*
Marc lay on the floor with a mouthful of blood as Herr Potente put the telephone receiver down and grinned at the Oberst.
‘Fate has turned in our favour,’ he smiled, as he waved the notebook on which he’d written the address of the farm.
‘Luck,’ the Oberst spat fiercely. ‘I don’t like to rely on luck. You should have been monitoring calls to this house all along.’
Potente shook his head with frustration. ‘It wasn’t possible while the city was under French control. I only had six men under my command—’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Oberst interupted impatiently. ‘I’ve heard your excuses already. What are you planning to do now?’
Potente thought for a second. ‘The problem is, the documents are behind French lines. If their army regroups outside Paris …’
‘Regroups!’ The Oberst laughed. ‘The French Army has nothing left to regroup. The only thing holding up our advance are retreating French troops clogging the roads.’
‘I’ll need a car and some fuel to go up to the front line,’ Potente said.
‘Very well,’ the Oberst said, nodding. ‘Herr Schmidt will organise it. Now I must head for this Hotel Etalon. I’ll arrange for Mannstein to be transported to Poland and inform him that he’ll be reunited with his blueprints within a few days.’
Potente looked confused. ‘I thought a production facility was being constructed for Mannstein in Germany?’
The Oberst shook his head with utter contempt. ‘Don’t be an idiot! Mannstein is a Jew. The SS has special facilities for Jewish scientists and researchers in Poland.’
‘I don’t think he’ll like that,’ Potente said. ‘We’ve negotiated an agreement for facilities in Hamburg. Mannstein’s name may sound Jewish but he’s married to a Catholic, so he’s a lapsed Jew at worst …’
‘I’m sure that the SS guards will ensure Mannstein adapts to his new home.’ The Oberst smiled. ‘And I don’t intend to debate Gestapo policy with a junior Abwehr officer. Is that clear, Herr Potente?’
‘Of course, Herr Oberst,’ Potente said, resignedly. ‘One final question. What would you like me to do with Clarke’s children once I’ve recaptured the documents?’
The Oberst shrugged. ‘They might know something about Henderson, so make sure they’re properly interrogated. Then kill them.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Marc woke up to find the room dark and a man gently slapping his cheek to bring him around. The roof of his mouth was lined with clotted blood.
‘Keep calm,’ the man looming above him said soothingly. ‘Drink some of this.’
Marc propped himself on his elbow and spotted his bloody tooth on the boards in front of him. He grabbed an enamel cup from the man and quickly downed several mouthfuls of water. He felt groggy and the hole in his gum throbbed with pain.
‘Who are you?’ Marc asked, eyeing the stocky man with a scruffy beard.
‘The name’s Henderson,’ he said. ‘Charles Henderson.’
Marc felt a touch worried at this. He’d broken into the man’s house and pretty much helped himself to everything.
‘The Germans are looking for you,’ Marc croaked, as Henderson helped him to sit up. ‘There’s someone next door …’
Henderson drew a line across his throat and made a choking noise. ‘Not now there isn’t,’ he said, smiling. ‘So has my house been to your liking? You must have been here for a week now.’
Marc was surprised. ‘If you knew, why didn’t you turf me out?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Henderson said, showing off a nice row of teeth when he smiled. He was a good-looking man, but he badly needed a shave and shampoo. ‘And your being here made it look like I’d skipped town.’
As Henderson said this, he pulled a hip flask out of his jacket and unscrewed the cap. ‘Whisky,’ he explained, as he handed it to Marc. ‘Rinse your mouth with it. You probably won’t like the taste, but it’s a natural disinfectant and the alcohol might help numb the pain.’
Marc’s eyes were blurred with tears and his hands were shaking. Henderson gave him a damp cloth to wipe his face.
‘The Germans who did this – did you overhear anything?’
‘All sorts.’ Marc nodded. ‘I’m not sure I remember all of it.’
‘Try your best. Start from the beginning.’
‘There was something about leave-behinds and Mannstein,’ Marc said. ‘My German isn’t exactly perfect. It seems so fast when they speak it.’
