“I know that, you stupid fool! I asked you where she went!”
The concierge shook his head helplessly. “I have no idea, Monsieur. I only know she
left with an army officer.”
“Didn’t she tell you where she could be reached?”
“N—No, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Page does not confide in me.”
Colonel Mueller glared at the old man a moment and then turned on his heel.
“They can’t have gotten far,” he said to his men. “Contact all the roadblocks as fast
as you can. Tell them that when General Scheider’s car arrives I want them to hold it and
call me at once!”
Because of the hour military traffic was light, which meant that there was virtually no
traffic at all. General Scheider’s car swung onto the West Road that led out of Paris,
passing Versailles. They drove through Mantes, Vernon, and Gaillon and in twenty-five
minutes they were approaching the major arterial intersection that branched out into
Vichy, Le Havre and the Côte d’Azur.
It seemed to Noelle that a miracle had happened. They were going to get out of Paris
without being stopped. She should have known that even the Germans with all their
efficiency would not be able to check every single road out of the city. And even as she
thought it, out of the darkness ahead of them loomed a roadblock. Flashing red lights
blinked from the center of the road, and in back of the lights a German Army lorry
blocked the highway. On the side of the road were half a dozen German soldiers and two
French police cars. A German Army lieutenant waved down the limousine and, as it came
to a stop, he walked over to the driver.
“Get out and show your identification!”
General Scheider opened the rear window, leaned his head out and said, raspingly:
“General Scheider. What the hell’s going on here?”
The lieutenant snapped to attention.
“Excuse me, General. I did not know it was your car.”
The General’s eyes flicked over the roadblock. “What’s this all about?”
“We have orders to inspect every vehicle leaving Paris, Herr General. Every exit
from the city is blocked.”
The General turned to Noelle. “The damned Gestapo. I’m sorry, liebchen.”
Noelle could feel the color drain from her face, and she was grateful for the darkness
of the car. When she spoke, her voice was steady.
“It’s not important,” she said.
She thought of the cargo in the trunk. If her plan had worked, Israel Katz was in
there, and in a moment he would be caught. And so would she.
The German lieutenant turned to the chauffeur.