by Jana Petken
Paul followed Klara to the foyer. There, he observed her speaking to her colleague before leaving the hotel. He contemplated his next move. He was intrigued by her intense gaze, directed at him for most of the evening. He was tipsy, feeling more relaxed than he had in months, and if he were honest, in the mood for a little adventure – not sexual, of course.
She stood in the shadows at the corner of the street behind the hotel, surrounded by a veil of smoke, which was in fact steam shooting out of some nearby pipes. She beckoned him to her, and he shrugged again. Where was the harm? He was going in the direction of his barracks anyway.
Paul reached her just as a post van drew up. Those and German military vehicles were the only traffic one saw on the streets at night during curfew hours. He turned his head as the driver got out. The blow to his head was accompanied by the word, “Sorry.” Then he fell into a big black hole.
When he woke up in the van he found his wrists tied behind his back, his sore head covered with a stinking vegetable sack that smelt of rotting turnips, and an equally foul-smelling rag lodged into his mouth.
He struggled against the ropes and tried to dislodge the gag with his tongue. Since the assassination of the naval officer weeks earlier in a Paris Metro station, High Command had issued a new directive to its officers not to travel in the city alone or unarmed, which was precisely what he’d done. He might be killed by a pretty woman using the oldest trick in the book, and he hadn’t seen it coming.
Paul’s body shuddered as the van came to a halt. He had no idea where he was, for he’d lost all concept of time. At the thought of dying, he struggled again, ripping the skin on his wrists as he tried to free himself and kicking the van’s back doors with his heavy boots. He cursed as he thought of Valentina; I’m a doctor, no one will touch me, he’d promised her. What a damn fool he was. He was an enemy of France, and the French people hated his Wehrmacht uniform as much as any other worn on their streets.
******
In the farmhouse kitchen, Klara faced Duguay’s scorn, refusing to back down or admit she might have made a blunder. “When you speak to him, he’ll tell you who he is, and you’ll be glad I brought him to you.”
“You had no authority to bring anyone here without my say so!” Duguay blasted her. “And as for you, Claude. What the hell were you thinking?”
In contrast to Klara’s self-assured bearing, Claude trembled under Duguay’s glare. “She said he was a British undercover agent, and the only way we could talk to him in relative safety was to bring him here. You told me to follow her orders, and that’s what I did.”
Duguay banged his fist on the table. “Are you both as stupid as each other? If he was a British agent, why didn’t he say so when you gave him the note? And if he is undercover, why is it as a doctor? Or don’t German doctors have to prove they have medical training?”
Klara began to unravel. She’d asked herself that question on the journey from Paris but had shrugged it off. “It’s him. I’ve known the man for three years. If Romek were here…”
“Romek is not here!” Duguay shouted again. “Damn you, Marine. If he is not who you say he is, I’ll have to kill him.”
“No!” Klara panicked. “I might have been impulsive, but I know him. Give me fifteen minutes alone with him? He’s either a German spy who hoodwinked Romek and me for years, or he’s on some elaborate mission for British Intelligence. Either way, we have him.” Her voice finally broke. “Please, Duguay … he’s a good man … he’ll help us. MI6 are looking for Resistance groups to fund and train. They’ll supply us with weapons and radios … they want us … they need us to succeed.”
Duguay let out a tired sigh as he looked out of the kitchen window at the van parked in front of it. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go out to that van and put a bullet in his head right now.”
Klara shook her head. “I don’t know what else to say. I’ve just given you three good reasons.” She had come too far to back down, but she was perplexed by Max’s behaviour. Her faith in the man she loved was crumbling, and she suspected that Duguay sensed unease from her rather than confidence.
Deciding to play her best cards, she said, “I know him because he’s the reason Romek and I parted. I love him, and I know every inch of him, from the Union Jack tattoo on his shoulder to his broken molar. He’s British, born in London, and an only child to parents who work in a factory.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Duguay, shaking his head. “The stupidity of women never ceases to amaze me – wait here – I’m warning you, don’t move.”
