The Escape

by Robert Muchamore

‘But we don’t want the British getting the plans out of France,’ the Oberst shouted. ‘And I want Henderson before he can recruit new spies. If we don’t capture Henderson, Clarke and the plans, I’m going to make sure that your next posting is a very unpleasant one, Herr Potente. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ Potente said, giving a Nazi salute as the Gestapo officer backed out of the room.

  Marc was terrified. He could only understand about half of the Germans’ conversation, but he’d picked up enough to realise that they were prepared to torture him for information.

  * * *

  4Kübelwagen – an open-topped German car, similar to a British Land Rover or American Jeep.

  5Oberst – a high-ranking German officer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Father Doran and his sister Yvette still worked two acres of land around the small farmhouse in which they’d been born more than seventy years earlier. The Father had been parish priest for almost half a century and was one of the most respected men in the area. It had surprised nobody when the elderly siblings took in three orphans and several neighbours had offered help, especially for Hugo, who’d arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back.

  The Dorans always stopped for two hours in the middle of the day and ate a large meal made from garden vegetables and meat butchered on a nearby farm. After a soup and a main course of beef cooked in a wine sauce, Paul and Rosie struggled through a fruit tart for dessert. Hugo barely touched the first two courses, reserving all of his available stomach space for afters.

  ‘I have some friends coming around to play cards this afternoon,’ Father Doran said, as he dabbed his shrivelled lips on a napkin. ‘So you three keep the noise down if you’re staying indoors.’

  The three kids nodded as they left the table. Rosie went to the sink to help Yvette wash up, while Hugo followed Paul upstairs to the small bedroom shared by all of them. There was a double bed, in which Paul and Rosie slept, and two sofa cushions pushed together on the bare floor for Hugo, although he usually claimed to be scared of the dark and crawled up under the bedcovers to sleep between Rosie and Paul.

  ‘Do you want to play outside?’ Hugo asked, as Paul pulled a brown case out from beneath the bed.

  ‘I want to take another look at these papers,’ Paul said. ‘Dad was always moaning that he had a terrible memory. He must have written down contact details for Henderson somewhere.’

  ‘Please,’ Hugo whined.

  ‘You’ve just eaten half a tart,’ Paul said, as he flipped the suitcase open. ‘You’ll throw up if you start chasing around now.’

  ‘So boring,’ Hugo complained, as he slumped backwards on to the bed beside the case.

  Paul perched on the edge of the bed and grabbed his father’s pocket book. He’d been through it a dozen times and could now remember the words and numbers before he came to them. Meanwhile, Hugo rummaged inside the case.

  ‘Don’t mess all the papers up,’ Paul warned, but he saw that Hugo had grabbed his father’s cigar tube. Mr Clarke always kept the fat tube case with compartments for six Cuban cigars in his briefcase so that he could offer them to clients. ‘Oh. You can play with that if you want,’ he added.

  As Paul twisted his brains, trying to find something he’d previously missed in the pocket book, Hugo unscrewed the lid on the metal cigar case. He pulled out the largest of the wrapped cigars and placed it between his lips.

  ‘Look, Paul,’ Hugo grinned.

  Paul tutted. ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’

  ‘Why can’t kids smoke?’ Hugo asked, as he blew imaginary smoke out of his lungs.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Paul shrugged. ‘It’s like, adults try to stop kids having all kinds of fun. Rosie lit up one of my dad’s cigars once for a dare. She puked everywhere and our mum whacked her on the bum with her hairbrush.’

  Hugo laughed as he slid the cigar back into its pouch. ‘When I’m older I’m gonna smoke fifty cigars and a hundred cigarettes every day.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Paul said. ‘I don’t like the smell. My dad never smoked.’

  ‘So why did he have cigars?’

  ‘For his clients. My dad said if you give a client a lit cigar, they have to sit still and listen to your sales pitch until they’ve finished smoking it.’

  ‘What’s a pitch?’ Hugo asked, as he threw the cigar tube high into the air.

  ‘Hey,’ Paul said. ‘That belonged to my dad! Don’t wreck it.’

