Resistance

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘France is a very big nose, Herr Colonel. But I think if we find the traitor, we will have all of our answers.’

  ‘Sooner or later,’ Kluck reminded him, disparagingly. ‘The delivery is to be made in a fortnight. Less than that, now.’

  ‘Perhaps sooner. As soon as Bliquet showed us the map, I recognized something.’ Roess bent over his superior’s shoulder. ‘There, right in the middle of the area marked as the source of the signal, Gruchy and Son’s Paris office. And here, only three blocks away, is the apartment of Pierre de Gruchy.’

  ‘Really, Roess. You are becoming obsessed with this man.’

  ‘Would you not like to catch him out, Herr Colonel?’

  ‘It is his sister I wanted to get hold of,’ Kluck said. ‘And she is dead. What possible reason have you for supposing Pierre de Gruchy is our mysterious radio operator?’

  ‘Simply because his sister is dead, for which we are responsible, at least as he will see it. He will also consider us responsible for his other sister’s suicide.’

  ‘And you think that would drive him to committing suicide himself? Not very logical.’

  ‘I think that might encourage him to attempt to harm the Reich in any way he can. At least let me search his flat.’

  ‘Do you think he will leave his radio equipment lying about the place?’

  ‘I am confident that I could find it.’

  ‘By tearing the whole place apart. And if you do not find it, and word gets to Berlin that you have destroyed the apartment of Colonel von Helsingen’s brother-in-law without adequate reason, do you know whose head is going to roll? Oh, yours, certainly. But mine as well.’

  Roess suppressed a sigh of frustration. ‘There is another line of approach. Gruchy has a mistress.’

  ‘All Frenchmen have mistresses, Roess.’

  ‘This one is living in. She was observed by my people, four days ago, entering his apartment.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She has not come out save to go shopping in the morning, and then she goes straight back to the apartment. She has a key. Gruchy goes to his office every morning, leaving her alone in the apartment.’

  ‘She is obviously someone he trusts.’

  ‘That is an important point, certainly. But more important, we know she was there when he made that call.’

  Kluck held up a finger. ‘If he made that call.’

  This time Roess did sigh. ‘Yes, Herr Colonel. However, if he made that call, she will know about it. If she were to be brought in for questioning, on a quite separate matter...

  ‘You would be putting our careers at risk.’

  ‘I am sure we could frighten her into keeping quiet.’

  Kluck stroked his chin. ‘It could be done. But just in case it is a mistake, we must not be involved. Have you someone you can trust?’

  ‘Several.’

  ‘Choose one. A sergeant. Have him keep a watch on Gruchy’s apartment. The next time this woman leaves, he can arrest her, place her in a van, and question her. She must not be brought to headquarters. If he finds out something worthwhile, then he can bring her in. If he does not, he will let her go and drive away. If Gruchy brings charges against us, and this woman can identify the man who arrested her, then he will have to suffer the consequences.’

  ‘You are telling me to ask him to put his career on the line.’

  ‘Whose career concerns you more, Captain? Yours or his? Heil Hitler.’

  *

  ‘I hate the thought of you travelling the length of France on your own,’ Pierre said.

  ‘There is no danger,’ Amalie said. ‘I travelled the length of France to come here, didn’t I?’

  ‘You were fortunate.’

  ‘Fortune had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Amalie, you are a lovely girl. Are you saying that no man made advances to you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Several did.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I giggled and said that I would love to go with them, but that I had a confession to make first.’

  ‘You told them you were a nun.’

  ‘That is not always a protection. I told them I had the clap.’

  ‘You...’ He regarded her with amazement. This was his baby sister? ‘How do you know about such things?’

  ‘Liane told me. She told me exactly what to do, and say. She knows everything about, well... naughty things.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pierre said grimly. ‘Well, take care, little sister.’

