The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [73]
“I have questions.” He smiled at her as she squirmed. His fingers rigid, his hand thrust up again. Claire bit down on her bottom lip.
“You like that, lonely Fräulein?” He shoved, nearly lifting her from the floor.
Claire stiffened; her body lead, all her awareness concentrated on the pain in her mouth. His face inches from hers; she watched beads of sweat break out on his upper lip.
His mouth twisted, his eyes closed. Another jerk, and he let out a satisfied breath and pulled his hand away. With a decorated sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his face. “I have many questions.” His mouth drew close, as if to kiss her.
Yanking away, Claire slammed her head into the wall behind her.
A small smile, the slightest regretful shake of his head, and he tucked her papers inside her shirt. “Later.” He promised, reaching for the door.
Loud voices, one hoarse, rose outside the door. Heydrich sighed and gripped her left arm. They heard a scuffle, the crack of bone on bone, and the voices faded. He pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door, pushed her ahead of him into the hall.
Claire stared at the banner as he locked the door behind them. About fifteen feet, she guessed, to the lower left corner of the banner and behind it a certain crevice. The four soldiers guarding the hallway faced the other direction.
The blood pounding in her ears, in one motion Claire swept her free hand past her captured elbow and jacket cuff, hooking the vial with her finger. She palmed the vial in her free hand. Heydrich dropped the keys in his pocket, pleasant smile returned to his face, and started toward the lobby with Claire at his side. Two steps before the banner ended, Claire tripped and fell hard against the wall, tangling Heydrich with her legs. He stumbled to the floor next to her.
She kept her palm closed on the vial to take the impact. Don’t break the glass in your hand, she ordered herself as the pain shot up through her knuckles. Blinking the tears out of her eyes, she stretched to the banner, slipped her hand underneath, felt a smooth crevice under her fingers and released the vial.
“Was zur Hölle!” Heydrich lurched upright.
He slapped her with the back of his hand and shoved her past the soldiers into the lobby. Her legs wobbled as she stepped, free, out onto the sidewalk.
“Claire!” a voice called out from behind her. “Claire Harris Stone!”
The guards’ gazes flicked toward her. She forced her feet to move. One shaky step after another, she turned left from the doors and hurried down the sidewalk, darting inside a restaurant’s shadowed entry.
A man burst out of the Gestapo doorway. Feldgrau uniform, red swastika armband glinting in the sun. The officer that had passed her as she waited in line. Her body went cold. She knew who it was. The German she’d met in New York. The businessman. Alby. Albrecht von Richter.
“Claire,” he shouted again and started her direction. Two soldiers followed.
She hurried out of the restaurant doorway, head down staring at her watch, then scurried into the street. Behind her, she heard the squealing of tires, a crash and shouting. She glanced back as she slipped into an alley.
A delivery truck had swerved around von Richter and hit a streetlight. The driver held his cheek with one hand. Von Richter was pounding on the crumpled hood of his truck, the guards had their guns pulled.
Claire turned and ran. At the alley’s end, she nearly gagged from the smell of a pile of rotting trash in a boarded-up doorway. A quick glance behind her, and Claire slipped off her armband and red jacket. Holding her breath, she dug down into soggy, dirty papers, rotting food, a dead rat. She shoved the armband inside, then the jacket.
Claire joined the flow of pedestrians onto rue d’Anjou and clamped down on thoughts that threatened to spin into darkness. Von Richter was here and he’d recognized her.
Only one thing she