  But Hugo had already thrown it up again. This time it hit the ceiling and veered wildly off course, hitting the edge of a dresser with a clang before landing on the floorboards.

  ‘Idiot,’ Paul said angrily, as he reached over Hugo and grabbed the cigar tube off the floor. ‘That’s it – you’re not touching any of my dad’s stuff again.’

  Hugo turned towards Paul and showered him with spit as he blew a big raspberry in his face.

  ‘Cut it out, Hugo! Do you want me to punch you?’

  ‘I’m going outside,’ Hugo sulked, as he slid off the bed. ‘This is so boring.’

  Hugo thumped down the stairs and Paul sighed as he noticed that the bottom was hanging off the cigar case. He was about to try pushing it back on when he noticed a loose length of insulated wire behind it. When he levered the cap the rest of the way off he unveiled a small blue bulb and another wire that linked to a slim battery.

  It was obviously some kind of torch and the switch was built into the lid. But when he turned it on, Paul was disappointed by the fact that it only produced a small bluish dot. This seemed odd, but he could see no reason for hiding a torch unless it was used for something pretty special.

  The only thing you can do with a torch is shine it at stuff and, as Paul was looking for a hidden message, he decided to shine it at the pocket book. The first couple of pages produced nothing, but on the third page, several faint blue lines glowed when he shone the light on the writing.

  Part of Paul wanted to race downstairs and tell Rosie that he’d discovered something, but she was such a bossy-boots that he decided it would be best to carry on alone. As the glow of the markings was faint in daylight, Paul hitched the bedclothes over his head and tried again in pitch darkness. Now he could see the markings clearly, but they were just scribble. The kind of random lines that you might make if you were trying out a new pen.

  There were no further markings on the next three pages, but Paul’s heart leaped when the blue light exposed an entire page aglow with his father’s handwriting. Names, phone numbers, dates, times and places of meetings. However, no mention of Henderson.

  Over the next few pages Paul discovered more notes glowing under the blue light, but none of them seemed to relate to Henderson and he grew increasingly nervous as he got close to the end of the book.

  Finally, just a few pages from the end, he found a quickly scrawled note: Henderson C. home 34451 Embassy 34200. Paul felt a rush of excitement as he burst out from under the bedcovers and grabbed something to write down the numbers on before he forgot them.

  Once they were safely transcribed, he bolted downstairs and waved the piece of paper under Rosie’s nose as she dried a roasting tin with a dish cloth.

  ‘Are you joking?’ Rosie grinned as she wrapped her wet hands around her brother’s back and gave him a hug. ‘How did you find that? I’ll ask Father Doran where the nearest phone is. We can call him straight away.’

  ‘Father Doran,’ Paul shouted, as he ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. ‘We’ve got a number for Mr Henderson.’

  The elderly priest had cleared the dining table and set out playing cards and wine glasses for his friends.

  ‘You have?’ he smiled.

  ‘I found a torch,’ Paul explained. ‘It shows up the hidden writing in my dad’s pocket book.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ the priest said, wagging his finger knowingly. ‘Ultra-violet light. I believe the Vatican used a similar technique for passing messages during the Great War. Well, that’s marvellous – assuming tha
t this Henderson is still in Paris.’

  ‘And that the phone lines are working,’ Rosie added. ‘Paris is behind German lines now. I’ve got no idea whether we’ll be able to get through. We need a phone, Father. Do you know anyone around here who has one?’

  ‘I’ve never used one myself,’ the priest said. ‘But there’s a vineyard about three kilometres down towards the village. The owner is a widow I’ve known for many years. I’m sure she’ll let you use her phone, if it’s working.’

  ‘Great,’ Paul said. ‘We’ll head up there now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Got him,’ the junior officer announced triumphantly, as he dragged Marc from behind the chair. Before the boy knew it he’d been shoved backwards into the armchair and the Oberst loomed over him.

  ‘What is your name?’ the black-uniformed Oberst shouted, switching to French that was about as competent as Marc’s German.

  ‘David Henri,’ Marc lied.

  ‘Do you speak German?’

  Marc nodded. ‘A little bit.’

  ‘If you understood our conversation, you’ll know what I want to hear.’