  ‘Of course.’ She kissed him, hung her satchel on her shoulder, and closed the door behind herself. She was filled with a tremendous sense of exhilaration as she went down the stairs, smiled at the concierge, and stepped on to the street. Not only was she excited at the prospect of the return journey, which, however exhausting she knew it was going to be, was also going to be an adventure, but also because she at last felt she was doing something, for France, for the memory of Henri, and most of all, for herself. Liane had told her she was helping to bring down the Boche, and she always believed everything that Liane told her. Liane was always right.

  She turned the corner, down a side street, meaning to rejoin the boulevard a few blocks along, and half turned her head as a van passed her and stopped immediately in front of her. She continued on her way, swinging her satchel, and the back doors of the van opened. Two men got out and, while she looked at them in amazement, seized her arms and threw her into the interior. She was so astonished she didn’t even cry out. She needed both her hands to stop her face from hitting the floor, and before she could catch her breath, hands grasped her thigh and turned her over so that she was looking up at four male faces. They were not wearing uniforms, but she knew they were not French. That meant they were Gestapo. Again! She had an urgent desire to scream, even as she felt sick. This could not be happening to her.

  ‘Who’s a pretty girl then?’ one of the men asked, in good French.

  Amalie wanted to shout at him, but then remembered Liane’s instructions. ‘If you run into trouble,’ Liane had told her, ‘say as little as possible. Nearly all criminals give themselves away by talking too much.’ She had kissed her. ‘And the Germans will regard you as a criminal.’

  ‘Lost your tongue?’ the man asked. He grasped her jaw before she knew what he intended, squeezing so hard that her mouth opened. She brought up her hands to strike at him, and had her arms seized by the men behind her. ‘What a pretty tongue,’ the man said. ‘Shall I cut it out for you?’ He released her. ‘Speak.’

  Amalie swallowed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We want to know about your boyfriend, eh?’

  ‘I have no boyfriend.’

  ‘No boyfriend? A smasher like you.’ He said something in German, and the men holding her pulled her backwards so that she was lying on the floor. The spokesman knelt beside her. She tried to kick, but that was a mistake; her skirt rode up to expose her legs and her knickers. ‘I’d be your boyfriend,’ he said, and pulled the cotton down.

  Oh, God! Amalie thought. When she remembered those questing fingers in Dieppe... But she was stronger now. She had to be. ‘I have no boyfriend,’ she panted ‘Who would have me?’

  ‘I can think of hundreds.’ He grasped her groin, again moving with such speed that she could not anticipate it, and squeezed so hard that she could not suppress a shriek. ‘What of that Gruchy, eh? You have been with him for the past week. What did you do in that time? Play cards?’

  Think, Amalie told herself. Keep calm. Follow Liane’s instructions. ‘I was Monsieur de Gruchy’s woman,’ she gasped.

  ‘Well, then, you can tell us.’

  ‘But this morning he threw me out.’

  ‘Tell me another.’

  ‘He threw me out,’ Amalie shouted, ‘because he discovered I have the clap. I have syphilis.’ Liane had not told her to claim that, but she might as well go the whole hog. The man had still been grasping her pubes, his fingers between her legs. Now he released her, jerking his hand away. ‘He had me tested
yesterday,’ Amalie panted. ‘The results came through this morning, then he threw me out. He thought something was wrong, so he had me tested. Then he threw me out. Now I can only go back to my village.’

  The man jerked his head, and shouted in German. The van stopped. ‘Get out,’ he commanded. The doors were opened, and the men holding Amalie threw her through the door. Her satchel was thrown behind her. They hadn’t even looked inside.

  *

  Pierre stared at the closed door for several minutes. He felt a curious mixture of pride that his sisters should be doing so much and apprehension that they were both living on borrowed time, overlaid by the persistent feeling of disbelief that they should both be alive, that Amalie had actually shared his life for the past five days. Now he had to put them out of his mind, concentrate on the business.

