The Pale House (50 page)

With much grumbling, Benfeld dropped down into the car, where he squeezed himself into the back. Reinhardt helped
up, where she took two long strips of red cloth from her pocket. He gave her a last look, which she returned coolly, saying nothing, and he urged Neven into the car, the boy wedging himself behind the driver's seat. Reinhardt looked up at
where she perched with her back against the turret rim.

“You need to head toward the theater,”
said. “I can't promise he'll be there. If he's not, we can ask.”

Reinhardt drove fast through the narrow streets, his knee twitching painfully on the clutch and his injured wrist jarring on the wheel, hoping their luck would hold out, and although they heard a lot of gunfire, most of it was clearly to the east and north. Only once did they come across the remnants of any fighting, Reinhardt slowing and bumping the car over a meager barricade of rubble and paving stones where a handful of bodies in civilian clothing scattered across the road. Once, faces peered at them from the windows of a building at the end of the street, the slivers of rifles poking out and down, but
shouted something and the faces cheered, arms reaching out to pump the air.

Reinhardt raced the car down Kvaternik, past the frothy skirl of the river, up to the theater. He braked at
shout, and men emerged from the side streets, heavily armed, to slow and surround the car. From inside, through the vehicle's viewports, Reinhardt watched their faces, dark with suspicion and mistrust even as
talked to them, until a tall man stepped through their midst, and he recognized Simo. The Partisan called up to
, and then his eyes swiveled to the viewports—all the Partisans' eyes did—a collective shift as men turned, tightened their stance.

Reinhardt turned off the engine and pushed open the door. He led with his hands, shifting his body awkwardly to climb out of the car to stand with his arms up and out. Even though they were forewarned, there was still a hush from the Partisans, men shifting away from him. Simo stepped in close, removing Reinhardt's pistol. The Partisan shook his head, something rueful in his eyes as he looked down at Reinhardt, eyes flicking to Neven as the boy slithered out.

“Impressive, Captain. And resourceful,” he said, looking up at
.

“I need to see
. I have that information he wanted.”

Simo's eyes rose and his head went back, and then he nodded. “Your car stays here.”

“I have a man inside. I don't want him harmed.”

“If he does nothing foolish, he will not be.”

“Frenchie.” Reinhardt put his head in the car. “You stay put.”

Benfeld's eyes were wide as he stared through the viewports, then at him. “Sir? What the hell is going on?”

“Unfinished business, Lieutenant. Stay put.”

Reinhardt followed Simo into the building,
and Neven at his side, a pair of Partisans bringing up the rear. The Partisans led him into the hushed warren of tunnels and passages, moving up and across and through buildings rendered silent by the noise from outside. At the top of the ladder, Reinhardt climbed awkwardly around his injured hand into that same attic where Simo had brought him the first time to meet
, the space brightly lit by the light that poured in from the skylights. Almost empty the first time, the space was a veritable war room now, with a radio and a bank of telephones, maps and charts festooned across the walls. The bustle of men froze as they saw him pull himself up behind Simo, and then the crowd opened out and
stood up from a table. The Partisan breathed out heavily, then nodded to the other men and the bustle renewed itself. He walked over to Reinhardt, his eyes narrowing as first
, then Neven pulled themselves up into the attic.