Klara watched Claude and Duguay open the van’s back doors and drag Max out. He struggled, and she wished she could calm his fears. Max was the bravest man she knew, but even he must be terrified, and as confused as she was.
Upon his return, Duguay seemed to have calmed down. Klara’s eyes were wet with tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and said, “Trust me, please.”
“He’s in the basement. You can have ten minutes alone with him before I come down there to see to him myself. Here, take this.” Duguay handed her a pistol.
The basement had no electricity, but two gas lamps were adequate to see the man she adored sitting in a chair with his wrists and feet tied together with rope, the gag still in his mouth.
She looked at him, her eyes tearing up again. She wanted to remove the gag, to kiss him, to tell him how much she cared for him, but first, she needed to speak without being swayed by his responses. “I’ve waited for so very long to see you again,” she began. “I’ve prayed for your return. I’m sorry, Max, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get close to you … and I’m sorry about Claude hitting you over the head … I was angry when you looked at me as if you didn’t know me. I’ll make this better, I promise you, I will. All you have to do is tell the leader of this group who you really are.”
She let out a ragged breath as she approached him, and when she removed the gag from his mouth, her voice was but a hoarse whisper. “Please, Max, tell me you’re not working for the Germans, that you didn’t lie to me, or to Romek.”
Paul coughed. “Water, please,” he said in a barely audible voice.
She shook her head. “No water. You’ll be dead in the next five minutes unless you tell me what you’re doing in Paris dressed as a Wehrmacht officer. For God’s sake, talk to me.”
Paul cleared his throat. “I am a doctor, and under the Geneva Convention you cannot abduct me or harm me – I’m not Max, I’m…”
Klara bent down and kissed him hard on the mouth to stop his lies, to provoke a response from him, but like a stranger’s, his mouth was cold and closed to her. She slapped his face with her open palm and then staggered backwards shaking her head, over and over. “I don’t believe you…”
“I am Paul Vogel, a Wehrmacht officer.”
Klara’s mouth dropped open as she realised her mistake. It had seemed impossible that two totally unconnected men from different countries could be as identical as Max and the German sitting in front of her. Yet even with that unlikelihood, she now believed he was who he claimed to be. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“Paul Vogel – Max is my brother. You have the wrong man, I’m afraid.”
“You and Max are twins?”
“Yes, and if he were here, he’d tell you that I know what line of business he’s in, and that I can be trusted. I’m not a threat to you or the men who abducted me. I won’t…”
Klara jumped as the door at the top of the wooden steps opened sending a shaft of light to shine on Paul’s figure.
“Well, is he your man or not?” Duguay asked Klara.
Klara straightened, trying to pull herself together but failing miserably. “He is, and he isn’t. He’s my man’s twin brother.”
Duguay’s mocking laughter filled the room as he and Claude walked into the basement. “What are the odds of that, eh?” Claude uttered in the background.
“What are the odds indeed?” Duguay said, wiping the smile of
f his face as he looked at Paul. “Do you speak French?”
“A little, enough.” Paul stared up at Duguay.
Duguay’s cold eyes bored into Klara’s. “You said you knew everything about your British agent, your lover, but it seems you were wrong – or did you know he was German all along?”
“No, I would have told you upstairs had I known,” Klara retorted.
Paul, looking sideways at the rifle in Claude’s hands, said, “I give you my word, I’ll tell no one about you or this place. I’m a German citizen, but Max attended university in England and took a British passport – that’s the only difference between us – I’m not a Nazi. I hate Adolf Hitler with every bone in my body … that’s the truth.” Then he stared directly at Duguay. “Max is a British Army Major, and he is the last person in the world who would betray England. Please, let me go for his sake. It would crush him if I were to die here.”
