Citadel by Stephen Hunter Read Free Book Online Page B

here?”
    â€œThere was aviation activity near Bricquebec,
outside Cherbourg. Single-engine monoplane
suddenly veering to parachute altitude. It suggested
a British agent visit. Then the documents of
a man in Bricquebec, including travel authorization,
were stolen. If a British agent were in Bricquebec,
his obvious goal would be Paris, and the
most direct method would be by rail, so we are intercepting
the Cherbourg–Paris night train in
hopes of arresting a man bearing the papers of one
Auguste M. Piens, restaurateur, hotel owner, and
well-known ally of the Reich, here in Paris.”
    â€œAn English agent!” Boch’s eyes lit up. This was
treasure. This was a medal. This was a promotion.
He saw himself now as Obersturmbannführer
Boch. The little fatty all the muscular boys had
called Gretel and whose underdrawers they tied in
knots, an Obersturmbannführer! That would
show them!
    â€œIf an apprehension is made, the prisoner is to
be turned over to the SS for interrogation. I will go
to Berlin if I have to on this one, Macht. If you
stand in the way of SS imperatives, you know the
consequences.”
    The consequence: “Russian tanks at 300! Load
shells. Prepare to fire.”“Sir, I can’t see them. The snow
is blinding, my fingers are numb from the cold, and
the sight is frozen!”
    Even though he had witnessed the brazen theft, the
colonel said nothing and responded in no way. His
mind was evidently so locked in the beautiful year
1912 and the enchantment of his eventual first
solo flight that he was incapable of processing new
information. The crime he had just seen had nothing
whatsoever to do with the wonderful French
friend who had been so fascinated by his tale and
whose eyes radiated such utter respect, even hero
worship; it could not be fitted into any pattern and
was thus temporarily disregarded for other pleasures,
such as, still ahead, a narration of the
colonel’s adventures in the Great War, the time he
had actually shaken hands with the great
Richthofen, and his own flight-ending crash—left
arm permanently disabled. Luckily, his tail in tatters,
he had made it back to his own lines before
going down hard early in ’18. It was one of his favorite
stories.
    He simply nodded politely at the Frenchman,
who nodded back as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
    In time the train pulled into the station, issuing
groans and hisses of steam, vibrating heavily as it
rolled to a stop.
    â€œAh, Paris,” said the colonel. “Between you and
me, M. Piens, I so prefer it to Berlin. And so especially
does my wife. She is looking forward to this
little weekend jaunt.”
    They disembarked in orderly fashion, Germans
and Frenchmen combined, but discovered on the
platform that some kind of security problem lay
ahead, at the gate into the station, as soldiers and
SS men with machine pistols stood along the platform,
smoking but eyeing the passengers carefully.
Then the security people screamed out that Germans
would go to the left, French to the right, and
on the right a few dour-looking men in fedoras
and lumpy raincoats examined identification papers
and travel authorizations. The Germans
merely had to flash leave papers, so that line moved
much more quickly.
    â€œWell, M. Piens, I leave you here. Good luck with
your sister’s health in Paris. I hope she recovers.”
    â€œI’m sure she will, Colonel.”
    â€œAdieu.”
    He sped ahead and disappeared through the
doors into the vast space. Basil’s line inched its way
ahead, and though the line was shorter, each arrival
at the security point was treated with thorough
Germanic ceremony, the papers examined
carefully, the comparisons to the photographs
made slowly, any bags or luggage searched. It
seemed to take forever.
    What could he do? At this point it would be impossible
to slip away, disappear down the tracks,
and get to the city over a fence; the Germans had
thrown too many security