Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 4

 

Wednesday, October 31st, 1945
5:10 p.m.
La Brasserie de l'Oiseau Rouge
7eme Arrondissement
Paris

 

We recognized each other, the moment our eyes met.

 

Well, it would have been difficult to miss me; I was the only American military officer in the brasserie. And of course I'd taken my cap off as soon as I'd walked in.

But it went beyond that. Rhys may have told me next to nothing about what he'd done, what he'd been through, during the war; but he'd told me everything about his trip to Shanghai, in '37, where he'd met his Mister Grey. Telling each other everything, is what we do.

Or did.

I pushed that fear-filled thought away, fast; and I went up to him.

"Captain," from him; standing, and holding out his hand.

"Mister Grey," from me; as I took his hand in mine. I shook it, with feeling, as I studied his face, and watched him study mine.

Rhys had told me, that his Mister Grey and I looked quite a bit alike. But I was unprepared for this. Looking into his eyes — well. It was a little like looking into a mirror.

Oh, not really, not in the end; Mister Grey was, I thought, older, more like my brother Tony's age, in his late thirties, or so. He had Tony's same blond hair, with a little gray in it; and he had fine lines, at the corners of his eyes, and across his forehead, just like Tony — 

But he had my slender build; and he didn't have Tony's, well, heaviness, around the jaw. And there were other things, other similarities, too … In fact, he looked much more like me, than Tony did, or even my closest-in-age brother, Elliott.

Evidently I wasn't the only one to see it.

"My word," from Mister Grey, in a murmur, as he released my hand. "This is a bit uncanny … "

I pressed on.

"I am very glad to see you, sir. Believe me." And I meant it, with my whole heart.

"Yes … although, we both could wish the circumstances were different." He held my eye, for a moment; and then, looked discreetly around the candlelit room, now more than half-full. "Um … do you suppose we might just possibly move to that table in the corner, over there — ?" He nodded to a table in a less-occupied part of the café.

I crooked a small smile at him. "I doubt that will be neces — "

"Capitaine!" The owner of the café, Monsieur Bénard, came up in a rush, and took my hand in both of his. "Welcome, welcome back!" He pumped my hand, enthusiastically. "It is always a pleasure. Ah … will Monsieur Williamson be joining us tonight, as well — ?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid." I gave him a look of apology; and then I nodded to my companion. "This is Mister Grey, who is also a friend of Rhys'."

"Oh, yes, yes, of course. I believe we have met; yes, I know we have met. I apologize deeply, M'sieur. It is very good to see you, again. It is good to see you both." Another handshake, just as enthusiastic, this time with Mister Grey. It was accompanied with a small bow.

"Delighted." Mister Grey looked a little nonplussed.

"And … mon Capitaine, you will have your usual table — ?" He gave me a knowing look.

"Yes, please, Monsieur."

"This way, gentlemen."

Monsieur Bénard led the way through a door in the back of the room, down a short corridor, to a comfortable, green-painted private dining room, lit with an array of candles in wall sconces. He seated us, and after a little more fussing, left us temporarily alone, promising to bring back a bottle of champagne, of all things.

Mister Grey crooked an interrogatory eyebrow at me.

"It's a little bit of a long story … Rhys did a favor for him. Well, to be honest, we did a favor for him." I actually smiled, a little, even under the circumstances.

"I am wholly unsurprised." The briefest flash of an answering smile, from him; it reminded me of one of Tony's, or my own. Then, quietly, after a moment's pause — "What has happened — ?"

I took a breath.

"Messieurs," from Monsieur Bénard, sweeping back into the room with the promised champagne. A white-jacketed waiter carried the ice bucket and stand, and set it up; the rituals were duly performed, the champagne was poured, the towel was folded and tucked around the bottle resting in the ice. I wanted to rage at him to leave the room, and somehow restrained myself. I even managed to mutter my thanks.

"But of course, mon Capitaine." He stood still a moment, as the white-jacketed waiter left the room; and then he continued. "And will you gentlemen be having … our special … tonight — ?" He'd lowered his voice, a little conspiratorially. He was clearly enjoying himself.

The small chalkboard with the day's menu was on the wall by the table; I hadn't even glanced at it.

