The Night of the Generals (22 page)

"A Monsieur Prévert to see you," Otto announced.

General Kahlenberge leafed through some routine reports submitted by lower echelons, noting as he did so that Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer's requests for replacements on behalf of the Nibelungen Division would, if granted, drain the Corps of all its effective reserves.

"What does he want?" Kahlenberge was glad of any distraction these days. He was so impatient for the crucial moment to arrive that routine work was beginning to get on his nerves.

"He wants a chat with you," Otto said. "At least, that's what he says."

"All right, I'll see him." Otto opened the door and ushered Prévert in. Kahlenberge offered his visitor a chair.

Prévert introduced himself without preamble, his tone that of a tramp regally dismissing the suspicion that he may be after the price of a drink.

"I'm by way of being a link between the German and French authorities in Paris. I'm also a police officer, and I have reason to believe that you may be interested in my activities."

He was right. Kahlenberge scented at once that Prévert was one of those people who were simply "there," who couldn't be by-passed and were a factor to be reckoned with.

Prévert concealed the sly glint of anticipation which shone in his eyes by gazing at his lap as though lost in thought. Then he said: "Sometimes I think of my department as a refuse dump, General. You wouldn't believe how much garbage it accumulates."

Kahlenberge did not reply immediately. He had lowered the shiny dome of his head and was contemplating the endless columns of figures on the desk before him, repelled by the thought that they were his staple form of "intellectual diet. He looked up abruptly.

"And what have I got to do with your refuse collection?"

"Most of the material I collect consists of so-called confidential reports, each of them associated with a particular name. Your own name has turned up on more than one occasion, General."

Kahlenberge leant back in his chair. "What do you want, Monsieur Prévert?"

"Just to see you. I wanted to see what you looked like."

"Why?"

I'm the inquisitive type. I wanted to see a man I had sold without getting to know him too well."

"Sold?"

"In a manner of speaking." Prévert might have been discussing the merits of this year's vintage. "You're a form of purchase price, General, a price paid for the freedom of another man with political ambitions--one of the leading members of the Marseilles Resistance, to be precise."

Kahlenberge's face retained its masklike immobility. Only a slight movement of his hand expressed regret at his failure to understand what his visitor was driving at. He took care not to utter a word, fully aware that in such a situation the smallest slip could have disastrous consequences.

Prévert stroked his almost non-existent chin.

"It's quite simple. Firstly, although words are intended for certain ears they sometimes reach ears for which they are not intended. Secondly, microphones are easily concealed. Thirdly, some people have an overwhelming urge to confide in others. Fourthly, even conspirators gossip occasionally. Need I say more?"

Kahlenberge shook his head, his face the colour of ashes.

"No doubt you'll want to know who I've sold you to, General--sold you without knowing you. I must confess that I did so without too much heart-searching. The only reason why I made the deal was that it seemed a particularly advantageous one, not only for me and my cause, but also for the object of the transaction--that's to say, you."

A change came over Kahlenberge's strained expression. It did not exactly relax, but it betrayed a glimmer of surprise. As gingerly as if he were disarming a time-bomb, he said: "May I inquire what you mean by advantageous?"

"Just that, my dear sir. I look on this operation as a form of insurance policy. Allow me to explain. Every system based on brute force has its determined opponents as well as its fanatical adherents. History--French history too, of course--is crammed with examples of such opposition. But you Germans seem to have evolved a completely new species of rebel--a sort of avenger of slighted honour. This individual doesn't hate the Nazis, he merely despises them because fundamentally his attitude is conditioned by historical criteria. He feels that if the Nazis' stooges are stupid or criminal enough to get themselves involved in mass murder they're welcome to do so until they end up as cold meat themselves. What he can't condone at any price is the craven 'wait-and-see' approach and apathetic readiness to compromise of people whose intelligence and education should have imbued them with at least a modicum of dignity and courage. In short, what may be excusable in a horse-butcher cannot be sanctioned in a general."

"You know Colonel Grau fairly well, don't you? I imagine he's one of your sources of information."

