by Jana Petken
Duguay shifted his eyes to Darek, and in French said. “Pole, you’re a sneaky bastard. You didn’t warn me who he was. I’m not happy about this. I don’t like surprises.”
“I told him not to give you my name,” Max responded in perfect French. “Would you have met with me had you known who I was?” Max sipped his wine and set the glass casually on the table. He had imagined this scene many times, but not once had he pictured this stand off so early in the game. He hadn’t been asked for his name, rank, or the details of his mission, but it was evident that the Frenchman knew exactly why he was there.
Duguay flicked his eyes again to Darek. “Tell the men in the other room to get out. You go, too. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Max looked at the bread knife. His pulse thumped wildly in his neck, not only because of his rage but with the grief that was engulfing him. It was real now. Paul was dead, and he was sitting opposite the man who’d killed him. His parents’ faces tumbled into his mind. He saw them crying, his father holding his mother in his arms. Hannah, beside herself; it was no secret that Paul had been her favourite brother. And Willie, alone in Russia, would get another letter like the one he’d got from Biermann about their father.
Max’s stony gaze followed Duguay’s men as they traipsed through the kitchen and out the door into the yard with rifles slung over their shoulders. Duguay was displaying his strength, saying without words that he held all the cards, and should Max want a fight he’d lose and end up as dead as Paul – he clearly wasn’t afraid of being in the house alone with his victim’s vengeful twin.
“The resemblance is remarkable. Did you really think you could fool me with black hair, Major Max Vogel?” said Duguay, pouring more wine into Max’s empty glass.
“The hair wasn’t for your benefit. You’ll have noticed my brother’s face plastered across the city?”
“Ah, oui.” Duguay sat back. “Eh bien. Let us discuss your brother before we talk about the business of war, d’accord?”
Max nodded, his mouth a hard line.
Duguay began in a casual manner, as though having a conversation with a friend. “You want to know why Paul was brought here and what happened to him, hein? Perfectly understandable.”
“I want to know if he is dead, and if so, where you buried him.”
Duguay chuckled. “You already think you know the answer to the first question, otherwise you wouldn’t be itching to kill me. As for the second … well … there really is no need to talk about where…”
“And why is that?”
Duguay smiled. “You’re good – calm, patient with a poker face, as you English call it – you think as I do, n’est-ce pas? Blind rage is never a good thing, is it? It doesn’t defeat an enemy. It is just as destructive as one hanging oneself or blowing one’s own foot off – mais, perhaps that is an exaggeration.”
Duguay went into his trouser waistband, pulled his gun out and placed it on the table. He taunted Max with a humorous smile, inviting him to reach for it. “I don’t blame you for coming here. You want to kill me. You want revenge. I understand.”
“I doubt that very much.” Max eyed the gun, and then dismissed it. Duguay didn’t seem like an idiot who’d leave bullets in its barrel.
Duguay poured another glass of wine for himself but then pushed it to the side. “I had a brother, Max … may I call you Max?”
Max remained silent.
“Very well, Major. My brother was killed in Madrid three years ago during the siege of that city. I loved the boy. He was younger than I and much more idealistic … he was drowning in his beliefs. I’ll never forget the day the Spanish Republican Government begged for help on the radio. Gerard, my brother, left the farm, walked over the Pyrenees and into Spain without a moment’s hesitation. He fought with the Russians against that pig, General Franco, and died bravely, or so I was told.
“A communist by the name of Rouge – an apt name, non? – fought alongside Gerard and saw him die. Rouge and the other few survivors of that battle were forced to dig the grave for their comrades. He told me that the fascists threw over a hundred dead men into the pit before they sat under trees to eat lunch while watching the remaining communists fill the grave with dirt.
“Rouge was a prisoner for a while, but when the war ended he made it back to France and went straight to my parents’ house to inform them – you know what I did, hein? – when I got word that Gerard was dead, I went to Spain to search for the place where he’d supposedly been killed. The war was over. Republicans were fleeing the country, half-starved men stumbling into France like downtrodden mules. But I travelled in the opposite direction, because I refused to believe my brother was gone.”
