Citadel by Stephen Hunter Page A

the
bonfire that had been an automobile several seconds
earlier.
    Basil never looked back, and walked swiftly
down the street until he reached rue de Valor and
headed down it.
    Boch was lecturing Abel on the necessity of severity
in dealing with these French cream puffs when
a man roared into the banquet room, screaming,
“They’ve blown up one of our radio cars. It’s an
attack! The Resistance is here!”
    Instantly men leaped to action. Three ran to a
gun rack in a closet where the MP 40s were stored
and grabbed those powerful weapons up. Abel
raced to the telephone and called Paris command
with a report and a request for immediate troop
dispatch. Still others pulled Walthers, Lugers, and
P38s from holsters, grabbed overcoats, and readied
themselves to move to the scene and take command.
    Hauptsturmführer Boch did nothing. He sat
rooted in terror. He was not a coward, but he also,
for all his worship of severity and aggressive interrogation
methods, was particularly inept at confronting
the unexpected, which generally caused
his mind to dump its contents in a steaming pile
on the floor while he sat in stupefaction, waiting
for it to refill.
    In this case, when he found himself alone in the
room, he reached a refill level, stood up, and ran
after his more agile colleagues.
    He stepped on the sidewalk, which was full of
fleeing Parisians, and fought against the tide, being
bumped and jostled in the process by those who
had no idea who he was. A particularly hard
thump from a hurtling heavyweight all but
knocked him flat, and the fellow had to grab him
to keep him upright before hurrying along. Thus,
making little progress, the Hauptsturmführer
pulled out his Luger, trying to remember if there
was a shell in the chamber, and started to shout in
his bad French, “Make way! German officer, make
way!” waving the Luger about as if it were some
kind of magic wand that would dissipate the
crowd.
    It did not, so taken in panic were the French, so
he diverted to the street itself and found the going
easier. He made it to Boulevard Saint-Germain,
turned right, and there beheld the atrocity. Radio
Car Five still blazed brightly. German plainclothesmen
had set up a cordon around it, menacing the
citizens with their MP 40s, but of course no citizens
were that interested in a German car, and so
the street had largely emptied. Traffic on the busy
thoroughfare had stopped, making the approach
of the fire truck more laggard—the sound of klaxons
arrived from far away, and it was clear that by
the time the firemen arrived the car would be
largely burned to a charred hulk. Two plainclothesmen,
Esterlitz, from his SS unit, and an Abwehr
agent, sat on the curb looking completely unglued
while Abel tried to talk to them.
    Boch ran to them.
    â€œReport,” he snapped as he arrived, but nobody
paid any attention to him.
    â€œReport!” he screamed.
    Abel looked over at him.
    â€œI’m trying to get a description from these two
fellows, so we know who we’re looking for.”
    â€œWe should arrest hostages at once and execute
them if no information is forthcoming.”
    â€œSir, he has to be in the area still. We have to put
people out in all directions with a solid description.”
    â€œEsterlitz, what did you see?”
    Esterlitz looked at him with empty eyes. The
nearness of his escape, the heat of the flames, the
suddenness of it all, had disassembled his brain
completely. Thus it was the Abwehr agent who answered.
    â€œAs I’ve been telling the lieutenant, it happened
so quickly. My last impression in the split second
before the bomb exploded was of a man walking
north on Saint-Germain in a blue pinstripe that
was not well cut at all, a surprise to see in a city so
fashion-conscious, and then whoosh , a wall of
flame behind us.”
    â€œThe bastards,” said Boch. “Attempting murder
in broad daylight.”
    â€œSir,” said Abel, “with all due respect,