  He went into the bedroom, contemplating the secret compartment — it used to hold a wall safe — in which his radio equipment was situated. He had the strongest temptation to call London, hear James’s voice, be reassured that everything was going ahead as they had agreed. But that would be dangerous. Over the past week he had used the set far too often, and once or twice for several minutes at a time. If the Germans had not traced the signal yet, they would be close to doing so. The set could not be used again for at least a month. By which time the proposed action would be over. How he wished he could be part of it. But, he reminded himself, he was part of it. He had set it up.

  He went into the lounge, to the sideboard, poured himself a Pernod, and swung round when the doorbell rang. Oh, God, he thought. They are here! But surely the Gestapo would have broken the door down in preference to merely ringing the bell. It had to be Amalie, returning because she had forgotten something.

  He hurried to the door, opened it, and gazed at Joanna Jonsson.

  Nine

  The Railway

  ‘I’m not a ghost,’ Joanna said. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ Pierre stepped back, then closed the door behind him. ‘Nice place,’ Joanna commented. ‘You must be having a good war.’

  Pierre licked his lips. How to handle it? How to do it? How to get rid of the body afterwards? But... to do it! Although he had fired at people from inside his tank, he had never personally killed anyone in his life. And Joanna, on whom he had had a tremendous crush as a teenager? How simple it had seemed when James had given him the command over the radio. The odds on her ever turning up had seemed so remote as to be not worth considering.

  Joanna had turned round to look at him. ‘You expecting someone?’

  ‘Ah... no.’ Had she seen Amalie leaving? But surely she would have said so. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Sure. But no alcohol.’

  ‘You do not wish alcohol? I have champagne.’

  ‘I’ve given it up. I’ll have a soda.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He bustled at the sideboard, took a cognac for himself; he suspected he was going to need it. ‘What brings you to Paris?’

  Joanna accepted her glass, sat down and crossed her knees. ‘Liane.’

  Pierre all but dropped his glass. ‘Liane?’

  ‘I was in Berlin last week. I saw Madeleine. She told me Liane is on the run, for killing a German officer. Is that true?’

  Pierre stood in front of her. She was such a big, strong woman. It would have to be a knife. But then, the blood! And actually to cut into that pulsing white flesh...

  ‘You okay?’ Joanna asked. ‘Liane, remember?’

  Pierre swallowed his cognac. ‘Yes. She killed a German officer. A member of the SS. Name of Biedermann.’ He was talking at random, trying to give himself time to think. ‘Biedermann? That bastard!’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Oh, sure. One of those guys who strip you naked with their eyes. I guess Li is in line for a medal. You know where she is?’

  ‘Ah... nobody knows where she is.’

  Joanna regarded him for some seconds. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘If I did know where she is, I would not tell you.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s my best friend. I can help her.’

  ‘Are you her best friend?’

  ‘Look, what the fuck has happened to you people? Madeleine married to a Kraut and kow-towing to the Nazis, Amalie bumping herself off, you acting like I’m some kind of female Dracula... Well, if that’s how you want to play it.’ She drained her glass and stood up.

  ‘Ah... don’t go,’ Pierre said. ‘Why don’t you stay to supper?’

  Joanna turned back to look at him. ‘Are you nuts?’

  ‘In wishing you to stay for a meal? Are we not old friends?’

  ‘We were, once. Before you started acting like a weirdo.’

  ‘I am sorry. I was confused. Seeing you again...’

  ‘I’ll stay if you’ll tell me about Liane.’

  What difference does it make, he wondered? If I am to kill her anyway. ‘Yes, I’ll tell you. Liane is in Vichy. In the mountains. She is with a group of refugees.’

  Joanna sat down again. ‘Well, that’s a relief. Where exactly is she? We must get her out of the country.’

  ‘I’ll just put something in the oven.’ Pierre went into the kitchen, opened the cutlery drawer, and selected the largest sharp knife he owned. This was how Liane had dealt with her problem; he could do no less, ‘I don’t think she wants to be taken out of the country,’ he said, coming back into the room and gazing at the back of Joanna’s head. ‘She wants to fight the Germans. She’s organizing the people she’s with into a guerilla group.’

