He did not stop. Instead he squeezed harder, then abruptly withdrew his hands from her shoulders and put them around her neck . He squeezed again; even harder this time. She thought she would choke; she found it hard to breathe. She was on the verge of blacking out when he released his hands and said, ‘You are lying, Madamoiselle de Rossignol. You are not telling me the truth! This will not end happily.’ Her captor walked back around the table and lowered himself into the seat facing her, fixing her with a piercing stare.
Rosamund experienced a feeling of nausea mixed with terror. Who was this man? He was not the Harry she knew, and certainly not the one she had loved. Harry glanced at his watch, then took a notepad from his pocket, wrote something on the topmost sheet of paper, tore it from the pad and slid it across the table towards her, pointing to the words he had written.
Rosamund looked down at the familiar hand which she had not set eyes on in months, and at the words to which it pointed. Her vision was blurred, not just because of his apparent attempt at strangulation, but also through lack of sleep and meaningful nourishment. Straining her eyes, she managed to make out the message he had scrawled upon the piece of paper before he hastily removed it and returned it to his pocket: ‘Trust no one but me. Remember.’
She looked up and met his eyes. A moment later he pressed the button on the table and the key rattled once more in the lock.
The instruction in German was brief and to the point. ‘Take her away.’
Rosamund glanced over her shoulder as she was frog-marched out of the room. All she could see was Harry Napier – or Otto Koenig – which was he? – looking down at his papers and screwing the top back on his fountain pen.
‘You want to do what?’ Schneider asked Koenig in a disbelieving tone of voice.
‘I want to interview them together. To see how they react with one another. I think I can get more out of the man by the way I treat the woman. Bring out his protective instincts.’
‘It is highly irregular.’
‘But then so are your “enhanced techniques of interrogation”, Obersturmführer.’
‘But effective.’
‘Sometimes; not always.’
It was getting late. It was dark outside now, and Schneider had an assignation he did not want to forgo. She was a particularly promising French cabaret performer who had aspirations. He glanced at his watch. ‘You will have to have a guard present.’
‘You know I prefer to operate on my own.’
Schneider’s voice betrayed his irritation and impatience. ‘Yes, Herr Koenig, I know that, but in this instance I insist. You will have an armed guard inside the door at all times, and another one outside. Understood?’
Koenig shrugged. ‘If you wish.’
‘I do wish. I don’t like this, Koenig. Since you have failed to get anything out of them they should be taken to the room at the far end of the basement and … helped to talk by other means.’
‘If I’ve still failed when I have questioned them this time, then you may do so.’
‘I will do so when I feel like it, Herr Koenig. Don’t forget who’s in charge here. You may have the blessing of certain powers to which I’m not privy—’ he curled his lip in distaste, his face taking on an almost pantomimic sneer ‘—but when you come here to Montbéliard, in the absence of a Sturmbannführer, I call the tune. I wear the uniform. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly, Obersturmführer Schneider.’ The words were spoken evenly without a hint of sarcasm, though Schneider was aware that such sarcasm was implicit in the delivery.
Schneider walked to the door of his office, opened it and called, ‘Neumann!’
The subordinate Neumann appeared within moments, clicked his heels and offered the Nazi salute.
‘You and Koch will take the two prisoners down to the interrogation room. They are to be questioned together.’
Neumann raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes, I know it is not how we normally operate, but Herr Koenig thinks he can get more out of them that way. One of you will be inside the room – and armed – at all times. You will take it in turns – one inside and one outside the door. If Herr Koenig fails to discover anything more interesting than their hobbies and their ages, then you will take them down to the special room and see what you can achieve there. Is that clear?’
Neumann saluted, turned on his heels and went off in search of his fellow officer.
‘And now, Koenig, I’ll leave you to your task. Should nothing of interest transpire this evening, I shall be contacting my superiors tomorrow and recommending your removal from post. You record to date has hardly been what I would call glittering.’
‘That is a little unfair, Obersturmführer. You will recall the two prisoners last month …’
‘What is that famous saying, Herr Koenig? One swallow does not make a summer? Another English aphorism, I think. And this time, it is an accurate one. Good evening.’ With that he motioned his interrogator to leave the room, then closed the door quietly behind him.
Harry Napier leaned against the wall outside Schneider’s office and breathed deeply. On the other side of the huge mahogany door he could hear the Obersturmführer readying himself for his evening out, humming a snatch of ‘Zigeuner, Du hast mein Herz gestohlen’ to himself. The thought of Schneider partnering his conquest in a tango was something that turned Harry’s stomach. He glanced again at his watch. There was barely enough time. He set off in the direction of the interrogation room, down the single flight of winding and dimly lit steps to the basement, where the smell of damp and decay was overpowering. He remembered the garden shed from his childhood where his grandfather grew mushrooms, the windows blacked out with hessian, the atmosphere cloying and foetid. He shivered involuntarily and quickened his pace, rounding the corner at the bottom of the steps and walking along the whitewashed stone corridor. He glanced in the direction of the door at the very end, behind which resided the instruments of torture to which his captives would be subjected should he fail in his task. He averted his gaze and, arriving at the door of the interrogation room, pushed it open. The room was empty. He looked up at the small window. It was pitch dark outside, and the cruel bright light of the single bulb that hung above the table stung his eyes.
