Colonel Hogan walked into Klink's quarters wearing his Class As and a small, noncommittal smile. All his senses were on full alert. Auverne, from Kinchloe's thorough briefing, sounded nasty enough. And the V-3 was truly frightening. The thought of one of those things landing in his mother's living room left him numb. And the effect on the American civilian population was something Hogan couldn't predict. Shock for sure, but would they be as tough as the British during the Blitz? He didn't want to find out.
General Burkhalter stood up and greeted Hogan cordially. "So good to see you, Colonel."
"Thank you, general." The general's bonhomnie always raised hackle-raising, always left Hogan wondering what he was up to.
"May I introduce M. Jean-Marie Auverne? Monsieur Auverne, Colonel Robert Hogan, United States Army Air Corps."
"And a prisoner of war."
"Nobody's perfect, monsieur." He accepted the schnapps poured for him by Burkhalter.
"A tamed prisoner," Klink added.
"Oh, how convenient! Shall we zee 'ow tame 'e is?" A malicious twinkle lit Auverne's light brown eyes. Hogan's nerves went taut. "So tell me, colonel, what would you think of a weapon that could be launched from Germany yet strike d'east coast of America?"
"Could you possibly take out Philadelphia? I once spent a week there. It was a dump, and I hated the place. Losing it would be good thing."
"I was thinking more along ze lines of Bridgeport, Connecticut as a target." He watched closely for any reaction from Hogan and saw none. "It is your home town, n'est-ce pas?" The double chin shook slightly.
"Nah. Bridgeport's too small, too unimportant to waste good ordinance on. You want something splashy. Philly would make a better target." Hogan shot a quick look at Burkhalter, figuring the general had given the Frenchman access to the files on him.
"Do you think zo, colonel? I think Bridgeport would be ideal—precisely because it is small and unimportant. Except to you. Of course, your maman lives there. Would you be upset if she were killed?"
Hogan didn't appreciate being taunted this way, but two could play this game. "Find me a man who doesn't love his mother, and I'll show you an unnatural man."
Stung, Auverne retorted, "I do not love my mother."
"I rest my case."
Klink took the entrance of Sgt. Carter with filled plates as a heaven-sent diversion. "Ah," he enthused, rubbing hands together, "dinner is served." He directed his guests to the table. He placed Col. Hogan directly across from Auverne.
At that distance, Hogan figured he couldn't strangle the industrialist.
HH HH HH
Carter, who'd caught most of the unpleasant confrontation, returned to the kitchen angry and indignant. He whispered intensely to Newkirk and LeBeau, "Do you believe this guy? He's in there baiting Colonel Hogan about blowing up his home town."
LeBeau insulted Auverne under his breath in French, while Newkirk responded in English, "'E's a rotter, Andrew, no doubt o'that."
"I just don't know how the colonel's managed to keep from slugging the guy. Especially after the cracks about his mom." Carter's decency boiled over.
LeBeau said, without looking up, "Auverne is a coward and a bully. It's his way of exerting power over the colonel."
"It's still pretty awful, if you ask me."
"Oui, but with guys like Auverne, who are so small, it's the only way to be important."
"Yeah, particularly with that lisp of 'is, which makes it all sound so bloody insane. 'E's got to make up somewhere."
Still mumbling, Carter took out more wine to the diners. Newkirk muttered to his mate, "Pity the colonel won't let you poison the blighter." LeBeau nodded.
HH HH HH
At the table, Burkhalter and Klink tried to carry the conversation throughout dinner, but failed miserably. Auverne and Hogan verbally lunged and parried, but they confined themselves to monosyllabic responses to direct questions.
Hogan wondered, picking absently at his food, if Klink would ever get around to mentioning the new French singer. Finally, after a few moments of blessed silence, he prodded Klink. "Herr Kommandant, do you think General Burkhalter would like to know about the new cabaret singer? From what you've told me, she sounds like an absolute knockout."
