Clandestine by J. Robert Janes

they took only what could never be used to identify them. And as for that gazo of theirs, they don’t need to use this entrance to Paris and probably won’t. They’ll simply wait and let things cool down, then use one where they know there are those who will let them in for a price because they’ve done that lots of times. They must have.’
    â€˜And that, Hermann, is why I think Herr Ludin took it upon himself to break Herr Kaltenbrunner’s strict order of silence. He and that SD colonel really are desperately in need of help, though the latter of them might not have sanctioned what the former wanted Oona to see.’
    â€˜Along with the constant cigarettes and repeated swigs of bitters.’
    â€˜Me, I just wish I felt more confident and that we weren’t missing something vital.’
    To the rue de Crimée in the 19th, in La Villette at 0532 hours, came the awakening of Paris as it dragged itself through the icy fog and darkness. So numerous were the streams of bicycles, their lamps were as fireflies. Ever-present were the shouts, curses, cries of alarm and urgent ringing of bells, some so close St-Cyr knew he could open the side window of the van, as he had to clear the rearview again, and touch a cyclist.
    Pungently ersatz perfume, unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke, this last of dried leaves, herbs and the roasted carrot tops of desperation, rushed in on the air. The traffic was insane. With occasional trucks and far fewer city buses, there were well over 1.5 million bicycles and bicycle taxis in the city, to say nothing of the countless pedestrians who tended to ignore all rules since there were so few cars.
    Finding Anna-Marie Vermeulen’s Opinel in his coat pocket­ wasn’t difficult. Opening it, he laid it on the seat. Unless he was very wrong, Ludin must have felt that the sooner she was arrested­, the better, and that must be why, in spite of there being so few private cars, two of them were following the Citroën. He had better­ have a word.
    â€˜Hermann, I’ll just deal with the car behind you.’
    â€˜And the one behind it, Louis.’
    To the fog there was but the usual, the lack of soot and exhaust fumes evident. So thick, though, was the darkness, those in the first Peugeot four-door didn’t acknowledge him until the driver’s side window had been opened a crack.
    â€˜ Ah bon, merci . Are we near the intersection with the rue de Flandre?’ he asked.
    There were four of them in the car, the escaping fug of Gauloises bleues but a reminder.
    â€˜Fous-moi le camp, vache!’
    â€˜What’s that you’re saying? “Bugger off, cow,” when all I want is directions? Get out. Get out now! St-Cyr, Sûreté.’
    â€˜Suck lemons.’
    â€˜And difficult, too, is it? These days I would gladly if I could, but I’ll ask the ones in the car behind, shall I, and then we’ll settle the matter?’
    There was no response, the window simply being closed, which meant of course that they were all armed and had egos to bolster. The next side window, however, was calmly rolled all the way down, the words and accent nonthreatening, at least for the present. ‘What can we do for you, Inspector?’
    â€˜It’s Chief Inspector, but are we near the intersection of the rue de Flandre?’
    â€˜If you already know, why ask?’
    Such politeness had to have a reason. ‘You wouldn’t have a spare one of those, would you? Two, actually.’
    â€˜Shall I light them for you?’
    â€˜That would be much appreciated.’
    All this time, bicycles streamed past, their bells sounding one crisis after another, along with urgent shouts for him to get out of the way, but there wasn’t the sharply intent flame of the usual lighter fuel of gasoline. Instead, it was of the long-remembered, but one thing was for sure: that accent wasn’t French. He had seen this one before, but where, and did