Duguay paused to take two long slugs of wine. Max, remaining silent, wondered why the Frenchman was telling the story of his dead brother. He was also surprised to see Duguay blink away tears.
“Rouge had drawn me a map of the burial site, and I was going to dig Gerard up and bring him home. Fascist Spain had taken him, but they weren’t going to keep him.” Duguay sighed. “Oui, it was an overambitious plan, impossible to carry out, but even as I told myself that, I was still determined to search through that pit of corpses to see him with my own eyes. Was my Gerard in that grave? I’ll never know for sure – I never found him – I will always wonder.”
“It’s a touching story,” Max said, his voice flat. “So you understand why I need you to tell me what happened to Paul?”
“I do.”
“Where did you shoot him? In the woods, inside a grave you made him dig for himself, in a river, in the back of the Post Office van I travelled in to get here?”
“I will answer your questions, Major, but before I do, I need you to answer one of mine.”
Max inadvertently eyed the knife, angry at Duguay’s procrastinations. It was within reach. Duguay had only one useful hand and was vulnerable without his men…
“Where is Marine?” Duguay asked.
“She’s not in France,” Max responded, surprised by the question.
“You took her?”
“She was mine to take.”
“I see. You were aware of the work she was doing in the photographic shop?”
“Of course. She was my agent.”
“I want her back.”
“You can’t have her.”
“Why? There is a notice on her shop door saying the business is closed for family holidays. It’s not too late to get her back here to carry on working for me. Bring her or you can leave France without answers and without my cooperation. We don’t need the British. You supervised Romek’s group and look what happened to him and his people. Marine was giving me valuable information. She was … is indispensable.”
“No one is indispensable.” Max sat back, the calmer of the two, yet he was still at Duguay’s mercy. “Monsieur Duguay, your delaying tactics are not lost on me. You’re either bored with your men and enjoy my company, or you’re stalling for a reason I can’t fathom. Why don’t we get down to business, and when we’ve come to an agreement, you can tell me about Paul and I’ll be on my way.”
“And you will agree to Marine’s return? As I said, she is indispensable.”
“Weapons, soldiers, and resources are the only indispensable commodities in this war, and I can give you two out of the three. I’ve been authorised to supply you with whatever small arms and explosives you might need. We will also give you air support when necessary, money, radio transmitters, and an agent to operate them and organise your group into a cohesive force. We will not make demands on you. You will have your autonomy, but we will require your full cooperation on any mission we choose to execute. As for Marine, her talents are needed elsewhere. She is not a bargaining chip on the table.”
Duguay seemed to be mulling over Max’s offer. His eyes had sparkled as Max unrolled the gifts he was bearing. Evidently, he hadn’t realised just how useful the British could be to him.
For a while, the two men continued to talk business. Dug
uay wanted to know how the system worked regarding the delivery of weapons, where their possible targets would be, how supplies and weapons would be transported, and how committed the British were in France. He also asked for more details about the money he would receive to finance their missions and was pleasantly surprised by the amount mentioned. Max had patiently explained the workings point by point, even forgetting Paul for brief moments until he was reminded why he’d gone there, and his anger bubbled up anew.
“Tell me about Paul now,” Max said after a lengthy silence, during which Duguay had started to pace the floor.
“We will carry on with our assassination programme,” said Duguay, ignoring Max’s request.
Max raised his voice to combat the pounding of Duguay’s boots on the stone floor. “General de Gaulle was on the BBC’s French language service only a few days ago asking that you, the Communist Partisans, call in your assassins. But you already know that, don’t you? As he so rightly said, killing one German will not change the outcome of the war, and my bosses agree. I have been instructed to ask you to rein in that part of your Resistance strategy. You must be aware of the hundreds of French men and women being shot by Germans in reprisals? The General has made it clear…”
“We do not recognise de Gaulle’s authority. We don’t listen to a man who ran away from his country. We believe in an eye for an eye.”