‘That’s OK,’ Henderson said softly. ‘I know you’re hurting, but please try and tell me as much as you can.’
Marc accidentally swallowed a sip of whisky and broke out in a coughing fit.
‘Don’t worry,’ Henderson said. ‘It doesn’t matter if you swallow a few drops. You’re in shock; it might even help calm you down.’
‘I don’t know what a leave-behind is, but they’re all compromised – or something,’ Marc said.
Henderson nodded. ‘Bad business.’
‘What are they?’ Marc asked.
‘Once British intelligence knew the Germans were going to take control of France, we started recruiting agents who’d stay and work behind enemy lines. We don’t know how – a double agent, torture or whatever – but the Germans got hold of the names and addresses of every British agent working in Europe, including mine.
‘The Nazis captured and killed more than two dozen agents when they invaded Belgium and Holland. Our people in France had time to escape, but our cupboard is now bare. As far as I’m aware, I’m the only operational agent left in France.’
‘Sounds bad,’ Marc said, nodding.
‘What about Mannstein?’ Henderson asked. ‘You said his name cropped up.’
‘They mentioned a hotel where he was staying. The Etalon, I think. And the Oberst – the head Gestapo guy – he said he was going there to commandeer the hotel.’
Henderson sounded excited. ‘The Oberst! Oberst Hinze was here?’
Marc shrugged. ‘They just called him Oberst.’
‘Tall guy,’ Henderson said. ‘Slicked back hair and a funny kind of lump on the side of his neck?’
‘That’s him exactly,’ Marc said. ‘He’s the bastard who ripped my tooth out.’
‘You’re lucky that’s all he did,’ Henderson said. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. Mind you, you can say that about most of the men you see in a black uniform.’
‘Why black?’ Marc asked.
‘Green uniforms are worn by ordinary German soldiers. Most of them were called up to fight for Germany just like French and British boys were called up to fight for the allies. Black uniform is the SS. That’s the elite Nazi regiments, which includes the Gestapo. They’re fanatics. Hardcore Nazis who answer only to Hitler.’
‘He certainly strutted round here like he owned the place,’ Marc said.
‘And Mannstein is at the Hotel Etalon?’
‘That’s what they said.’
Henderson smiled. ‘That’s one of the most useful pieces of information I’ve heard all week. What else?’
‘There was a phone call as they were leaving. Some kids in Tours, trying to contact you.’
Henderson looked mystified. ‘I don’t know any kids.’
‘Potente pretended that he was you. They were talking about plans and he was going down south to meet them or something.’
‘Digby Clarke?’ Henderson asked.
Marc nodded. ‘Yeah, they mentioned that name. He’s dead apparently. It was his daughter that telephoned and Potente is going down to this place in Tours to collect the plans and interrogate his kids about you.’
Henderson slapped his hands against his cheeks. ‘Shit,’ he shouted, standing up and lashing out at a waste-paper basket. ‘I can’t believe Clarke’s dead. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
‘We can’t stay here,’ he continued – calmer, but only slightly. ‘If the Gestapo find the guard I killed they’ll kill you out of spite, along with anyone else who happens to be in the neigh
bourhood. How are your legs? Are you up for a walk?’
‘My mouth’s throbbing, but there’s nothing wrong with my legs,’ Marc said, as he leaned on the side of an armchair and pulled himself off the floor. He felt light-headed, but he was starting to get control over his shaking hands.
‘I have to go to the Hotel Etalon and get to Mannstein,’ Henderson said, thinking aloud. ‘Then get down to Tours and find those kids before Potente gets hold of them.’
‘Maybe I can help,’ Marc said determinedly. ‘I can’t stay here and they’ve stolen all my money.’
‘You look pretty tough,’ Henderson said uncertainly. ‘And I could do with a hand, but …’
‘They ripped out my tooth,’ Marc spat. ‘Give me a gun and I’ll blow their bastard heads off.’
‘It’s not a game, kid. The Gestapo kill people like that,’ Henderson said, clicking his fingers for effect. ‘I can give you a couple of thousand francs and drop you off somewhere across town. The way things are you should find another empty house easily enough.’
