“You forget,” I said. “Everyone has to sign in and out of the hotel. I could easily check if you were in the hotel last night.”

“Yes, you’re right. I did forget that. You always were a better detective than I was.” He came away from the window and sat on the edge of my bed.

“You’re alive, that’s the main thing. And you needn’t worry about Mielke. I’m sure we’ll find him. You can tell Heydrich that if he’s in one of those French concentration camps, we’ll find him as sure as there’s an Amen in a church service. You can go back to Berlin confident in the knowledge that when we fly down there tomorrow, we’ll take proper care of it.”

“What makes you think I’m not coming with you?”

“Your doctor said that it would be several days before you were fit enough to resume your duties,” said Kestner. “Surely you’ll want to get home and recuperate.”

“I’m working for Heydrich, remember? He’s a bit like the God of Abraham. It’s never a good idea to risk his wrath, because retribution is often direct. No, I’ll be on that plane tomorrow even if you have to tie me on the undercarriage. Not a bad idea at that. The doc says I need plenty of fresh air.”

Kestner shrugged. “All right. If you say so. It’s your luck that’s as black as pitch, not mine.”

“Exactly. Besides, what would I do here in Paris except go to Maison Chabanais or One Twenty-two? Or one of those other puff houses.”

“The car leaves the Hôtel du Louvre for Le Bourget at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Kestner shot me an exasperated, weary sort of look and smacked the side of his thigh with his cap. Then he went away.

I closed my eyes for a moment and submitted to a long fit of coughing. But I wasn’t worried. I was in a hospital. In hospitals people get better all the time. Some of them, anyway.

18

FRANCE, 1940