order the death of this British agent?"
"No, sir, I did not," the Gestapo man replied, cowed by Metcalfe's onslaught. "I was told only that the American had showed up here, sir, and I thought, mistakenly, that it was you. It was a reasonable assumption."
"Disgraceful! And what took you so long to get here? I've been waiting here fifteen minutes. This is simply intolerable!"
Metcalfe reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he'd taken from one of the Gestapo agents at the Librairie. It was a pack of Astras, a common Nazi brand. He pulled one out, pointedly not offering one to the colonel, and lit it from a pack of windproof Sturmstreichholzer matches. The signals were subtle, unspoken: Metcalfe was a fellow German officer.
Expelling the harsh smoke through his nostrils, Metcalfe said, "Now get this body out of here at once." He stooped to pick up his pistol, shaking his head in silent disgust, then continued toward the door.
"Pardon me," the German said suddenly. There was another change in his tone, one that Metcalfe found worrying.
Metcalfe turned around sullenly and saw a perplexed look in the Gestapo man's face. The German was gesturing at Metcalfe's right leg.
Metcalfe looked down and saw what the German was pointing at. His pant leg was soaked in blood. It was the wound he had sustained earlier: though minor, it had bled profusely.
Metcalfe's momentary confusion emboldened the colonel's suspicion. Something is not right here, the Gestapo man seemed to be thinking as his facial expression changed to one of wariness.
"Sir, I have the right to inspect your papers as well," the German said. "I want to make sure you are indeed "
Metcalfe did not wait. He drew his weapon and fired. The round penetrated the man's chest, and the German sank to the floor. Metcalfe fired a second time, aiming precisely for the same spot, and now he was certain that the Nazi was dead.
Yes, the man was dead, but now everything had changed. The Gestapo was looking for him, whether they knew his true name or not. That meant he couldn't risk showing up at the train station. He couldn't take the train from Paris, couldn't follow Corky's prescribed route, which was now far too hazardous. Plans would have to be altered, and Corky would have to be notified.
Metcalfe knew he was now a marked man. He could no longer walk the streets freely.
He approached the dead German slowly, felt for a pulse at the man's throat. There was none. He saw the two small-bore bullet holes at the center of the man's chest. Though the bullets had penetrated the tunic, the holes were in fact small and concealable
Moving swiftly, he removed the Gestapo colonel's uniform. He stripped off his own clothes, transferring his wallet, papers, keys, and passport to the Gestapo uniform. Wadding up his discarded clothing, he shoved them into a nearby china cabinet, then he donned the Gestapo uniform. The fit was not too bad, though it felt peculiar: highly starched, stiff, scratchy. He adjusted the black tie so that it covered the bullet holes, keeping it in place with the Nazi Party pin that the agent had used as a tie tack.
He took the colonel's papers and weapon, any of which could come in handy. In Derek's medicine cabinet he found some gauze, adhesive tape, and merthiolate. Then, after quickly binding the wound in his thigh, he rushed out of Derek's apartment in search of the one man who could get him out of Paris quickly.
"Jesus Christ almighty!" Chip Nolan exclaimed. "They're all dead?"
"Everyone but.. . the man you know as James," Corky replied, a stricken look on his face. He had just entered the modest flat in the Eighth Arrondissement that the Bureau kept as one of several Paris safe-house locations.
"My God!" Nolan cried, his voice breaking. "Who was it? Who were the bastards who did it?"
Corcoran approached the window, staring apprehensively out at the street. "That's what I need your help on. One was shot, but two of them were garroted."
"Garroted?"
"In exactly the same way as the Belgian librarian last week also a member of my organization. I speculate the responsible party is the Sicherheitsdienst, and one assassin in particular. But I need verification a complete forensic workup, the sort of thing the Bureau does so well."
Nolan nodded. "It's risky, but I'll do it for you. The bastards."
Corcoran turned back from the window, shaking his head slowly. "This is a grievous setback to our