After Klara had finished translating Paul’s appeal to Duguay, the big man turned on his heels and went to the stairs. “You and Claude, get up here – now — leave him!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Klara gulped down a cup of water from the kitchen tap. “I’m sorry. Max told me he was an only child.”
“Spies lie as easily as men pee in the morning,” Duguay sighed.
Klara covered her face with her hands to hide her anguish. “This is all my fault, but I can fix it, I know I can.”
Duguay spread his arms. “How? I’d love to know how you’re going to fix this.”
“His brother will come soon. I’m waiting for him to arrive. He’ll get his twin out of France, and the Germans will never know he was here or what happened to him. British Intelligence have ways of making people disappear.” When she didn’t receive a response, she added, “You can keep him here until then, can’t you?”
“Do you expect me to trust the other brother now?” asked Duguay
“Yes. Max wouldn’t jeopardise his cover in France, not even for his twin.”
Duguay leaned against the sink and nonchalantly crossed his arms. “A driver is waiting for you in the truck outside. Go back to Paris. I’ll send Claude to you when I’ve made my decision about what to do with the German.”
When Duguay left the kitchen, Klara knew there was nothing more to say on the matter, and reluctantly gathered her belongings. She was desperate to go back down to the basement to give words of hope and encouragement to Max’s brother. It had been unbearable to see him tied to a chair, terrified of Duguay, trying desperately to stay alive, for it had been like observing Max’s every gesture and expression.
Outside, she reached the waiting truck and opened the passenger door. A gun went off, its loud snap echoing up from the basement. A sob tore from her throat, and unthinking, she threw her camera onto the passenger seat and ran back into the house.
The basement door was locked, and she thumped on it with her fists, screaming Duguay’s name again and again. “You let me in Duguay – Duguay, let me in – Duguay!”
Claude, appearing from the kitchen, gripped her by the arm and dragged her out of the house even as her rage was becoming hysterical. She pummelled his chest, but he shook her until her teeth rattled. “That’s enough from you!” he barked, pushing her into the truck.
Klara screamed, “I’ll kill Duguay for what he’s done. You tell him I don’t want anything to do with him and his communists. He’s as bad as the Nazis … you can all go to hell!”
Claude, usually a man of few words, stood at the truck’s door staring at her anguished face with an inscrutable expression. “This is not a romantic game you’re involved in, Marine,” he said in a softer voice. “We’re at war, and that man in the basement was our enemy – perhaps this lesson will teach you to remember whose side you’re on?”
Klara glanced at the driver, a man she’d never seen before, and not wishing to say another word to any of Duguay’s people, she turned her face to the window. I killed Max’s brother … I killed him … me … it was me … forgive me. Oh, God forgive me.”
Chapter Seventy-One
Laura Vogel
Laura fidgeted outside the Ambassador’s office, having seen no one else on her way up the diplomatic chain. Three days earlier, however, she had been involved in an argument with a very rude secretary who’d declined to give her a time and date to have a meeting with even a low-level diplomat at the British Embassy in Geneva.
She was nervous but also philosophical about her chances of being approved for travel. If she were denied entry to Britain, she’d accept the decision and deal with it. She had legally passed into Switzerland and was confident she wouldn’t be sent back to Germany, and she had enough money to stay in a Geneva hotel for months should she have to remain in this neutral country until the British decided she was not a spy, or a threat to anyone.
“The Ambassador will see you now.” A young male secretary with a bright smile ushered her in.
Laura entered the British Ambassador’s enormous office with breathtaking panoramic views over Lake Geneva. It was furnished like a living room, and she almost relaxed while making herself comfortable on the plush couch. “Thank you so very much for seeing me, Your Excellency. This is a wonderful surprise. I thought I’d have to go through the system first … you know how bureaucracy is. Is this a good sign … am I cleared to go home?”
The Ambassador’s smile was rather frigid, not what she would have expected from His Majesty’s representative in Switzerland.
