“I met him for the first time on the train from Berlin. He’s a cop specializing in vice. Hates the French. Face like a snake charmer, only without the charm. That’s about all I know about him. I can’t imagine why he would want to kill me. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Perhaps he made a mistake. Got the wrong room.”

“A French farce by Georges Feydeau doesn’t normally include murder.”

“What will you do now?”

“Nothing, for the moment. I have to leave Paris for a few days. Maybe I’ll have thought of something by the time I come back. In the meantime, how would you like to earn some more German money?”

“Doing what?”

“Keep an eye on him?”

“And what am I supposed to look for?”

“You’re a smart girl. You’ll know. You found this top from the extinguisher, didn’t you? Just bear in mind that he’s dangerous and don’t take any risks. I wouldn’t like anything to happen to you.”

I took her hand and, a little to my surprise, she let me kiss it.

“If I didn’t think I’d start coughing, I’d kiss you.”

“Then you’d better let me do it.”

She kissed me, and in my weakened condition, I let her. But after a moment or two, I needed the air. Then I said, “When he gave me that shot this morning, the doc warned me that I might feel like this. A little euphoric. Like I was Napoleon.”

I pressed myself hard against her belly.

“You’re too big for Napoleon.” She kissed me again and added, “And way too tall.”

19

FRANCE, 1940

Le Bourget was about ten kilometers north of Paris. And so was I. It’s strange how physically and mentally restorative one or two kisses can be. I felt like a new kind of fairy tale in which a sleeping prince gets himself rescued by a plucky princess. Then again, that could have been the dope.

At the entrance to the aerodrome was a statue of a nude woman taking flight from her gray stone plinth. It was meant to commemorate Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic, but the only memory that was alive in my head was the feel of Renata’s body and what it might look like if ever I saw her out of that maid’s uniform.

There were three of us—me, Kestner, and Bömelburg—pinned in the back of the staff car like a collection of taupe-colored moths. In the front was an SS driver and a handsome young chief inspector from the Office of the Paris Prefect of Police. As we drove toward the airport building, a four-engined FW Condor was landing on the runway.

“Who do you suppose that is?” wondered Kestner.