  Marc shook his head meekly. ‘All I know is that Henderson lives here, sir. I don’t know him. I’ve never even seen him.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘I came from the north,’ Marc explained. ‘I came here to shelter.’

  ‘All the doors and windows are intact,’ the German said. Then he turned towards one of his junior officers. ‘I don’t believe him. Fetch my bag from the car.’

  ‘I swear it’s true, sir. I pulled out the bathroom window. There’s still a hole, and you can go and look if you don’t believe me.’

  Without warning, the Gestapo officer grabbed Marc out of the chair and smacked him hard across the face. ‘I don’t believe you. And you will address me as Herr Oberst, is that clear?’

  The blow left Marc in a daze, with blood welling in his nostril. He was slow to respond and the Oberst dragged him across the room and knocked the side of his head against the wall.

  ‘I understand, Herr Oberst,’ Marc said, seeing stars and fighting tears as the blood dribbled over his top lip.

  ‘Who is Henderson? Where is Henderson?’ the Oberst shouted, as he jabbed two fingers into Marc’s stomach.

  ‘I swear I don’t know.’

  The Oberst looked at one of the junior officers. ‘Check the bathroom window, then search the house for his things.’

  The officer clicked his heels and headed out as his colleague returned with a leather doctor’s bag. The bag jangled as the officer placed it on a tabletop.

  ‘Pliers,’ the Oberst ordered. ‘Then hold the boy around the neck.’

  Marc could hardly stand after the beating and put up no fight as the junior officer stood close behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck.

  ‘This is your last chance to tell me about Henderson,’ the Oberst warned, as he rested the cold pliers against the squashy tip of Marc’s nose.

  Marc considered inventing something to satisfy the Oberst, but he knew a lie would only lead him into deeper trouble and his head was too fuzzy to come up with anything convincing.

  ‘I swear I don’t know anything,’ he said, crying now as his blood soaked into the junior officer’s sleeve.

  ‘We shall see,’ the Oberst said, pinching Marc’s nostrils shut, forcing him to open his mouth.

  ‘Please,’ Marc begged, as the arm tightened at his throat.

  The Oberst pushed the open pliers into Marc’s mouth and clamped one of his upper front teeth. Blood flowed as the Oberst twisted the pliers, accompanied by a pain beyond any Director Tomas had ever inflicted on him. The tooth made a shocking crunch as the Oberst twisted it out of Marc’s jaw, then it hit the floor with a delicate clatter.

  ‘I demand you tell me everything,’ the Oberst bellowed, as the junior officer released the grip on Marc’s neck a little.

  ‘I swear I don’t know Henderson,’ Marc screamed. His words slurred because his tongue splashed in the blood filling his mouth. ‘I just got here. I’ve never even seen Henderson.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll remember something after I pull some more teeth.’

  ‘Please no,’ Marc sobbed. ‘I never did anything. I’m nothing to do with Henderson.’

  The other junior officer came back into the room, holding Marc’s pigskin bag and damp clothes.

  ‘Herr Oberst,’ the officer said brusquely, ‘the bathroom window is missing. There’s nothing belonging to a boy in the house, except what fits inside this bag. He also has a large sum of money.’

  The Oberst looked at the rolled-up francs, then back at Marc who was turning blue from blocked nostrils and the arm around his neck.

  ‘That’s a lot of money,’ the Oberst said. ‘Did you find it here?’

  Marc shook his head. ‘It’s mine.’

  The Oberst cracked a huge smile. ‘Not now it isn’t,’ he said, as he tucked the money into his tunic. Then he turned towards his three colleagues. ‘We’ll eat and drink like kings tonight,’ he joked. ‘I think our young friend is telling the truth. Let him go.’

  Marc hit the floor with a thump as the junior officer released the stranglehold. He inhaled blood as he fought for breath, and coughed violently as the Oberst stepped over him.

  ‘If you speak to anyone about Gestapo business I’ll find you and I’ll kill you very slowly,’ the Oberst warned.

  Marc sobbed with pain as he stared up at the four laughing Nazis. He felt idiotic as he remembered his fantasy of just a few minutes earlier. People like him didn’t command German tanks – they got crushed by them.