Prévert nodded approvingly, gratified that he was not wasting his time on someone who was unworthy of his attention. Kahlenberge evidently had a swift and sure grasp not only of circumstances but of their underlying implications.

"That also has a bearing on the insurance policy I mentioned earlier. Grau could send you and a number of your associates to the gallows tomorrow if he wanted to, but that isn't his intention. He's waiting, and do you know what for? He's waiting for what may be the German officer corps' last chance to make a clean break with an unsavoury past. But if the German officer corps shirks its last chance or botches the job, God help it! You must excuse me if I sound dramatic, General. My sole object is to give you an idea of how Grau's mind works."

"Thank you for being so frank."

Prévert hazarded a smile. "Naturally, you will have gathered that my motive for telling you all this is not just a desire to impress you with the extent of my candour. I'm much more interested in doing business with you." His smile deepened as though he were sniffing a glass of full-blooded burgundy.

Kahlenberge gave a brief but incisive nod of assent. "State your terms. I presume I shan't be able to avoid paying a high price."

Prévert fumbled in his breast-pocket and withdrew a small sheet of paper about the size of a visiting card. It bore three telephone numbers. "I can always be reached at one of these three numbers. Would you be good enough to note them down and keep them handy--or, better still, commit them to memory. Incidentally, do you know Alexandre Dumaine of Saulieu? He's one of the best chefs in France and a friend of mine. It's almost time I paid him another visit. Hiscoq au vin is incomparable."

"I understand," said Kahlenberge. He noted the telephone numbers in his diary. "You wish to be informed when the time comes. According to my information, things could happen almost hourly." He shrugged. "All right, it's a deal. You shall be the first to be told."

"Thank you," said Prévert. He cocked his head on one side and smilingly pinched his nose. "A coq au vincertainly has its attractions, but it would be tempting to witness one of the most memorable moments in history. I really don't know which I shall decide on, but it will be something at least if you give me a chance to make up my mind in good time."

"You'll hear from me, Monsieur Prévert--in good time."

"And not for the last time, I trust."

General Tanz's second sight-seeing tour began as punctually as the first. At nine o'clock precisely he emerged from the Hotel Excelsior dressed in his pearl-grey suit. Hartmann pulled open the near-side rear door of the Bentley. The morning sun glittered on the car's spotless carriage-work.

General Tanz halted. Not a muscle of his face moved, but his eyes travelled over every inch of the Bentley, taking in the headlamps, the bonnet and wings, the windscreen and windows, the paintwork on the doors, the tyres, rear mudguards, wheels and hub-caps. His expression was completely inscrutable.

"Open the bonnet, Hartmann."

The General took two paces forward--then, after a short pause, a third. He bent over the engine and examined it closely. Pulling a snow-white handkerchief from his breastpocket he rubbed it round a sparking-plug and held it up to the light, apparently without discovering any dirt. Then he bent down again and rubbed his still virgin handkerchief against the engine block, concentrating on the distributor-head.

Hartmann stood there in his brown reach-me-down and possessed his soul in patience, knees braced, chin in, chest out and fingers aligned with his trouser seams in the regulation manner, thinking what all other ranks think on such occasions--an unprintable phrase meaning roughly: "I couldn't care less!" For all that, his palms were moist with sweat.

Tanz again scrutinized his still spotless handkerchief, his face as expressionless as before. Then, with a brisk sweep of his arm, he poked it back into his breast-pocket and climbed into the Bentley. Hartmann closed the bonnet.

"A tour of the city," commanded Tanz.

Hartmann experienced a transient sense of relief. He closed the near-side rear door without excessive noise, slipped into his seat and drove off, grasping the wheel in his smartly begloved hands. This time he drove without any preconceived plan. Tanz didn't seem to care what he saw or which direction the car took. He issued no orders and made no suggestions, registered neither approval nor dissent. He just sat there drinking in silence.

