Citadel by Stephen Hunter Page B

this was
not an assassination operation. Had he wanted
them dead, he would have hurled the Molotov
through the open window, soaking them with
burning gasoline, burning them to death. Instead
he merely ignited the petrol tank, which enabled
them to escape. He didn’t care about them. That
wasn’t the point, don’t you see?”
    Boch looked at him, embarrassed to be contradicted
by an underling in front of the troops. It was
not the SS way! But he controlled his temper, as it
made no sense to vent at an ignorant police rube.
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    â€œThis was some sort of distraction. He wanted
to get us all out here, concentrating on this essentially
meaningless event, because it somehow advanced
his higher purpose.”
    â€œI—I—” stuttered Boch.
    â€œLet me finish the interview, then get the description
out to all other cars, ordering them to
stay in place. Having our men here, tied up in this
jam, watching the car burn to embers, accomplishes
nothing.”
    â€œDo it! Do it!” screamed Boch, as if he had
thought of it himself.
    Basil reached the Bibliothèque Mazarine within
ten minutes and could still hear fire klaxons
sounding in the distance. The disturbance would
clog up the sixth arrondissement for hours before
it was finally untangled, and it would mess up the
German response for those same hours. He knew
he had a window of time—not much, but perhaps
enough.
    He walked through the cobbled yard and approached
the doors, where two French policemen
stood guard.
    â€œOfficial business only, monsieur . German orders,”
said one.
    He took out his identification papers and said
frostily, “I do not care to chat with French policemen
in the sunlight. I am here on business.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    He entered a vast, sacred space. It was composed
of an indefinite number of hexagonal galleries, with
vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low
railings. From any of the hexagons one could see,
interminably, the upper and lower floors. The distribution
of the galleries was invariable. Twenty
shelves, five long shelves per side, covered all the
sides except two; their height, which was the distance
from floor to ceiling, scarcely exceeded that
of a normal bookcase. The books seemed to absorb
and calm all extraneous sounds, so that as his heels
clicked on the marble of the floor on the approach
to a central desk, a woman behind it hardly seemed
to notice him. However, his papers got her attention
and her courtesy right away.
    â€œI am here on important business. I need to
speak to le directeur immediately.”
    She left. She returned. She bade him follow.
They went to an elevator where a decrepit Great
War veteran, shoulders stooped, medals tarnished,
eyes vacant, opened the gate to a cage-like car.
They were hoisted mechanically up two flights, followed
another path through corridors of books,
and reached a door.
    She knocked, then entered. He followed, to discover
an old Frenchie in some kind of frock coat
and goatee, standing nervously.
    â€œI am Claude De Marque, the director,” he said
in French. “How may I help you?”
    â€œDo you speak German?”
    â€œYes, but I am more fluent in my own tongue.”
    â€œFrench, then.”
    â€œPlease sit down.”
    Basil took a chair.
    â€œNow—”
    â€œFirst, understand the courtesy I have paid you.
Had I so chosen, I could have come with a contingent
of armed troops. We could have shaken
down your institution, examined the papers of all
your employees, made impolite inquiries as we
looked for leverage and threw books every which
way. That is the German technique. Perhaps you
shield a Jew, as is the wont of your kind of prissy
French intellectual. Too bad for those Jews, too
bad for those who shield him. Are you getting my
meaning?”
    â€œYes, sir, I—”
    â€œInstead I come on my own. As men of letters,
I think it more appropriate that our