Max refused to get into the game of politics. All he could think about was the cold-blooded way Duguay was talking about the subject of assassination to the brother of one of his victims. He stood and went to the window. He’d done his job, and he’d had more than enough of the demigod-like, over-dramatic Duguay. “Do we have a deal, Duguay. Yes or no?”
“Oui, we have a deal.”
“My brother?”
Duguay went to the kitchen door leading to the hallway, turned, and sent Max an infuriating smile. “Come with me.”
Outside the front entrance, Duguay lifted the basement trapdoor and pointed to the wooden steps. “You want answers, Major, down you go.”
Chapter Ten
The Vogel Twins
The basement was lit by a couple of bare light bulbs hanging on a wire across the ceiling. Max stood at the bottom of the steps, his eyes slowly growing accustomed to the dimness and the room’s layout. His heart soared then sank, and any fleeting thoughts he’d had about finding Paul alive were dashed in the empty space that looked and smelt like a vegetable storeroom. A door at the back of the room was ajar. Max crossed to it, pushed it open, then stopped in his tracks. An old metal bed frame was pressed up against the far wall, and on it lay what looked like a bundle of rags.
Max gasped, emotion soaring into his throat, tears following in hot pursuit as he ran to the side of the bed where Paul was lying. His wrists were bound above his head with a rope whose ends were tied to the bed post. A gag had been stuffed into his mouth, and that was covered by a strip of cotton bandage wrapped around his face and tied at the back of his head. Tears sprouted from Paul’s wide eyes as he tried to move his lower body, but the bindings made it virtually impossible.
Max fell to his knees beside his twin, wracked with sobs as he pulled the gag from Paul’s mouth and untied the rope from the bedpost. “Sorry it took me so long to get to you … sorry, Paul …Jesus Christ, Paul!” His mind shut down on him. He was incapable of saying another word, so he buried his head in his brother’s lap and sobbed.
“Max … Max, it’s okay. You’re here now.” Paul’s newly liberated lips broke into a smile. “Move for God’s sake, you’re crushing me.”
Paul and Max embraced as if it were the last hug they would ever share. When they drew apart, Paul slumped back onto the bed and Max joined him, still overcome by shock and the inability to say anything that would come close to describing how he felt. His brother was alive, pale-faced, but looking well.
“Can you get me out of here?” Paul asked finally. “Tell me before I go mad with not knowing from one day to the next if I’m going to be executed.”
“I’ll get you out,” Max sniffed. “It won’t be easy, but I’m not leaving without you.” Max picked up the gag and length of rope and waved them at Paul. “Is this how you’ve been for weeks … tied up like a dog?”
“No. A man called Claude came down here half an hour ago and told me that a British officer was trying to negotiate my release with Duguay. He tied and gagged me, probably because he was afraid that the meeting wouldn’t go well, and I’d call out if I heard a British voice – I don’t know why these people do what they do.”
“Did they treat you well? You don’t look hurt or too thin.”
“If you mean Duguay, then yes, he hasn’t injured anything but my pride. When he realised I had no information about German operations and plans, I thought he might kill me, but a few hours after I was brought here, one of his men was injured and I was asked to patch him up. Since then, I’ve looked after men who’ve been sick or wounded, including Duguay, who took a bullet to his shoulder last night. I suppose I’ve been useful to him.”
Paul inhaled a ragged breath. “Max, I thought I’d been abandoned – Jesus, I still can’t believe you’re here – I never expected to see you again.”
Max finally found his normal voice. “I thought you were dead. The woman…”
“Marine? She thought I was you. She called me by your name and kissed me on the lips before she disappeared – you should make better choices in your women – and what the hell have you done to your hair?”
“Your ugly mug is plastered all over Paris.”
