by any stretch of the imagination. For a moment, she could smell again the cordite in the passageway of the Garden Club as she rammed the barrel of the Walther into his stomach.
He grinned, “Now don't be silly. You know you wouldn't,” and kissed her.
She fired into the ground between his legs and he jumped back with a cry of fear.
“Careful,” she said calmly. “You almost lost something.”
Paul Dubois arrived on the run, crashing through the bushes. “What is it? What's happened, for God's sake?”
“Nothing,” Hannah slipped the Walther back into her pocket. “A slight misunderstanding between Henri and me, but I think we know where we are now.”
Paul Dubois slapped his brother across the face.
“Will you never learn? Anything in a skirt and you're like a dog in heat.” He turned to Hannah. “It won't happen again, I guarantee. Now let's get out of here, and fast, just in case some inquisitive farmer heard that shot.”
The Ju-52 transport was the aerial workhorse of the German army during the Second World War and it was used extensively for troop, freight, or passenger transport. Its three engines gave it a distinctive appearance, and the corrugated metal skin earned it the affectionate nickname of Iron Annie.
Schellenberg had traveled this way many times before, but in pleasanter company. Kleiber had positioned himself halfway along the plane with Sindermann at the rear by the steward's compartment, as if to emphasize the difference in rank.
Which at least left Schellenberg alone at the front, but it was hot and rather stuffy, and he was glad, after a while, to accept an invitation from the pilot to visit the flight deck.
Afterward, he went back to his seat for coffee and sat there, thinking about Hannah Winter and the trap which would be waiting for her at the Golden Coin in Montmartre. There was nothing he could do this time—he was already in too deep. There was always the possibility that she would reveal his part in her escape for, under the kind of pressure applied in the Prinz Albrechtstrasse cellars, most individuals broke in time—or died first.
He felt curiously indifferent. It was all one in the end, and he leaned forward and peered out of the window as Paris loomed below.
Kleiber appeared beside him, looking excited. “Le Bourget, General. The Führer flew in here at four in the morning of June the twenty-third with Keitel and a handful of his staff. When most Parisians were still in bed, our Führer toured their city. What a moment for Germany!”
“Marvelous,” Schellenberg said. “I hope it kept fine for him.”
* * *
A Gestapo major named Ehrlich was waiting for them when they went through into the VIP lounge.
“A distinct pleasure, Brigadeführer,” he said to Schellenberg. “A car is waiting.”
“You've had your instructions from Prinz Albrechtstrasse?”
“Yes.”
“Then you'll know that Sturmbannführer Kleiber is in charge of this affair.”
Kleiber said, “Naturally I would welcome your presence as an observer, General, if you can spare the time.”
There was a challenge there which Schellenberg could hardly refuse. “Why not? As long as I have time to visit SD headquarters at Avenue Foch before we leave, I am entirely at your service, my dear Kleiber.”
As they went out, he fingered the butt of the silenced Mauser in his pocket. If there was a melee at the Golden Coin, a stray bullet might well pass unnoticed, giving Sturmbannführer Willi Kleiber the opportunity of dying gallantly in the service of the Reich. It was a happy thought. As he got into the Citroen limousine provided, Schellenberg was smiling.
The tanker turned into the parking area beside a small truckers' café in Clichy, north of Montmartre, and Henri braked to a halt.
“Are you going to phone, or shall I?”
“No, leave it to me,” his brother said and jumped to the ground.
Henri leaned back and tapped on the bulkhead. “Okay in there?”
There was a muffled reply, and he
He grinned, “Now don't be silly. You know you wouldn't,” and kissed her.
She fired into the ground between his legs and he jumped back with a cry of fear.
“Careful,” she said calmly. “You almost lost something.”
Paul Dubois arrived on the run, crashing through the bushes. “What is it? What's happened, for God's sake?”
“Nothing,” Hannah slipped the Walther back into her pocket. “A slight misunderstanding between Henri and me, but I think we know where we are now.”
Paul Dubois slapped his brother across the face.
“Will you never learn? Anything in a skirt and you're like a dog in heat.” He turned to Hannah. “It won't happen again, I guarantee. Now let's get out of here, and fast, just in case some inquisitive farmer heard that shot.”
The Ju-52 transport was the aerial workhorse of the German army during the Second World War and it was used extensively for troop, freight, or passenger transport. Its three engines gave it a distinctive appearance, and the corrugated metal skin earned it the affectionate nickname of Iron Annie.
Schellenberg had traveled this way many times before, but in pleasanter company. Kleiber had positioned himself halfway along the plane with Sindermann at the rear by the steward's compartment, as if to emphasize the difference in rank.
Which at least left Schellenberg alone at the front, but it was hot and rather stuffy, and he was glad, after a while, to accept an invitation from the pilot to visit the flight deck.
Afterward, he went back to his seat for coffee and sat there, thinking about Hannah Winter and the trap which would be waiting for her at the Golden Coin in Montmartre. There was nothing he could do this time—he was already in too deep. There was always the possibility that she would reveal his part in her escape for, under the kind of pressure applied in the Prinz Albrechtstrasse cellars, most individuals broke in time—or died first.
He felt curiously indifferent. It was all one in the end, and he leaned forward and peered out of the window as Paris loomed below.
Kleiber appeared beside him, looking excited. “Le Bourget, General. The Führer flew in here at four in the morning of June the twenty-third with Keitel and a handful of his staff. When most Parisians were still in bed, our Führer toured their city. What a moment for Germany!”
“Marvelous,” Schellenberg said. “I hope it kept fine for him.”
* * *
A Gestapo major named Ehrlich was waiting for them when they went through into the VIP lounge.
“A distinct pleasure, Brigadeführer,” he said to Schellenberg. “A car is waiting.”
“You've had your instructions from Prinz Albrechtstrasse?”
“Yes.”
“Then you'll know that Sturmbannführer Kleiber is in charge of this affair.”
Kleiber said, “Naturally I would welcome your presence as an observer, General, if you can spare the time.”
There was a challenge there which Schellenberg could hardly refuse. “Why not? As long as I have time to visit SD headquarters at Avenue Foch before we leave, I am entirely at your service, my dear Kleiber.”
As they went out, he fingered the butt of the silenced Mauser in his pocket. If there was a melee at the Golden Coin, a stray bullet might well pass unnoticed, giving Sturmbannführer Willi Kleiber the opportunity of dying gallantly in the service of the Reich. It was a happy thought. As he got into the Citroen limousine provided, Schellenberg was smiling.
The tanker turned into the parking area beside a small truckers' café in Clichy, north of Montmartre, and Henri braked to a halt.
“Are you going to phone, or shall I?”
“No, leave it to me,” his brother said and jumped to the ground.
Henri leaned back and tapped on the bulkhead. “Okay in there?”
There was a muffled reply, and he
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