Burkhalter, a known sucker for a pretty face and trim figure, visibly perked up. So did Auverne. "Yes, Klink. I would like to know."
"I've heard, sir, that this singer, who's French, Monsieur Auverne, just recently arrived in Hammelburg."
"With a name like Marie-Jacques Duval, "Hogan threw in, deliberately butchering the name with American vowels, "what else would she be?"
"You have an appreciation for Frenchwomen?"
There was a salacious air about the man, and for one, wicked moment, Hogan delighted in knowing that Miri would deliver his comeuppance. She was definitely more than the man could handle.
He responded, with a wide, lascivious grin splitting his face, "Oh, yes, indeed. Especially if what Colonel Klink has told me about her voice and looks are true."
"Apparently, Mademoiselle Duval looks and sounds like Edith Piaf," Klink added.
"Little and delicate, like zee Sparrow, yet with a great big voice?" Auverne closed his eyes in anticipation. He opened them again, a different light in them now. "I must zee and 'ear Mademoiselle Duval. Where is she?"
Hogan realized that Auverne was caught—hook, line and sinker. Klink was just relieved to have a safe conversation topic. "At the Hauserhof, Monsieur Auverne."
The industrialist turned back to Hogan. "And 'ow long 'ave you gone sans une femme, mon colonel?"
"Longer than I care to think about." He grinned piratically. Matching Auverne had so far tended to blunt his horns.
"And do you not feel deprived of feminine companionship? I could not zo exist."
Hogan almost slipped and said, glad to hear it, but stopped himself. Rather, he remarked, "Of course, I do, but what soldier doesn't, these days?" He looked meaningfully at Burkhalter. "Don't you miss Frau Burkhalter's charms, general?" If he was behind this, he could pay for it, thought Hogan darkly.
The general, embarrassed, neglected to answer, for Carter and Newkirk chose that precise moment to enter to whisk plates away and lay dessert and coffee before the guests. Both were consumed quickly and in silence. When they were done, Klink, like a good host, did make the effort to suggest the port and walnuts, but Burkhalter declined for both himself and Auverne. They made as dignified a retreat as possible.
No sooner had the door closed behind the portly Frenchman than Klink poured himself and Hogan a generous measure of the heavy, fortified wine.
"My deepest apologies, Colonel Hogan, for a dreadful evening. There was no need for any of it, and I'll not subject you or LeBeau to that man again."
Hogan, distracted by Klink's graciousness, couldn't figure out if Burkhalter had been embarrassed by Auverne's nastiness or his failure to rattle him. Klink's next comment pulled him back to reality.
"I'd sooner sit down to dinner with Major Hochstetter."
"So would I."
HH HH HH
Looking like a very dignified, middle-aged German civilian, Hogan rapped on the door of 215 Martinstraße 7. The door opened a crack while a dark eye made a quick reconnoitering. Then, it opened wide to admit Hogan who entered briskly. He stopped short when he realized what Miriam Broadbent was wearing--a pink velvet negligée with copious marabou feathers at collar, cuffs, and hem. The confection swallowed her.
"Miri…?" he started, before a feather got up his nose, causing him to wonder if he were going to sneeze.
She held up a hand and remarked drily, "I know. I look preposterous." She bent down to a small table and poured a modest glass of wine for Hogan. She handed it to him.
"You look like a little girl playing dress up with her mother's clothes."
"It's a gift from Auverne. And that should tell you something." She made disgusted noises. "And speaking of the devil, he was just here."
"So, you've finally made real contact."
For the last two weeks it had seemed Auverne was never going to do more than nose around Marie-Jacques Duval. The two previous contacts with his men had produced little more than local gossip and Newkirk's frank admiration for her as the greatest actress since Sybil Thorndike. LeBeau had been more critical--she sounded nothing like the Sparrow—not enough growled, rolled 'r's—and was more a cantatrice than a chanteuse. Now, it seemed, a breakthrough had been made—a good thing since London had been getting quite nervous.
She threw her wine back in one gulp. "Yes, he's decided I'm worth his time and attention."