"Yes. Yes, please." I glanced at Mister Grey. "If you'll permit me?"

"Of course," he said, easily. "Whatever you say."

"Merçi, messieurs," from our host, on an almost-musical note; and then he was gone, and we were finally alone, with the vase of geraniums on the table, our champagne-glasses, and our frivolous bubbles.

"There," from Mister Grey, after a moment's silence. "I believe we'll have a few minutes, now, at any rate." He twisted around, looking at the room, the prints hanging on the walls, the single door; and then, directly back at me.

I took another deep breath; and then, I began telling him everything. As clearly, as completely, as concisely, as I could.

* * *

He was a good listener.

 

Well, to be honest, I was a good talker. I'd spent my entire Air Force career debriefing after every flight. Debriefing had become a habit — although it was odd, doing it in this time and place, to this English person.

I came to the end of my report. Mister Grey took out his pocket-book, and a pen, and began making notes.

"This Dixon of yours — do you happen to know his Christian name — ?"

"It's Howard, middle initial M. I couldn't find out what the 'M' stands for. He's listed as an Assistant Legal Attaché at the Consulate side."

"Ummm," from him, noncommittally; as he wrote.

I'd already told him that Dixon knew about Rhys and me. That he was more than a lawyer, was obvious.

"And you received your telegram from Rhys on the 25th." It was a statement, not a question. "May I possibly see it — ?"

I'd been prepared for this. I unbuttoned the breast pocket of my uniform shirt, produced the envelope, and handed it over to him.

I knew the words by heart, of course.

Mister Grey read the message through once, and then again.

"If you will forgive me … are you reasonably sure that this came from Rhys, and that he was not under duress, when he composed it — ?" He looked his apology at me. "I am sorry; but I am constrained to ask." He said it, gently.

I tried not to wince.

"I'm absolutely sure. The reference to 'clockwork' is something that only the two of us would know." I briefly explained about the paper cut-out clock, that Rhys had bought for us to build together. The memory seemed like weeks ago, now.

I noticed that he did not ask what 'MOC' meant; not that I would have told him. It was our oldest coded way of saying 'I love you', in letters and cables.

I wondered if he already knew it.

"Good," he said. "Good. This gives us something to work with." He paused, and looked up at me, appraisingly, for a moment. "May I borrow this, for awhile — ? The transmission details in the header can be traced, and they may provide us with some valuable information … " His expression, again, was one of apology. He obviously knew what the wire meant to me.

"Of course," I said.

 

These will not be Rhys' last words to me. They will NOT be Rhys' last words to me. I told it to myself, firmly.

 

"Thank you," he said, simply. Then, "I — but, oh."

Footsteps at the door behind me, and a burst of delicious odors; not one, but two waiters with covered plates came in, along with Monsieur Bénard. The covers were whisked off, with flourishes, and Monsieur Bénard beamed at the two of us.

"Please, you will ring if there is the slightest way we may be of additional service, yes — ? And, bon appétit!" He bowed, slightly, and withdrew, following the two white-clad waiters.

I had seldom felt less like eating anything at all; but I had the satisfaction of watching as Mister Grey looked down at his plate, and then back up to me, with wide eyes and a slightly-stunned expression on his face.

"No," he said, softly, almost reverently.

"Yes," from me, with a wry smile. "They're real."

His dish was the same as mine, of course; a shallow bowl, with tender, succulent stewed chicken, with onions and potatoes, in a mushroom-and-wine sauce, and I knew from experience how delicious it all was.

But the 'they' I'd referred to originally, were the toppings. An egg, for each of us; a real, honest-to-god poached egg, with a yolk, and egg white, and everything. When Rhys had brought me here the first time, it was the first real, non-powdered egg I'd seen since I'd left the United States.

I knew from my time in England, that even dried and reconstituted powdered eggs were rare there, and strictly rationed.

"How — ?" from him, wonderingly.

"I'll tell you all about it later," I said. "For now, let's not let this get cold."

That quick flash of a smile from him, which reminded me of my own, and was quickly gone; then he picked up his champagne glass — he'd barely touched his, and I hadn't touched mine — and held it out to me, for a toast. I matched him.

"To Rhys; and to his safe return, then."

