket, her silk blouse clung to her clammy skin. She felt she’d just come eye to eye with a swaying cobra.
CHAPTER THIRTY
You want me to do what?” Achim Fleischer’s commander demanded, staring up at the newest recruit in his department from a desk piled with the never-ending paperwork. “As short as we are of personnel and as busy as I am, you want me to investigate a mural going up on the courtyard wall of the Sisters of Charity? What the hell for?”
“There’s something suspicious about it. It’s a gut feeling I have. The drawing’s being done by a fashion designer new to the neighborhood. She could pass for a teenage girl, but she possesses the eyes of a woman, no matter her attempt to seduce me to believe otherwise.”
Seduce you, you little weasel, you with a penis the size of a shrimp! his chief thought uncharitably, his temper short-fused from his having to work on Sunday, his day off. The commander, head of a unit in a police force now as ostracized as the Jews, was already so weary of this meddling prick’s suspicions against neighbors and friends based on nothing but gut feelings.
“And that’s all? What is its subject?”
Undeterred, Achim Fleischer answered, “The subject quite escapes me, but there’s a dragonfly in it and some…seaweed, I think, and various other water plants, I believe they would be called.”
“Are they objectionable to look at?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then what do you find suspicious about them?”
“I don’t know. It’s…just this feeling I have that they have a clandestine purpose.”
“Ah, yes, that talking gut of yours again.” The commander continued writing. “Check with the mother superior of the convent. I’m sure she’s not unaware of somebody splashing paint on her courtyard wall. Find out where the girl came from, if she has her permission to do…whatever she’s doing.”
“I already have,” Achim Fleischer said.
The pen arrested, the commander glanced up. “And?”
“She…sees it as a painting of beauty to enliven the mood of the street.”
“Well, then, Achim, how can we disagree with Sister Mary Frances? Do you wish to spend eternity in hell?”
“Of course not, but I am sure the drawing is more than it appears and bears investigating. There’s the paint, for one thing. Where did she get it? My sister is an artist, and she can’t find the acrylic medium the woman is using. It’s a new artist compound just developed and is scarce even in peacetime. I think it’s smuggled contraband.”
“May the Almighty save us from such danger.”
“Nonetheless, I request that you take a look at it. I’m sure your superiors would agree.”
The commander glared at the lowest-ranked member of his squad. You sheep shit, he thought. He was now sure that this twat was an informant to the higher-ups who were in bed with the Gestapo and Vichy government. Now that America had entered the war, an Allied invasion was coming that would liberate France and all of Europe from under the Nazi boot heel. Who knew where and when, but it was whispered about on every corner, in every household by those not deaf to reality. Come that blessed day, he would see that Achim Fleischer got his just due.
It was late in the day and unusually cold for the eleventh day of October. As commander he would soon be able to go home to his meager supper and skimpy fire that would at least be shared in the warm lap of family. He had no desire to go traipsing off in the falling night and cold to view a harmless painting on a wall, much less with a flic on the eager lookout for curfew offenders that would mean an arrest and a trip back to the station for an interrogation. He swallowed his chagrin, sour as cheap wine, and growled, “All right, Fleischer. Let’s go see what has got a stick up your rump.”
His mouth dropped open the moment he saw the object of his intern’s suspicions. Awe flashed across Achim’s face as well. Neither man paid attention to the small knot of people who had dared to risk breaking curfew to admire the unfinished aquatic scene developing on the convent wall. They scattered before they could be noticed, but the policemen paid them no mind as they approached the wall. The artist was nowhere in sight this close to curfew.
“It’s…beautiful,” the commander said softly, face filled with admiration. “And you have a problem with this, Fleischer?” he asked incredulously.
“The artist has…added more to the drawing since I was here Friday,” his intern defended his report. “She must have worked on it this weekend. It…gives a larger picture.”
The painting was far from finished, but there were enough details and background for the street viewer to feel as if he had only to step forward to enter a magical garden where lily pads floated over clear blue water, and dragonflies darted among bright tropical flowers and flora under fluffy clouds and serene skies. Though partially formed, a golden Labrador with yearning eyes dominated the scene, its gaze on a wading bird oblivious to the dog’s presence.
The commander said, “Well, I’ve seen enough. There is not a single stroke on this mural to raise doubt that it is anything but what it clearly is to the rest of us—a peaceful scene on a convent wall to suggest that somewhere in the world there is calm and order and people aren’t shooting at one another. You’re to do nothing to get in the way of its completion. As a matter of fact, I order you to stand guard to make sure nobody does. This street is your beat from now on. Understood!”
Achim opened his mouth to protest, but then the awareness of this unexpected gift hit him. His commander’s order gave him the excuse to keep a constant eye on the artist. She wasn’t working alone, although he believed he could rule out Sister Mary Frances as a fellow conspirator. The old harridan had her nuns to think of. Sooner or later, the artist would betray herself and the others working with her, then he’d have her. Give him an hour with her in an interrogation room, and she’d spill her guts like a split sack of peas, and then they’d round up her accomplices. That coup ought to get him a place in the French Milice, the new paramilitary police organization that the Vichy government was organizing. Then his commander would see what was what and who was boss.