"Lucky you."
She motioned him to a worn but still decent settee. A twisted smile made a mockery of her generous mouth. They sat down, their knees touching which sent an electric shock through them both.
"I certainly haven't wasted mine. Once he deigned to be my patron—and I groveled sufficiently—Auverne became quite talkative. With a little lubrication, he actually bragged about his connections in the French black market and what he could get me." Her hand swept back toward the tiny kitchen which Hogan assumed was well-provisioned, even as food rationing tightened. "He's really quite dreadful in his cups, but I did manage to get three names: Henri Orland, Etienne Benet, and Marcel Jospin."
"Not bad." He committed the names to memory. "What else?"
"The factory goes on apace. It should be operational in 2 to 3 weeks, but Auverne was whinging about German-caused delays. It seems your Colonel Klink has been only as helpful as he's had to be."
"For once, the kommandant has chosen to have some spine. He's decided that not everybody is worth cultivating." Hogan had watched with real respect Klink's aloofness from Auverne. "The time frame matches what we've gotten from the guards who'd sooner not be there."
She leaned back against the settee, nonchalantly pulling the curtain aside to peer outside. "Last but not least, I managed to divest Auverne of his secret Swiss bank account numbers." A feather-swathed hand held out a tiny slip of paper. "That should allow General de Gaulle access to those accounts, especially if he leans on M. Orland, Auverne's principal agent." The curtain dropped back into place.
"Well done, Miri. Now you can clear out."
"Ah, no. As much as I would like to, I can't. Auverne is a wealth of information. I've only broken the surface of his black market activities. Furthermore, he may have agents on de Gaulle's staff and certainly in the Resistance. THAT I want to crack."
"Don't push your luck."
"Words of wisdom, Robin, but you know as well as I do that I can't leave until London recalls me or my cover gets blown here."
"I'd rather not think about the latter, if you don't mind."
He'd been trying to concentrate on the job at hand and then getting out without fuss, but his desire for her got the better of him, particularly as she pulled closer to him. He inhaled her perfume. It went straight to his head.
She whispered, "I want you to take off your clothes, leave them in a trail leading to the bedroom, and get in bed. Make it look like we've been up to something really wild." A finger pointed the way.
Hogan had been propositioned before, but never like this. "What!?" he asked incredulously.
"The Gestapo have surrounded the building, and they should be starting their search soon. Captain Zimbrod commands over there, and he starts at the top and works down. When they knock on the door, I'll answer, looking quite disheveled. They'll see me in a negligée, your trail of clothes, and if they look, your body in the bed. They will see sufficient evidence to suggest that the cabaret singer isn't too chaste. After all, most people see what they want to see."
"Where the hell do you get your theories, Miri?" he asked, ripping off his tie. The suit jacket and the white shirt followed in short order.
"Sherlock Holmes," she responded. She mussed her hair and made the negligée appear hastily thrown on.
Not a moment too soon. Although expected, the heavy pounding on the apartment door made her jump. She rushed to answer it, and one part of the wide collar of feathers slipped down her arm, revealing bare shoulder.
"Bon soir, mes officiers," she said.
"Pardon me, but we are looking for an Underground radio operator." He made to come in.
She didn't bar his way. "Be my guest."
The Gestapo agent took in the trail of clothes to the bedroom and followed it. Miriam dashed to the half-open door. "Please, do not disturb M. Auverne."
The young man gently pushed it open to reveal trousers, shoes, and socks scattered on the floor. A pair of boxer shorts hung from a bedpost. The bedclothes were rumpled, and a man sprawled, completely spent, beneath them. A bare foot was partially uncovered. The Gestapo agent made his way through the rest of the tiny apartment.
He clicked his heels. "Guten abend, Fraulein."
She closed the door behind him, latched it, and sagged in sheer relief.
Recovering herself, Miriam began to pick up Hogan's discarded clothing, neatly placing the items in a pile on the back of the stuffed chair in the bedroom. She plucked the underwear from the bedpost and dangled them in front of his eyes. "What inspiration, my Robin." Her voice was sultry.