Hartmann criss-crossed Paris at random, chauffeuring the Bentley along the Left Bank, crossing the Seine by one of the many bridges, driving along the Right Bank for a spell and then repeating the process. Above the scarcely audible hum of the car's superb engine Hartmann became aware of a noise which he could not immediately identify. It sounded like the monotonous patter of falling rain, yet the streets were dry and the sun shone as brilliantly as ever on the gleaming expanse of windscreen in front of him.

The monotonous drumming sound persisted. Very cautiously, Hartmann leant sideways until he could see the General in his driving-mirror. He saw Tanz's stern wood-carving of a face, then his left hand holding a half-filled glass, then his right hand. His fingers were drumming on the leather arm-rest with the rhythmic regularity of a metronome. They continued to do so for minutes on end, like the moving parts of some intricate machine.

"Stop," said the General suddenly. The car rolled to a halt "What's that building?"

"The Invalides, sir." Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Hartmann remembered Sandauer's express warning on the subject. The Invalides was one of the places to be avoided.

"Let's have some details," said Tanz.

Hartmann reached for the guide book which lay ready on the seat beside him. He opened it and read the appropriate section aloud, carefully omitting any passages which might offend the General's alleged susceptibilities. The Invalides--a classical edifice dating from the reign of the Roi Soleil--the Jesuit cathedral annexed to it, begun in 1679, consecrated in 1706--a military museum from 1905 onwards.

"I'd like to see it," Tanz announced. "Wait here."

He got out and advanced on the Invalides with his habitual air of ownership. Hartmann gazed after him resignedly, aware that he had been guilty of suppressing an important fact, namely that the Invalides contained the tomb of Napoleon and sundry other captains of war. But surely Tanz must realize that? It was a piece of information which even a German general should know.

Hartmann shrugged his shoulders and systematically began to clean the Bentley with dusters, wash-leathers, dust-pan and brush. He had ample opportunity to indulge in this diverting pastime.

After two hours the General reappeared, looking white and sick. He strode up to Hartmann and fixed him with a piercing stare. "Was that your idea of a joke?"

Hartmann thought it wiser not to reply, guessing that any attempt at an apology would be dangerous. He took refuge in the role of chauffeur and silently opened the nearside rear door.

"Tombs!" The General spat out the word contemptuously. "I didn't come to Paris to look at graves. I've seen enough to last me a lifetime." His voice grew menacing. "People don't take liberties with me, Hartmann. Another blunder like that and you'll find yourself carting dung, not driving a general."

Tanz climbed in. He fished about in one of his briefcases and produced a notebook--Hartmann could not make out its colour--in which he made a lengthy entry. Hartmann scarcely dared look in the driving-mirror, but when he plucked up courage to do so he saw that Tanz's forehead was heavily beaded with sweat as though he found writing an immense physical effort.

"Fresh air," he said eventually.

Hartmann drove westwards in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne. He kept close to the Seine at first, warned by recent experience to avoid the Place de L'Etoile and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Passing the Palais de Chaillot--innocuous because it only contained pictures--he made for La Inférieur.

Hartmann's sense of relief at having reached the Bois without incident was marred by a sudden fear that its long tree-lined avenues might remind his passenger of a military cemetery. This seemed unlikely, but Tanz's reactions were unpredictable.

However, once Tanz had lunched at a local inn, a certain measure of harmony returned to the atmosphere. Trout with almonds followed by half a chicken from the spit, white wine with the former, red wine with the latter, a pernod before the meal, a cognac after it, a cigar with coffee and cigarettes between courses--all seemed to have had a mellowing effect.

"This whole business disgusts me," Tanz confided when he was once more installed in the car, "but even I have to relax once in a while. It's like voiding one's bowels--revolting but inevitable."

"Do you have any particular plans for the afternoon, sir?"

"The paintings in those postcards of mine, Hartmann--I'd like to see them."

"The Impressionists, sir?" Hartmann could not hide his incredulity.

Tanz gestured impatiently. The right side of his face twitched twice, and when he spoke his voice was as sharp as a razor.

"Don't stare at me in that stupid way! I refuse to be gawped at, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Move off!"