“Mrs Vogel, I’m afraid I can’t take credit for the speed with which your application has been managed. Your case was taken up by another branch of the Foreign Office, you see.”
Laura didn’t see at all, but asked, “Does this mean I’ve been approved already?”
“Yes, you have, but it’s a little more complicated than usual. One second, please.” The Ambassador lifted the telephone, waited, and eventually said, “Show him in.”
Laura, somewhat bewildered, tried to fathom the Ambassador’s expression. He hadn’t shown much courtesy during their very brief meeting; he hadn’t even sat down. “Is there a problem, Ambassador?” she asked.
“Mrs Vogel, I honestly don’t know. As I mentioned, your case has been taken out of my hands.
A knock on the door heralded the new arrival.
“Come!” the Ambassador barked and then said in a clipped tone, “Your escort will explain what will happen next. Goodbye.” He gave a stiff bow, and when a friendlier looking man came into the room, the Ambassador left closing the door behind him.
Laura rose to her feet, leaving her handbag on the couch beside her. “Hello, I’m Laura Vogel.”
He beamed at her. “Yes, Mrs Vogel, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Jonathan Heller. Please, sit.”
Delighted to see a friendly face at last, Laura sat again, clasping her leather handbag to her chest. Her muscles visibly relaxed as Heller came to sit opposite her. He seemed to have a genuine spark of kindness in his green eyes and a smile that was completely natural, but she was still a little worried about her fate. “I must say, all this cloak and dagger doesn’t suit me. Perhaps you could tell me what’s to become of me, Mr Heller?” she said to break the long silence.
“Please don’t worry; I’m friend not foe,” Heller said in an almost teasing voice.
Laura nodded and managed a weak smile. “I’m glad to hear it. Do you work here at the embassy?”
“No. I’m here to take you to England, Mrs Vogel, and we only have two hours to get you to the plane. Would you mind if I answered your questions once we’re on board?”
Laura searched Heller’s pleasant face, struggling to understand the situation. He was self-assured, dressed in a suit, handsome, and carrying a civil service briefcase, but she didn’t know the man from Adam, and didn’t want to go anywhere with him.
He took out a silver case, opened it and offered her a cigarette. She declined, and while she watched him light his, a terrible thought struck her; I’m here to take you to England. W
as he going to arrest her as a German spy and throw her into prison the minute the plane landed in England? Dieter had worked with Hitler’s Nazi Party, and it was possible that the Swiss authorities had told the British about the Vogels even before she’d set foot in the embassy. She finally admitted she was afraid. Her voice shook as she got to her feet. “I would like to talk to the Ambassador again.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that,” Heller said.
“Then I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Heller gestured to her to sit. “Mrs Vogel, I assure you, I would not have been allowed to walk into the British Ambassador’s office were I not carrying authentic documents with the proper authority to take you to London – but we really must hurry. I promise to answer all your questions but only after we leave Switzerland – will that be all right?”
Laura nodded. “I suppose … I don’t think I have much choice, do I?” She wanted to believe him, to see Max, Hannah and Frank, and to finally free herself of the Nazi shackles that had controlled her life for so long.
******
By the time the plane had landed on an airstrip in Kent, Laura had ascertained that Jonathan Heller was a senior officer in MI6, the Secret Service arm of the British Foreign Office. He’d been charming to her, but very much mistaken to believe she was at ease with him, for he still hadn’t answered the fundamental question of why she had come to his attention, and what it was he wanted from her. Heller had said only that she was to accompany him to London where she would undergo what he had called, a debrief, the reason for which he also hadn’t explained.
Laura had wept on the car journey. Kent had looked much the same as when she’d last seen her childhood haunts, but she’d been shocked when the car crossed London Bridge and neared Buckingham Palace and the surrounding areas. The German newspapers had boasted about the Luftwaffe’s successes over the British capital, and they had not exaggerated in their descriptions of the devastation.