He rolled over and tried to snatch his shorts from her. She was too quick for him, withdrawing the desired garment from his reach. Making sure the bedclothes covered him, he said, rather tightly, "Do you mind?"
"Yes, actually I do." She dropped them with the rest of his clothes--well out of reach.
He sighed, figured he was going to have to negotiate with her to get his clothes back. Instead, he was enormously surprised to watch her slip the pink negligée from her shoulders and leave it on the floor. His eyes widened in expectation of her nakedness, but he had to do a double-take. The knee-length blue silk nightgown clung revealingly. She slipped under the covers, into bed, next to him. His heart was pounding. He wondered if she could hear it.
"The Gestapo will have the building surrounded until they arrest the radio operator. That will be well into the wee small hours of the morning. How long will it take you to get back to camp?"
"About 30 to 40 minutes, give or take." He found it hard to think about anything but her.
"Good. I'll set the alarm for 4am."
She reached across him, brushing his chest with her silk-clad body. When she pulled back, he put his arms around her, bringing her closer her to him. They kissed—repeatedly and with increasing intensity. Her fingers traced the outlines of his face, ran through his thick, dark hair, while his hands trailed down her back, along her hips. Without distracting himself from her, Hogan reached up and turned out the light.
He murmured huskily, "I don't think you're going to need this," and slid the nightgown over her head. It landed on the floor beside the pink negligée.
HH HH HH
Several hours later, Hogan awoke with a start. It took him a second to realize where he was. Miri spooned against him, still asleep. He brushed stray hair out of her face—a lovely face, now peaceful and calm, but clearly showing the force of character behind it. Emotion swept through him. One thing was certain: he loved her. Slowly, he rolled over on his back, wondering when and why. After a few minutes, it came to him--her fierce independence, her quick intelligence, her amazing combination of strength and vulnerability, of which she'd shown him both. She would never cling. It was a love based on trust and respect. He could talk to her freely, equally, without pulling any punches.
Heaving a deep sigh, Hogan thought about their earlier argument: maybe she was right. Maybe the double standard WAS ridiculous.
Miri interrupted his deep thoughts by turning over, pillowing her head on his shoulder. She unconsciously flung an arm across his chest, and he encircled her shoulders and snuffled her hair, whispering, "Where do we go from here, my darling?"
HH HH HH
Maurice Dubois, formerly of the French Air Force and now of the Resistance, listened to his fellow partisan, Solange Jospin, with increasing agitation. In finality, the short, spare, Frenchwoman with cropped strawberry-blonde hair, spat, "Auverne is dabbling with a cabaret singer, name of Marie-Jacques Duval of St. Malô. Apparently, she is quite taken with the traitor."
"She'll be taken, all right, Solange. A collaborator is a collaborator." He pondered the situation a moment. "Anything else?"
"No, Maurice, except that Duval is not particularly exclusive. She was visited, all Sunday night, by some middle-aged, self-important German civilian."
"Charmant." He threw down his cigarette in disgust and picked up his rifle. "I want Auverne. Start thinking about a plan to capture him."
"And execute him?"
"Mais bien sûr. I'm going to see Louis LeBeau. I don't want any of them to get in the way of our operation."
"You just don't want to clash with Colonel Hogan."
"I'd rather not," he admitted as he left their encampment.
HH HH HH
Carter met Dubois at the tree stump and led him in. "I'll get Louis," he called over his shoulder as he went up to the barracks.
Dubois helped himself to some coffee. It tasted the way French coffee should: good and strong. Definitely of Louis' making. As much as Dubois liked the other men, particularly the steady Sgt. Kinchloe, and admired Colonel Hogan for his cleverness, it would be better if they stayed out of this. LeBeau was another matter. He was French--he knew what Vichy was.
"Bon soir, Maurice," said LeBeau, interrupting Dubois' thoughts.
"Bon soir, Louis. Comment ça va?"