‘I never did anything to them,’ Marc continued. ‘I want to get them back. I know I’m just a kid, but I’m clever. I won’t mess up, I swear.’
Henderson sucked air between his teeth as he weighed up Marc’s offer. He didn’t like the idea of putting a boy in danger, but he was exhausted and didn’t fancy entering Gestapo headquarters alone.
‘If the Gestapo catch you they’ll torture you, then stick you up against a post and shoot you through the head,’ Henderson warned.
Marc smiled awkwardly. ‘We’d better not get caught then.’
‘OK …’ Henderson said, half smiling. ‘Let me think for a few seconds. The Gestapo have only just arrived in town, and that’s our main advantage. Potente is the only one who knows what I look like and he’s gone south to Tours. With luck we can sneak into the hotel, find Mannstein’s room and kill him.’
‘I thought we’d be helping him to escape,’ Marc gasped.
Henderson shook his head. ‘We’ve already negotiated with Mannstein and invited him back to Britain. He chose to work with the Nazis and he won’t change his mind now.’
‘That was another thing that got mentioned,’ Marc said. ‘They’ve told Mannstein that he’s going to Hamburg, but Oberst Hinze is actually sending him to some place in Poland.’
‘A special labour camp, most likely.’ Henderson nodded. ‘Clarke and I told Mannstein that the Nazis would never treat a French Jew with any kind of respect, but he didn’t believe us. He’s like an awful lot of people who get taken in by Nazi promises, whilst turning a blind eye to the fact that they’re a bunch of racist thugs.’
Henderson reached above his bookcase and opened a hidden flap. Beneath it were two bolts, which enabled the entire bookcase to roll forwards on castors when they were released.
‘Blimey.’ Marc smiled as he took another sip of whisky. ‘I never knew it did that.’
‘I came back because of this lot, not out of concern for you,’ Henderson admitted, as he grabbed the wooden dado rail halfway up the wall and lifted out a perfectly disguised panel, behind which a three-shelved compartment was built into the wall.
‘Is that gold?’ Marc asked, as he eyed a stack of shining ingots. But before he got an answer his gaze was drawn towards cardboard boxes filled with ammunition and three guns hanging from hooks.
‘Sten gun,’ Henderson said, as he pulled one out and showed it to Marc. ‘Not the most accurate weapon, but if you’ve got five seconds and you need to kill everyone in a room it’s bloody handy. Mind you, this is more useful for what we’re doing.’
Henderson pulled out an automatic pistol with a silencer screwed on the front. ‘I’m going to be using this,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ll give you the Sten, but it’s a weapon of last resort because half of Paris will hear all about it when you pull the trigger on that thing.’
‘What about the gold?’ Marc asked.
‘I can’t come back here,’ Henderson said, ‘so I’m taking everything. There’s about a hundred thousand francs in French currency, but the Boche might bring in their own and make it worthless. On the other hand, gold never goes out of fashion.’
‘It’s lucky the Germans didn’t find this lot,’ Marc said. ‘I thought they did a pretty thorough search.’
Henderson smiled and pointed up at the ceiling. ‘I expect they found the handgun, false passports and ten thousand francs under the skirting upstairs and thought they’d got everything.’
‘Dummy stash,’ Marc said, nodding as his tongue explored the mound of dry blood that had built up around his missing tooth. ‘That’s pretty smart.’
‘I never should have had to come back here,’ Henderson said firmly. ‘Smart would have been moving all this stuff out before the Germans reached Paris. But with everything that’s been going on, with thousands of documents at the Embassy to destroy, plus a hundred Embassy staff to evacuate and two dozen agents and their families … I don’t think I’ve slept more than three hours at a stretch in the last fortnight.’
‘So what now?’ Marc asked.
‘We’re certainly not doing ourselves any favours by standing around here,’ Henderson said. ‘I’ll pack up everything we need. You go to the bathroom, wipe yourself down and put your shirt back on. There should be some pain killers in the bathroom cabinet if you want them. The Germans have announced an eight o’clock curfew, so we’d better get a move on if we want to make it to the Hotel Etalon without getting pulled up at a road block.’
