The Second Objective

Pearson, as he’d expected, was cowed into respectful silence by the performance. Von Leinsdorf tore into a basket of bread. He caught a glimpse of himself in the beveled mirrors on the walls, his image fractured and multiplied, and wondered for a split second whom he was looking at.

“It’s all black-market fare, of course, but one can’t afford to be a moralist; an army travels on its stomach. What do you know about the G2? Have you met him before?”

“General Strong? No, sir.”

“Runs a first-rate shop. One of our finest men. Even gets along with the Americans. Do you know his deputy, Brigadier Betts?”

“Only through correspondence, sir.”

“A capable second, Betts. So they’re bringing you on board to calculate petrol use or something, have I got that right?”

“To analyze and increase the efficiency of petrol transport and distribution, yes, sir.”

“In anticipation of the push to Hitler’s front parlor.”

“I believe that’s the underlying incentive.”

“Sounds riveting. Trained at the War College, were you? Sandringham?”

“Actually, no, sir. British Petroleum. I’m on loan.”

“Their loss is our gain, we’re lucky to have you. How’s morale at home? With all this Arde

They chatted about London and the war effort and the exquisite challenges of domestic petrol distribution until their bottle arrived. Von Leinsdorf struggled to keep his uncovered eye open while attempting to appear engaged by this colorless bore. When he poured Pearson a second glass, along with it he emptied a small vial of the medicine that he palmed in his hand.

As they worked their way through the main course, Von Leinsdorf encouraged the man to drone on about the untapped yields of the Middle East while he shoveled in the food rapidly, in the English style, trying to finish his first decent meal in days before the drug took hold. When Pearson dropped his fork, complaining he felt dizzy and light-headed, Von Leinsdorf was instantly at his side and assisted him to his feet. Refusing offers of help from the staff, and berating them for serving his man some questionable beef, he escorted Pearson out the door and four blocks down the street to a side entrance of the Hotel Meurice. By which time Pearson was laughing and mumbling incoherently; Von Leinsdorf got them past the guards with a brief, apologetic shake of the head.

“Too much vin rouge,” he said.

He collected the key from the desk, moved them into an elevator, alone, and rode up to the fourth floor. Pearson was out on his feet by the time they reached the door to room 417. Von Leinsdorf carried him inside, dropped him on the bed, set out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and closed and locked the door.

32

Ile de la Cité, Paris

DECEMBER 21, 10:45 A.M.

Gra

“What’s that big church?” asked Bernie.

Gra

“How’s their football team doing? I don’t see the stadium; is it around here?”

Gra

“Until Germany. Not a lot of laughs over here.”

Gra

“I know you have to turn me in, no matter what,” said Bernie. “I want you to know I won’t ask you not to do that. I don’t expect any thanks. I just don’t want to die knowing that son of a bitch is still out there.”

“Why?”

“Once you told me about the general? A man like him’s so much more important. I’m nobody. What happens to me doesn’t matter at all.”

Gra

“What did he say to you about Paris?”

“That he’d been here a lot. It’s his favorite city, but he’s not that nuts about the French.”

“Gee, you think? Where’d he learn the language?”

“English boarding school.”

Gra

“Got some wiseass in you, too, huh?”

“Must be a neighborhood thing,” said Gra

“You never said. Which side of Park Slope you from?”

“South.”

“Really? What’d your dad do?”

“Let’s stay on Von Leinsdorf.”

Bernie remembered something. “Could you get a question to the MPs, have them ask it at their checkpoints?”

“What question?”

“Who plays center field for the Dodgers.”

“Most guys won’t even know that; it’s like a revolving door out there at Ebbets Field-”

“I know,” said Bernie. “I talked about it with Von Leinsdorf. He thinks it’s Joe DiMaggio.”

Gra

“His style, he’d go for the fanciest joints,” said Bernie. “Art, culture, he was up on all that stuff.”

“I don’t think he’ll be taking in a museum today.”

“Wait a second. He mentioned this hotel he liked once. I got the idea he must’ve stayed there. A good place to take a girl to di

“What’s the name of it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“There’s a thousand fucking hotels in this city,” said Gra

“I know; it was like a guy’s name, I think- Jesus, I’m so tired. Maybe if I saw a list.”

Gra

“Hotel Meurice.”

When Von Leinsdorf left that morning for the Hotel Meurice, he told Eddie Be

Three beers later, after exchanging pleasantries with the barkeep, a comely young woman sat down beside him at the counter and they struck up a lively conversation about her enthusiasm for all things American. Taken in by her adorable broken English, and forgetting that he was supposed to be a Danish businessman trying to secure postwar oil leases, he owned up to being American, and twenty minutes later he was banging the living daylights out of the mademoiselle in her room at a fleabag pension.