  ‘Good for her. I’d still like to get in touch. I bet I could be a lot of help.’

  He stood immediately behind her. Now he reached forward, to grasp her chin and pull her head back for the cut on her throat, and she turned her head to look up at him. She did not immediately see the knife, but she saw the expression on his face, and reacted instantly — and in a way he had not envisaged.

  Without getting up she twisted, grasped both of his wrists, jerked him forward, and then rose, crashing her shoulder into his stomach while still exerting her forward pressure so that he shot over her to land on the floor beyond with a resounding crash. For a moment he was utterly winded and only half-conscious, and in that moment she had risen, kicked him in the side of the head, kicked the knife away from where it had fallen, rolled him on his face and was sitting astride his back, skirt pulled up to her thighs, holding his head in both hands. ‘Move, and I’ll break your fucking neck,’ she warned.

  He panted. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

  ‘I’ve been to school. You tried to kill me. You! So who’s controlling you? The Gestapo?’

  ‘For God’s sake, no. I work for James Barron.’

  Joanna gazed at the back of his head. ‘Repeat that?’

  ‘James Barron. He’s the one who sent you to school, isn’t he? He was your control. He’s mine too. But when you ran off, the British named you as a traitor. All British agents on the continent are under orders to execute you if you approach them.’ Joanna released his head, and slowly swung her leg over to get up. Just to be sure, she picked up the knife. ‘James Barron,’ she said. ‘I put him down as some kind of glorified gutless office boy.’

  ‘You were wrong. He’s as cold, and as ruthless, as a shark.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Joanna sat down, still holding the knife. ‘And he ordered my execution. Well, well. Time to break the rules. You got any Gruchy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘’14?’

  ‘There are a couple of bottles left.’

  ‘Open two. We’ll drink one raw and let the other air.’ Slowly Pierre pushed himself to his feet. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You mean apart from getting drunk? We are going to have a nice long chat, and you are going to tell me everything you know about that bastard and his set-up.’

  Pierre pulled the first cork. ‘I can’t do that. Then he’d send an assassin after me.’

  ‘That’s very likely. But look at it
this way. James is in London. I am here in Paris, and in your flat. I have first shot.’ She took the little Walther automatic pistol from her handbag.

  Pierre spilled the wine he was pouring. ‘You wouldn’t dare. You’d be arrested. You’d be executed.’

  ‘Do you really think so? I’m busy proving myself a Nazi sympathizer. So I’m in Paris, and I pay my old friend Pierre de Gruchy a visit, and guess what? He proudly boasts to me that he is actually a British agent, and shows me his equipment. Because you do have equipment in this flat, don’t you?’ Pierre swallowed. ‘I thought you would. So, having done all this, you then realize that I can betray you, and so you try to kill me. So I had to shoot you. When I’ve done that, I’ll call the Gestapo myself. Let’s have that drink.’

  He gave her the glass. ‘What are you really going to do?’

  ‘That depends on what you have to tell me. Come and sit here. And do remember that I can take you apart, if I have to. Bring the bottle.’ Pierre obeyed. ‘Now talk. I want to hear everything you have done, or been told, since you waved goodbye on 10 May.’

  Pierre did as he was told. He tried to think while he was doing so, but it was difficult while she was staring at him, very much as he imagined a hungry lioness might do.

  ‘Great stuff,’ she said when he had finished. ‘Sterling, eh? Now you can start cooking, and we’ll start on that second bottle. Maybe you’d better open a third. Then you could offer me a bed for tonight. I don’t mind sharing yours.’

  Pierre opened the third bottle, and went into the kitchen. For the moment, at least, his ability to think had been entirely taken over.

  Joanna followed him. ‘By the way, you do realize that if, after I leave tomorrow, you get on to James and tell him what’s happened, he will certainly send a hit man after you.’

  ‘You want to destroy him yourself, do you? And his whole organization.’

  ‘Why should I want to do that? I really would like England to win this war. But I sure do mean to get even with that bastard.’