Henderson reached into the wall cavity and pulled out a small tin. He unscrewed the lid and took out a metal phial barely bigger than his thumbnail.
‘What’s that?’ Marc asked, as Henderson dropped it into his bloody palm.
‘No spy leaves home without one,’ he explained. ‘Cyanide capsule. Put the pill in your mouth and crunch it. You’ll be dead within twenty seconds.’
‘Is it painful?’ Marc asked, as he stared dumbly at the metal pill case.
‘Less painful than being tortured by Oberst Hinze until your heart gives out.’ Henderson shrugged. ‘Look, you don’t have to come with me. I’ll hold nothing against you if you want me to drop you off somewhere instead.’
Marc shook his head determinedly. Henderson struck him as a decent man and for some reason the prospect of the Hotel Etalon and facing the Gestapo scared him far less than the prospect of being dropped on a street corner and left to wander Paris alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Charles Henderson didn’t feel great about having Marc alongside him. Before joining the Espionage Research Unit he’d been a naval intelligence officer and their training course gave strict instructions never to use kids. The intelligence manual said that children were physically weak, untrustworthy, unable to handle stress and liable to panic or scream.
But Marc was the only help on offer and Henderson wasn’t ungrateful for it. He’d slept less than ten hours in the past four days. He hadn’t washed or eaten a proper meal and was only keeping himself going with strong black coffee and Benzedrine pills. The worst part was knowing that it wasn’t over. If Henderson made it out of Hotel Etalon alive, he’d still have to break through the German and French lines and somehow get to Tours ahead of Potente, who was already on the road.
Henderson drove a small Fiat and the clock on the dashboard told him it was just a few minutes until the eight o’clock curfew, though at this time in June there was still plenty of daylight. The roads were dead, except for the odd truck packed with German troops. Most cars had left the city crammed with refugees, and the few remaining drivers didn’t want to risk being made into an example by the newly arrived Germans. Everyone had seen newspaper pictures of the corpses hanging from lampposts in Warsaw.
Marc sat in the passenger seat. The mix of adrenaline and whisky made him feel better, and regular beatings at the orphanage had left him with an unusually high pain threshold. He was worried about Henderson though. Sweat poured down the man’s face, his driving was cra
zy and a couple of times his expression glazed over so badly that Marc thought the car was going to end up ploughing into a wall.
They cruised past Hotel Etalon at just six minutes to eight. The private road leading up to its grand lobby was lined with open-topped Kübelwagens and three of the grand Mercedes saloons used by senior German officers.
‘There’s four regular soldiers guarding the entrance,’ Marc noted, as Henderson turned into a narrow side street and pulled up.
‘I saw them,’ Henderson said warily.
He stepped out of the tiny car and looked up and down the street. ‘We’ve got to get in there before curfew or we’re buggered.’
Henderson took out a duffel bag containing the partially-assembled Sten gun and handed it to Marc.
‘How do we get inside?’ the boy asked, as the weight of the bag practically wrenched his arm from its socket.
‘Every posh hotel has a staff entrance. It’ll be around the back.’
‘But they might be guarding that too,’ Marc said. ‘And if we get in, how the hell are we going to get away again when the whole city is under a curfew?’
‘Good questions,’ Henderson said, as they walked briskly towards the back of the hotel. ‘I’ll let you know the answers just as soon as I think of them.’
A left turn took them on to a concrete ramp, misted with steam curling out of the hotel kitchen and stinking of the rubbish overflowing from giant metal bins. Three kitchen staff stood in an open doorway smoking cigarettes and a bored-looking German guard sat on a step behind them.
‘Act as if we do this every night of our lives,’ Henderson said to Marc, as they approached the door.
‘Evening, gents,’ Henderson said brightly, nodding to the smokers.
They looked a touch mystified, but it was a big hotel and they didn’t know everyone who worked there. The German stretched out his leg to stop them and spoke in bad French.
‘My French not too good,’ Henderson said, pointing jovially towards himself. ‘I night porter. My son is shoe-shine.’
The Escape Page 13