Read Online Citadel by Stephen Hunter - Free Book Online

depending. Oberst
Scholl had imagined himself dancing the night
away at Maxim’s with Hilda, then retiring to a
dawn of love at the Ritz. Instead he was in a dingy
room on the rue Guy de Maupassant, being grilled
by gumshoes from the slums of Germany in an atmosphere
seething with desperation, sour smoke,
and cold coffee.
    â€œHauptmann Macht, believe me, I wish to
avoid the Russian front at all costs. Bricquebec is
no prize, and command of a night fighter
squadron does not suggest, I realize, that I am expected
to do big things in the Luftwaffe. But I am
happy to fight my war there and surrender when
the Americans arrive. I have told you everything.”
    â€œThis I do not understand,” said Leutnant Abel.
“You had previously met Monsieur Piens and you
thought this fellow was he. Yet the photography
shows a face quite different from the one I saw at
the Montparnasse station.”
    â€œStill, they are close,” explained the colonel
somewhat testily. “I had met Piens at a reception
put together by the Vichy mayor of Bricquebec, between
senior German officers and prominent,
sympathetic businessmen. This fellow owned two
restaurants and a hotel, was a power behind the
throne, so to speak, and we had a brief but pleasant
conversation. I cannot say I memorized his face, as
why would I? When I got to the station, I glanced
at the registration of French travelers and saw
Piens’s name and thus looked for him. I suppose I
could say it was my duty to amuse our French
sympathizers, but the truth is, I thought I could
charm my way into a significant discount at his
restaurants or pick up a bottle of wine as a gift.
That is why I looked for him. He did seem different,
but I ascribed that to the fact that he now had
no moustache. I teased him about it and he gave
me a story about his wife’s dry skin.”
    The two policemen waited for more, but there
wasn’t any “more.”
    â€œI tell you, he spoke French perfectly, no trace
of an accent, and was utterly calm and collected.
In fact, that probably was a giveaway I missed.
Most French are nervous in German presence, but
this fellow was quite wonderful.”
    â€œWhat did you talk about for six hours?”
    â€œI run on about myself, I know. And so, with a
captive audience, that is what I did. My wife kicks
me when I do so inappropriately, but unfortunately
she was not there.”
    â€œSo he knows all about you but we know nothing
about him.”
    â€œThat is so,” said the Oberst. “Unfortunately.”
    â€œI hope you speak Russian as well as French,”
said Abel. “Because I have to write a report, and
I’m certainly not going to put the blame on myself.”
    â€œAll right,” said Scholl. “Here is one little present.
Small, I know, but perhaps just enough to keep
me out of a Stuka cockpit.”
    â€œWe’re all ears.”
    â€œAs I have told you, many times, he rode in the
cab to the Ritz, and when we arrived I left and he
stayed in the cab. I don’t know where he took it.
But I do remember the cabbie’s name. They must
display their licenses on the dashboard. It was
Philippe Armoire. Does that help?”
    It did.
    That afternoon Macht stood before a squad room
filled with about fifty men, a third his own, a third
from Feldpolizei Battalion 11, and a third from Boch’s SS detachment, all in plain clothes. Along
with Abel, the feldpolizei sergeant, and Hauptsturmführer
Boch, he sat at the front of the room.
Behind was a large map of Paris. Even Boch had
dressed down for the occasion, though to him
“down” was a bespoke pin-striped, double-breasted
black suit.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “Long night ahead, boys,
best get used to it now. We think we have a British
agent hiding somewhere here,” and he pointed at
the fifth arrondissement, the Left Bank, the absolute
heart of cultural and intellectual Paris. “That
is the area where a cabdriver