Paul chuckled. “At least they haven’t forgotten me.”
“Paul, about the woman. She heard a shot and presumed Duguay had killed you. She’s in England now. She told me the whole story, but only after I had left France with her. I would never have got on that plane had I known about this.”
“I know. I’m sorry, you must have been frantic. After the woman left, Duguay came back down here. He aimed his pistol right at me and then fired over my head. The sick bastard frightened the life out of me.”
“Maybe Duguay wanted to make her think he’d killed you. She said he wanted to teach her a lesson.”
Paul said, “Well, whatever his reason for doing that, I’m all right. I probably look better than you do right now.”
Max shook his head, “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It’s been hell – thank God I didn’t tell the family. By the way, there’s something you should know about…”
Footsteps clumped on the basement stairs as Duguay and Claude appeared, halting Max’s next words. Duguay studied the brothers sitting side by side on the bed, a mocking smile feathering his lips. “You two really are peas in a pod aren’t you … apart from your dreadful hair dye job, Major. Ah, the sweet reunion, at last.”
Paul stayed silent, but Max was furious. “You could have saved me a lot of anguish had you just told me he was alive when I first arrived. No more games, Duguay.”
Duguay shrugged. “All right. No more games.”
Max got up from the bed, automatically shielding his brother. “What happens now?” he asked.
“Now, I will give you my terms for his release.”
Claude remained in the background, his rifle raised although not trained on either Paul or Max.
“Sit, Max … sit. And yes, I’m going to call you Max, whether you like it or not. It’s easier for me … Vogel is much too German for my liking.” He pulled a chair over to the bed and faced the twins, looking at each of them in turn. “Max – Paul – vous êtes extraordinaires, vous deux. The likeness between you … ah … but you must hear that a lot.”
“Will you let him come with me when I leave?” Max asked again.
“Oui. I knew he couldn’t stay here indefinitely when I decided to spare his life, but he was useful, you see.”
“I’m very grateful that you did.” Max was surprised at the warmth in his voice.
“Mais oui, Max. I don’t murder doctors, not even German ones. Ma
rine was very foolish to bring him here, but she did tell me about you. You could say she introduced us in advance, and in so doing, saved your brother’s life. Isn’t that right, Paul?”
Paul nodded. “As much as I hated her for getting me into this mess, he’s right, Max. She did tell him who you were, and that you would come for me.”
Max’s anger toward Klara softened, but only for the briefest of moments. He had more pressing matters on his mind to deal with than his personal feelings for her. “Duguay, it seems we have a deal. How do you want to do this?” he asked.
“I’ll send two of my men with you as far as your departure point. I take it you are going to leave France as soon as possible?”
“Correct.”
“Bien. He has to leave with you.”
“What!” said Paul.
Max shot a warning glance to Paul. Then he turned back to Duguay. “Agreed. Your men can come with us as far as Dieppe. If Paul tries to get back to his Nazi friends en route, I will shoot him myself. I give you my word, he will get on the plane with me.”
Max heard Paul’s sharp intake of breath but refused to look at him. “Duguay, my brother isn’t stupid. He knows he can’t go back to the Wehrmacht and he knows he will face consequences in England.”
Duguay cocked his head, evidently pondering Max’s statement. “What consequences?”
“I’ll have to hand him over to British Intelligence when we get to London. He’ll be detained as a prisoner of war and will probably spend time in a detention centre, undergoing interrogation. That’s the only deal he’ll get, but it’s better than this.”
“Max, for God’s sake! Is this a bloody joke?” Paul blurted out.
“No, it is not a joke. You’re the enemy, Paul. Neither Duguay nor I will let you go back to the Wehrmacht. The Gestapo or SS would squeeze every detail of your capture out of you whether you want to tell them about it or not. Make no mistake about it, if Duguay agrees to my proposal, you will cease to be his prisoner and become mine until I relinquish custody of you to the British authorities.”