The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [71]
The soldiers behind the desk snapped to attention when an officer entered the lobby behind her. Tall and slim, his lapel and shoulder patches marked him as the equivalent of a major. The red swastika armband was a splash of blood against his feldgrau jacket. A patch low on his sleeve read SD. His peaked hat was pulled low over his face, but there was something familiar in the set of his mouth.
She turned her head away from him and kept her eyes on the floor as he strode past and disappeared behind a column. After counting to ten, Claire risked a glance behind her.
There it was at the far end of the lobby. As Odette had said, a stone carving covered a wall to the left of a long corridor. The sculpture was nearly covered by a large swastika flag suspended between columns on each side. Less than five feet from the carving, the hallway was guarded by four soldiers, hands on holstered pistols.
“Madame.” The voice was sharp, irritated.
Claire stepped up to the counter, a deferential nod to the man waiting behind. She got a good look at him and suppressed a wince. His head came out of his stiff uniform collar like a mushroom. His heavy lips were pinched and his glasses magnified mean little eyes. He radiated hatred.
She formed a smile and slid the package onto the desk. “Claire Badeau. I have a package for one of your, eh, guests, Mathew Nash,” she said slowly, in bad French with an American accent that would make Madame Palain shudder.
“What is it?”
“Bread, tobacco, a couple of shirts.” She leaned forward, a certain amount of concern for the innocent American showing in her tone, the tremble of her lip. “I would hope Monsieur Nash could remain comfortable until this can be worked out.”
An open sneer. “Your identification.”
Claire slid her papers across the counter and said a silent apology to Foyer du Soldat.
With two fingers he flicked her identification from her hands. “Address?”
Claire recited the address listed on her identification card. He wrote on a form and barked something in German. The soldier next to him took the package and her papers, disappearing between the guards down the hall.
“Sit until you are called.” The angry mushroom motioned the next person forward.
“Wait.” Claire leaned over the counter, fear made her speak. “Can’t I just leave the package and go?”
He silently pointed to the chairs lined up against the far wall. Her legs wobbly, Claire found a seat.
An anxious hour passed as she waited. Two guards were replaced by two more. The line in the lobby grew. It looked so civilized, she marveled. So bureaucratic. A slow-moving government line seen in any city. But on the other side of these walls were room after room of Gestapo torture chambers. She imagined the darkness, the pain. Her concentration wavered; she felt the fingers of fear hook into her stomach. She glanced toward the door facing the street. Her body itched to walk out. But if she made it, what about Claire Badeau?
A grip on her elbow startled her. A crisp voice, textbook English. “Mrs. Badeau, come with me.”
Claire looked into the face of a German officer. His dark hair slicked back, thin face overwhelmed by a scar that traced down his cheek. She reached for her purse and straightened her skirt as she stood, taking an extra moment to think. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she was sure of it.
Her heart raced as she was guided toward the guards and the hallway. She estimated the distance as she neared the banner, prepared to jerk free. Her hand brushed against the vial in her cuff. A sharp wrench on her arm threw her off balance, she stumbled into the officer.
He guided her into the corridor, then turned into an office, an unknown insignia over the doorway. He locked the door behind them. Motioning for Claire to sit in a wooden chair,