"To Rhys, and to his safe return."

* * *

We made it through the meal in companionable silence. I was thinking the whole time of Rhys, and missing him very much. The last time I'd been in this room, it had been Rhys sharing the meal with me.

At last, the white-clad waiters came back, and the plates were taken away — I'd managed to eat most of mine, which was surprising — and Mister Grey took out a cigaret case and a lighter.

"Care for one — ?" He offered me his open case.

"Thank you, but no. But please, go ahead." I'd never really gotten into the habit of smoking. Open flames and 100-octane aviation gasoline don't mix well, and I'd practically lived with the stuff.

And then, the next miracle appeared. Two small ceramic cups, on saucers, were brought in and placed before us. And just to compound the miracle, there next came a small bowl with three small lumps of what was unmistakably brown sugar, real brown sugar. The private room filled with the smell of strong coffee, of espresso.

Mister Grey didn't say a word, he just cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Well," from me, with another wry smile. "It's like this … You see, I'd found out from one of Rhys' letters to me in the hospital, how much he missed his espresso in the morning. And, so, I called in a favor from a friend, who called in another favor from another friend … you know how it goes."

 

And so, I told him a short version of the story. How I'd managed to get a four pound can of ground espresso roast coffee from El Salvador, smuggled into England on an aircraft-ferrying flight that started out in eastern Brazil. I'd smuggled it, in turn, to Paris in my B-4 bag. I even remember the logo on the can, and the brand; Café Bustelo, 'Always Fresh, Pure And Flavorful'.

I left out all the hoops I'd had to jump through, to make it all happen.

And I left out the look on Rhys' face, when I'd opened my bag and gave the can to him. And the fierce hugs, and the deep kisses that came after, that crashed through the slight awkwardness that lingered between us, after all the many months and miles and experiences we'd spent apart…

Not that the awkwardness would have lasted. We are a team. We always have been.

 

" … of course, I forgot one little detail. That Rhys has no way of making espresso, real espresso, at home; you need the right machine, like a café has." Another wry smile from me, and a shrug. "So he turned around and gave it all to Monsieur Bénard. And so, since then … we've been getting meals like this. And espresso. And, we're not allowed to pay, until the espresso's all gone."

Mister Grey smiled, and blew out a stream of smoke.

I suspected there was a little more to the story than that. I guessed that Rhys had taken Monsieur Bénard aside, and asked for the eggs specifically for me. Eggs are easy for a questionable stomach to digest, after all. It is exactly the sort of thing he'd do.

Well, it was also exactly the sort of thing I'd do, for him.

And as I was thinking all that, I let my eyes drift away from Mister Grey; and I realized I'd come to the end of the story, and I dried up.

Oh, it was a fun story, with a hint of 'The Gift Of The Magi' about it; it was a story that, among our friends and family, perhaps only Mister Grey could truly appreciate, knowing how things truly were between Rhys and me. It was the kind of story Rhys and I would remember and share with each other, over years, in our future …

If we had a future. With Rhys missing, the joy of the story turned to ashes in my mouth.

The silence grew a little awkward.

"May one ask, sir, if you have a place to stay here — ? There is plenty of room in Rhys' flat. As I guess you know."

It was an honest offer, and it was also a deliberate shot in the dark. Mister Grey had the slightly-rumpled look of someone who had spent the day in an airplane seat. I had more reason than most to know how that worked.

I saw the faintest hint of a wry smile come to the corners of his mouth; and he blew out some more cigaret smoke.

"Thank you," from him; "that is a very generous offer; but that won't be necessary." Another pull, on his cigaret. "Do you know, I actually keep a small flat, here, in the 5th — ? I have, since before the war. But, no. As it happens, I'll be staying at the Embassy, for this little trip. I shall have need of their communication facilities, starting tonight, actually."

It was unmistakably a signal, that it was time to go.

"I see, sir." A pause. "Shall I walk back to the British Embassy with you, then? I know the way by heart." I said this part, a little dryly.

It was dark out now, and cold. And I trusted the judgment of my MP sergeant, that walking alone at night wasn't a very good idea.