  Unlike the Oberst, Herr Potente didn’t enjoy seeing a twelve-year-old boy beaten up, and had stepped outside to smoke.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Potente said, wincing as he stepped through the arched doorway and saw Marc’s bare torso covered with blood. ‘The boy is a refugee. He knows nothing.’

  The Oberst rose up on his heels and shouted impatiently, ‘Herr Potente, if you are such an expert, kindly explain why your men let Henderson and Clarke disappear in the first place?’

  The Oberst was a powerful man and Potente didn’t speak as frankly as he would have liked to. ‘Your Gestapo will have hundreds of men in Paris, Herr Oberst. I had just six, and I was working behind enemy lines. I regret that we didn’t succeed, but our options and resources were extremely limited.’

  The Oberst dismissed the argument with a flick of his hand. ‘I must leave now. I have to find a suitable building and establish a Gestapo headquarters. You mentioned an excellent hotel, didn’t you, Potente?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ Potente said. ‘The Hotel Etalon in the eighth arrondissement. I’ve been staying there with Mannstein and the facilities are excellent.’

  ‘I see,’ the Oberst said. ‘Perhaps I shall commandeer Hotel Etalon for the Gestapo. When I was in Austria I found that hotel rooms became cells and interrogation suites with minimal conversion.’

  ‘What about this house?’ the officer who’d been holding Marc asked. ‘Shall we keep watch in case Henderson returns?’

  The Oberst thought for a second. ‘I agree with Potente. There’s no reason for Henderson to come back. But station a lookout in the next house for a few days, just in case.’

  ‘And the boy?’

  The Oberst looked down at Marc and shrugged. ‘There’s no need to kill him. Let him stay here a while to find his feet, then turf him out.’

  ‘Very good, Herr Oberst,’ the officer said, saluting.

  As the Oberst turned to leave, the telephone standing on the bureau rang out. Potente rushed across and crouched in front of the microphone, before grabbing the earpiece from its hook.

  ‘Hello,’ Potente said, speaking in French, whilst making a fair stab at an English accent. ‘Charles Henderson speaking.’

  *

  Rosie stood in the hallway of a large house, with a curved staircase behind and a stag’s head mounted on the wall above her head.
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br />   ‘Is it Henderson?’ Paul whispered impatiently.

  Rosie smiled and nodded before shushing her brother. ‘Mr Henderson! Thank god it’s you,’ she said. ‘You don’t know me, but I believe you knew my father, Digby Clarke?’

  ‘Very well indeed,’ Herr Potente said warmly.

  ‘My father was killed in an air raid last week. The last thing he did was ask us to try and find you.’

  ‘I see,’ Potente said, struggling not to sound too excited. ‘I’m sorry for your loss; your father was a good man and a great servant of his country.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rosie said politely.

  ‘Now. I believe your father had some important documents. Do you know of their whereabouts?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie said happily. ‘That’s exactly why we’re contacting you. We’ve kept all of the blueprints and documents relating to Mannstein’s radio. We were trying to get south to put them on a boat at Bordeaux, but all our petrol got stolen and—’

  ‘Where are you now …?’ Suddenly Potente realised he ought to sound sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry; you have had a terrible time this past week. You must be Digby’s daughter. It’s Rosie, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Henderson,’ Rosie said, nodding. ‘We’re just outside Tours, staying with a retired priest. It’s comfortable, but we’ll try heading south again with the documents if that’s what you want.’

  ‘No,’ Potente said sharply. ‘The roads are still dangerous. And I take it you have no transport?’

  ‘None,’ Rosie confirmed. ‘Although the priest looking after us seems well connected. He might be able to sort something out …’

  ‘There’s no need to trouble him,’ Potente said. ‘I’m in Paris, and so the front line now lies between us. I’m sure I can find a way through, but it may be a day or two before I can reach you.’

  ‘And what then?’ Rosie asked. ‘Will you be able to get us on a boat to England?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Potente said, smoothly. ‘Now, the phone lines could go down at any time, so I must have the address of the farm where you’re staying. Just sit tight and don’t worry about a thing. You’re completely safe.’