There was a commotion in the corridor outside, and a scuffling as Thierry and Rosamund were bundled into the room and prodded towards the chairs with the barrel of Untersturmführer Koch’s Beretta submachine gun. Both of them were handcuffed.
Neumann nodded at Koch who took his position outside the door, closing it and locking it after him. Neumann looked warily at the two prisoners – then at Harry – before positioning himself in front of the door, facing the three figures who were now his captives. His gun carried diagonally across his chest, he allowed himself a gentle smile, confident in having the upper hand.
There were still only two chairs in the room, now both positioned on one side of the table; Harry paced the floor on the other side and began his interrogation once more.
Rosamund glanced at Thierry. It was the first time she had seen him since their arrest; the first time she had been certain of the fact that he was alive. Her senses were heightened at the discovery. Thierry, too, had a light in his eye that had hitherto been absent, but the two sat calmly and quietly as the questions and statements rattled out from Harry, who kept up a continued flow of conversation that hardly warranted interruption.
He paced up and down in front of them and Neumann for half an hour, then glanced at his watch and said to Neumann, ‘I would like some water, please.’
Neumann turned toward the door, and as he did so, Harry pulled a pistol from his pocket and held it to Neumann’s temple, pinning him to the cold steel door. ‘Waffe runter!’
Neumann dropped his gun and Harry fished inside the guard’s right hand pocket. Nothing. Then the left. Nothing. Finally, pressing the barrel of his pistol even harder against the German’s temple, he pushed his hand inside the guard’s breast pocket and found what he was l
ooking for: the key to the handcuffs. ‘Careless,’ he murmured. Then he turned and tossed the key at Thierry who caught it, unlocked Rosamund’s handcuffs then motioned her to do the same for him.
Now Harry spoke in French: ‘Thierry, take the gun. Christiane, look away.’
As Rosamund did so she heard the sound of metal on bone and turned to see Neumann slump to the floor.
There was a thump at the other side of the door and Koch asked, ‘Ist alles in Ordnung?’
‘Alles OK,’ replied Harry. ‘Ich musste Gewalt anwenden.’
Harry turned from the crumpled body and began to drag the heavy table across the room until it was against the outside wall. Leaping up on to it, he pulled at the metal grille in front of the small window. It came away easily and he pushed open the swivelling pane. ‘Amazing what you can achieve with a screwdriver and a spanner when you’re not being watched,’ he muttered.
Thierry flashed him a smile. ‘Clever,’ he said, as the two of them lifted Rosamund up on to the table and pushed her out through the window. Harry motioned Thierry to follow, then picked up the submachine gun and passed it to him before raising himself up and squeezing through the small aperture.
He heard a groan beneath him as Neumann began to regain consciousness. There was no time to spare.
‘Keep close to the wall,’ Harry instructed. They had come out into a street, not a compound or a yard, for the Gestapo headquarters had not been built as a detention centre but as an imposing public building. They flattened themselves against the smooth and elegant stonework and within seconds an old truck rounded the corner and pulled up beside them. ‘In!’ said Harry, motioning them to the flapping canvas at the rear of the lorry, and with little pause the truck took off down the road with its three passengers rolling around among straw and sisal, hardly able to believe they were free.
It had all happened so fast, and as the lorry careered through the streets of Montbéliard and out into the French countryside, the sense of urgency did not abate. None of the three was anxious to speak first, and the noise of the ancient engine and the rattling sides of the lorry made any kind of intimate conversation impossible. As a result they remained mute, holding on to the sides of the rickety vehicle as it bounced down lanes and tracks, finally coming to a halt on the edge of a field. The engine was switched off and the silence that followed was deafening in its intensity.
It was Harry who spoke first. ‘Now we wait. Hopefully not for long.’ Rosamund looked at Harry, then glanced across at Thierry, aware that she was in the company of the two men for whom she harboured the strongest feelings she had ever experienced. Love. Yes. But how had that love changed? Could she still love Harry when … when, what? He was working for the Germans? But he had rescued them. What did that mean? It was all so confusing. And Thierry. The man at whose side she had come through all this. He had no idea of Harry’s true identity. As far as he was concerned, a German called Otto Koenig had engineered their escape. As these thoughts spun and collided in her head, the droning sound that Rosamund had not heard since their arrival in occupied France began to fill the air.
‘Quickly!’ said Harry. ‘Out!’
They tumbled over the tailgate of the truck and on to the frosty turf of the field. In the haste and bustle of their escape, Rosamund had quite forgotten about the cold, which suddenly seized her in its vice-like grip. She began to shake, and as she did so she saw the flares being raised up on the makeshift runway as the Lysander came in to land.
A figure leapt out of the cab of the lorry and shepherded the trio to one side of the field, wrapping a sheepskin jacket around Rosamund’s shoulders.
She looked up and saw that it was Paulette – the daughter of Henri and Madeleine Dubois.
‘Thank you! Thank you so much!’ she said in heartfelt appreciation.