"Comme ci, comme ça. Et toi?"
"Bien. Louis, est-ce que tu sais que Jean-Marie Auverne est en Hammelburg?"
"Oui." LeBeau had an inkling where this was going and was not liking it one bit. Too many feelings would be in conflict.
"Doesn't that bother you? Don't you want to do something about that?" Dubois' speech sounded like machine-gun fire.
LeBeau gave a small sigh. Of all the times for this. He'd just reconciled himself to Major Broadbent's plan, and here came Dubois taking his original line. Mon Dieu! what next?
"Yes, it does bother me, but we ARE doing something about it. We are pumping information out of him. We've already broken into his black market connections and his Swiss bank accounts. We're planning on blowing up his factory in a couple of days. Did you know it is supposed to be building V-3 rockets which will be aimed at the US? What more do you want?" Louis, of course, knew the answer.
"This is all very well and good, Louis, but it does not replace execution."
"Does it mean nothing to you? General de Gaulle wants him executed, too, but he wants the information first. And the big brass in London haven't decided whether or not to try him publicly after the Allies take Paris. AND that should be very soon."
LeBeau knew both Hogan and Broadbent—Madame as he now thought of her—were frustrated and angry about London's indecision.
"I don't care about the brass in London. They don't know about Vichy firsthand. I do. Ma petite Alys." He made a rude noise. "My band and I are going to capture and execute Auverne." There was a hard set to Dubois' face and tone that Louis didn't like. "And his mistress," he added harshly, menacingly.
"You can't do that, Maurice," Louis cried. "It goes against orders." That it would destroy working relations between Hogan's men and his band was clearly irrelevant to Dubois. If he pulled this stunt, Louis knew, Hogan would never work with the man again.
"I'm not interested. If you won't help me, and it is obvious you won't, then just stay out of the way."
Louis was hurt. The underlying, unspoken charge of being less a Frenchman cut deeply. "Colonel Hogan is going to be very angry." Dubois simply shrugged. "Leave Marie-Jacques Duval alone. She works for us." Louis was afraid to say any more. Let Dubois think she was Resistance, too.
"Bah," Dubois snorted as he turned on his heel and left.
LeBeau sat in Kinch's spot behind the wireless for some time thinking. He had no idea how long he'd sat there before his buddies Newkirk and Kinchloe came looking for him. After taking in the little corporal's glum expression, the Englishman spoke first. "What's wrong, Louis?"
"Dubois is planning on executing Auverne. He didn't elaborate, but it will be soon."
"Blimey!"
"Madame is included in that plan."
"Did you tell him what was going on?" Kinch couldn't believe this. "And why do you call her 'Madame'? It's not just short for Mme. Defarge?"
Overlapping, Newkirk said, "You're goin' to 'ave to tell Colonel 'Ogan."
LeBeau looked heavenward before wailing plaintively and gesticulating excitedly, "Yes, I told Dubois the general order of business. Yes, I know I'm going to have to tell le colonel. Do you have any idea how upset he's going to be? Not just for the screw-up in plans, which will be bad enough, but also personally?" Solemn heads nodded in agreement.
"He really loves her, and that is why I call her Madame." LeBeau had seen Hogan when he'd come in right before rollcall the other morning. Many things had become obvious to the Frenchman, for the colonel had been completely unguarded.
They were all silent a moment before Newkirk commented sorrowfully, "Louis, me little mate, I don't envy you."
"You don't envy me?! I don't envy me. How would you like to be the one to break the colonel's heart?"
Kinch made calming motions. "Sois calme. It's not broken yet. We may still get Madame out of the line of fire." He was silent a moment then spoke again. "The colonel's gone to bed. He tired himself out today with exercise. Lots of fresh air and sunshine. But still, you should to go tell him now."
"Très bien, très bien," Louis groaned.
"Would you like the whiskey and the cigarette before you face the firing squad?" LeBeau gave the Englishman the dirtiest look before stomping off to wake the colonel.