“Oh, but I—” he started to argue to make it look good.
“No buts, Fleischer. Do as you’re told, and don’t you dare take your suspicions to my superiors, as you say! Do you want to cause a riot on this street? Run afoul of Sister Mary Frances, who has obviously sanctioned this painting? This neighborhood will revolt and blame you if this mural is destroyed and the artist arrested. Parisians may knuckle down before the Boche, but they’ll stand up against anyone who challenges the Catholic Church. Got that?” The commander jabbed a finger into Achim’s chest.
“Oui, Commander,” Achim said, sighing and feigning a face of disappointment. “I will follow your orders to the utmost of my ability.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
On his balcony, Major General Konrad March gazed across the boxwood hedge for sight of his unlikely new fishing buddy, disappointed not to find him on the riverbank this second Sunday morning of their acquaintance. Church bells were ringing, but Konrad did not think the boy was a churchgoer. Madame Gastain, yes. Never came a Sunday but that his binoculars did not pick up his neighbor walking to mass in her widow’s weeds, slim and willowy. He would like to know what the face looked like beneath the black veil. Very pretty, despite her age, but sad and lost, Barnard had told him when he asked.
“Why sad and lost?”
It was an inane question. All Parisians looked sad and lost over the foreign occupation of their city, especially those who had fallen from the social and financial pinnacles of their former prosperity, as had Madame Gastain, but Konrad had wanted to know the other specifics. Barnard had answered his questions straight, without giving a hint that he perceived the reason for his neighbor’s curiosity. “Her husband lost their fortune in the financial crash of 1929 and never recovered from the disgrace of it. He committed suicide a few years ago, and she has not recovered from his death. There were no children, so Madame Gastain has been alone ever since but for two elderly retainers.”
“How old?”
“Who? Madame Gastain or her retainers?”
“Madame Gastain.”
“Around her middle forties, I’d guess.”
“And she’s still wearing widow’s weeds for her husband?”
“Well…not entirely just for him.”
Of course not. She wore them for all of France, like a lot of Parisian women. “What does she do to occupy her time, shut away in her house?”
“I’ve only known her a short while, but I gather she listens to the phonograph, reads—she has a huge library—and plays the piano. Perhaps you’ve heard her? I know nothing about music, but she sounds very accomplished. I bring her the fish I catch, and she invites me to share it at her table, which is very pleasant for me.”
“I’ve heard her play. You are right. She is very accomplished.”
This conversation had taken place the day before in Normandy waters on Captain Claude Allard’s fishing boat. The presence of the general had displeased the captain, and Konrad hoped it had not jeopardized Barnard’s job. The general’s ears were trained to hear through walls, and when the captain ordered Barnard to join him in the wheelhouse, Konrad, packing up his rod and tackle just outside it, had caught faint snatches of their conversation but clear enough to be understood. They had spoken in French, Konrad’s second language.
Do you know what you’re doing hobnobbing with the chief of German intelligence in France? I don’t like it that you’ve brought him onto my boat, and now he’ll be around every Saturday through November. His presence intimidates my other customers.
We’re neighbors and met last Sunday over my tackle box. The man’s an avid fisherman. He’d heard of you as the best boatman on the Seine and when I told him that I worked for you…
That wouldn’t have been by design, would it?
The less you know, Captain.
Major General March was still mulling over that last bit of dialogue between the boat captain and his fishing guide: That wouldn’t be by design, would it? And Barnard’s reply: The less you know, Captain.
It was probably harmless. The captain might have been implying that Barnard was taking a risk ingratiating himself to the chief of German intelligence with hope of securing favors from him—extra ration cards, coal, petrol, foodstuffs—items impossible for Parisians to come by since the occupation. The general had already sent a canned ham with his compliments to the widow next door.
But he would keep alert to the remote possibility that Barnard Wagner was not who he declared himself to be. The general had learned to trust no one, not even his closest and dearest friends, as some had discovered to their sorrow, more was the sad pity of things because of this damned war. He would be especially disappointed to discover that Barnard Wagner, who reminded him of his younger brother in their innocent days before a deer hunter’s bullet caught him in the chest, had appeared by design in the lives of him and his son.
For Wilhelm had taken to their neighbor, too. A shy lad, lonely, still missing his mother, finding no solace in school, he had found in the fisherman the promise of a friend. The general had returned home last Monday evening to hear that his son and Herr Wagner had played kickball after school, after Wilhelm had inadvertently kicked his soccer ball over the hedge into Madame Gastain’s yard. The following evening, Hans had reported that Wilhelm had climbed the steps to the fisherman’s garage apartment that afternoon to ask Barnard if he wanted to come out and play. Barnard, whose workday finished early because Captain Allard liked to dock his boat before dusk, had readily agreed, and the two had been playing kickball on the back lawn every afternoon all week.
“You mustn’t let my son impose on you, Herr Wagner,” the general had told him the day before. “Do not feel under the least obligation to allow Wilhelm to intrude on your free time.”
“It is no imposition, General. It is good exercise for us both and gives Wilhelm a chance to practice for his soccer games.”
“Well, it is very kind of you. The boy has no friends, and Hans is too stiff and gimpy to run around outside kicking a ball.”