‘I am sorry for what happened. It was not my mother’s fault. She has not been well. We do not all feel as she feels. Please, please forgive her.’
Rosamund looked at her, confused and dazed by words she could not begin to understand.
‘Quick! You must go!’ urged Paulette, pushing Rosamund towards the now stationary aircraft whose engine was still running and whose pilot was gesturing out of the cockpit window for them to make haste.
‘Thierry!’ Rosamund turned to her companion and held out her hand.
Thierry shook his head. ‘There is only room for two,’ he said. ‘I have more to do here.’ He stepped forward and gazed into Rosamund’s eyes, then gently kissed her on one cheek before stepping back and putting his arm around Paulette’s shoulder. The look Rosamund saw between them told her all she needed to know. She turned and looked pleadingly at Harry.
‘You first,’ he said, lifting her through the opening underneath the plane.
Then he hauled himself up as the Lysander began to gain speed. It was already airborne as his legs disappeared from view and the door was bolted shut.
As the few bright flares of the foreign field faded from view, a rattling series of cracks rent the air around them. Involuntarily, Rosamund reached out and clasped Harry’s hand. After barely half a minute, the anti-aircraft fire ceased and the feverish whine of the engine was all they could hear as they gained height and speed. Rosamund let go of Harry’s hand and turned away, clasping her arms around her body in a vain attempt to stay warm as they headed out towards England and home.
Chapter 31
NEWMARKET TO LONDON
DECEMBER 1941
‘France has lost a battle, but France has not lost the war!’
Charles de Gaulle, 1940
From the tiny airfield at Newmarket they were shepherded to a waiting car and driven straight to London. Conversation during the flight had been impossible thanks to the noise; now they were faced with a two-and-a-half hour journey in the back of a spacious Rover. Neither of them wanted to be the first to speak; Rosamund because she was unsure of their status after the events of the last twenty-four hours, Harry because he was afraid of saying too much or not enough.
Eventually it was Harry who broke the ice. ‘Are you alright?’
‘What do you think?’ she replied.
‘Confused?’
She sank down into the sheepskin jacket and pulled herself tighter into the corner of the back seat. ‘Totally.’
‘I’m not surprised. It’s a lot to take in.’
She shot him a look that reminded him of the depth of his understatement. ‘I mean, what are you?’
Harry nodded in the direction of the driver and said, ‘It’s difficult to say.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ she murmured, understanding his reluctance to talk in the presence of a third person, but also letting him know that she was far from convinced of his transparency.
‘I do what I have committed myself to do,’ he said, in an attempt to help her understand his position. The attempt failed.
‘Well, that much is clear,’ she retorted, aware that she was beginning to sound like a petulant child. In her mind the confusion had not abated. How could it? She replayed over and over the events of her time at Gestapo headquarters, and asked herself every imaginable question. Had he known where she was all the time? Had he been involved in planning her operation, or was it all news to him? Was their meeting in Montbéliard purely coincidental? Had he been as shocked to be confronted by her as she was to be interrogated by him? What was his relationship with the Gestapo? It was certainly official and sanctioned or he would not have been there, would not have been given charge of English prisoners. Or had the Germans been fooled into thinking that he was a traitor to his own country? What did she mean ‘been fooled’? Perhaps he was a traitor to his own country, and now here she was, in the back of a car, being driven to operational headquarters in his company. Would they ever get there? Would he spring yet another escape attempt? Would she be expected to cover for him? How could she?
Question after question rattled through her mind, and there was not a single answer to any one of them.
‘I know what you must be thinking,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ she blurted out. ‘I find that hard to believe, when I hardly know myself.’
‘Be patient. It will all become clear.’
‘Oh, I do hope so, because at the moment I can’t understand you at all.’
The rest of the journey passed in uneasy silence; Rosamund thinking that nothing he could say would make up for the confusion and lack of trust she felt enveloping her, Harry because he had so much he wanted to explain and yet knew he could not – partly because of the presence of the driver, but also because there were things she could never know and that he was certain she would not understand.
The car disgorged them under a large stone portico, where several men in suits were ready to escort them inside. At the doorway they were separated: Harry was taken down one corridor and Rosamund down another. He glanced over his shoulder at her as she was hurried away, but she did not look back.
They were kind enough to allow her a bath as soon as she arrived, and to give her a good meal and some clothes. She had forgotten what shoes felt like, her naked feet having been so cold for so long – a fact ameliorated only slightly by the blankets that had been offered to them in the back of the official car. The warm water and stockings allowed her circulation to return slowly, but having warmed up, she began to be overtaken by a supreme sense of tiredness exacerbated by lack of sleep and lack of nutrition. Her body cleansed and clothed and her appetite sated, she was taken to a room for the expected debriefing session. The two men seated at the desk – one rotund and ruddy of complexion, a clone of Sir Patrick Felpham, she thought; the other tall, thin and balding with rimless spectacles, the popular image of an Oxford don – were kind and solicitous. She was asked if she wanted anything. Tea? What passed for coffee was not worth drinking, they said. She declined either, still full from the surprisingly generous and unexpected plateful of meat and vegetables that had been offered on her arrival.
The Scarlet Nightingale Page 24