"Ah," from Mister Grey. "Ah." He crushed out his cigaret, and rested his fingers lightly on his cigaret-case. He seemed amused, again. "That is another very kind offer. But as it happens, unless I am very much mistaken, there is an Embassy car waiting for me outside, at the curb. Such arrangements are very convenient, on nights such as this."

"I would imagine, sir."

Another pause, as his face grew more serious.

"But you should know, that if I were indeed to walk to the Embassy, I would hardly be alone. I'd have the warm and comforting knowledge that my Sûreté tail would be close at hand. In fact, I'm sure they will have a car tailing me back to the Embassy. That is their standard procedure, for someone in my trade." He shrugged, slightly. "I hope they appreciate being able to follow me in a nice, closed automobile. I consider it a bit of professional courtesy, on our part."

I blinked at him.

He gave me a mild look.

"Rhys, of course, has his own Sûreté detail, at least when he is town." He paused, and moved his empty espresso cup-and-saucer just slightly, on the tablecloth. "I have no way of knowing, of course … but I would not be at all surprised if, in his absence, they have been assigned to you. It is rather the way they work," he went on, looking up at me, a little apologetically.

I had a brief, sharp recollection of our one and only encounter with the Sûreté, here in Paris in '38. I'd been terrified, before they'd identified themselves …

I felt my mouth quirk up to one side, and I shrugged.

"The more the merrier. Do you think I should invite them up to Rhys' flat, for a drink — ?"

Another amused look, from him. "Oh, I doubt you would see them on the street. I'm quite sure they're happily ensconced in a comfortable flat across the square from you, with the necessary spotting scopes, cameras and wire recorders. And that, of course, is why we're here tonight … May I ask, Captain, if you intend to go on paying visits to your Mister Dixon — ?"

I blinked at the change of subject.

"Yes. Not that he'll receive me." He'd been in 'meetings', the last two mornings when I'd called. I'd waited for hours.

"Good. Good," he said, pushing his espresso-cup again, a little. "The Sûreté will have its own sources in your Embassy. Your visits to this Dixon character is something they will have noticed, and will help establish the narrative. They are potential allies, you understand."

'Potential' allies, who had fought together, but who spied on one another? But then, Rhys himself was a spy, however unwilling, in their own country …

"Okay, sir."

Mister Grey stirred a little, made to stand up; and then subsided again. He looked at me consideringly, for a long moment.

"Captain, there is one more thing which I would like for you to understand. And it is important."

"Sir — ?"

A pause, from him.

"I hold Rhys as a dear friend, of long standing. Of course. And we have in fact also been colleagues, of sorts, more recently. I should have crossed over immediately, for those reasons alone, upon receiving your note."

I blinked at him.

"But," he went on, gently, "you should be aware that Rhys' well-being and freedom are also of some — interest, shall we say — to my own organization. At the highest levels, actually." He looked at me candidly. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you why, although I can assure you that it is for the very best of reasons, and that you would approve."

"Sir," from me, again. Not as a question, this time. As I took that in …

Another pause, from him.

"What this means, then, is that my — or rather, our — involvement in Rhys' situation, is liable to come to the attention of your own people; of your own government. It is, in fact, liable to become a minor, shall we say, 'thing', between our respective governments." Another pause, and a wry shrug from him; followed by a look. "There might be consequences, of some sort or another, for Rhys. And for you, yourself. These things can happen."

A longer silence between us, then.

A perverse part of me wanted to laugh. After God-knows all the things I'd been through, after all the horrible things we'd both been through, I was supposed to be afraid of getting in trouble — ?

"For myself, sir, I couldn't care less. I don't give a fucking rat's ass." I used the profanity deliberately. "As for Rhys … well, it was his idea to contact you in the first place. I trust his judgment, and I trust him, absolutely." I paused, and looked at him, directly. "As I do, you."

A moment's fraught silence, between us. And then, as I watched, a slow smile bloomed across his face, this face that looked so much like mine; the first real, honest smile I'd seen from him, yet.

"' … and there is a time for every purpose, under the heaven … ' Please, call me Ian — ?" He held out his hand, once again.

"Of course. And, it's Jack. Call me Jack — ?" I took his hand in mine, and shook it, firmly.

"Jack."

His answering grip was warm.

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