The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  ‘Where’s the American?’ Rafferty whispered.

  The girl lifted her face and her dark eyes caught the light from the moon. They were determined eyes; eyes that had seen much; eyes that had witnessed things only a war and living under German occupation could bring. Rafferty wasn’t sure she had understood him. He was going to try the question in French when she spoke.

  ‘The Germans,’ she said. Her thick voice, no more than a murmur on her lips.

  ‘The Germans have him?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Oui,’ she said and her head nodded once.

  From inside her coat, she produced a small package wrapped in paper and tied with string. She held it out. ‘From the American,’ she said.

  Rafferty took it.

  ‘When did the Germans take him?’ he asked.

  There was a pause while she thought of the number.

  ‘Six hours,’ she said.

  ‘Six hours ago?’

  ‘Oui,’ she said and nodded.

  Rafferty was silent while he considered. The Germans must have arrested him in the town around dinnertime. He must have suspected he was in danger of the German arrest and given the package to the girl with instructions to come in his place if the worst should happen. He would have given her his codename, The Cardinal, to ensure the soldiers she had to meet accepted her as genuine.

  ‘Where are the Germans holding him?’ Rafferty said.

  She glanced back, behind the church and pointed.

  ‘In the town?’ he asked.

  ‘Oui,’ she said.

  ‘Can you show us where?’ he said.

  Her eyes lightened for the first time and her mouth lifted enough to help soften the mask of despair.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, in English, in hope.

  Rafferty turned to Smithy and Fitz.

  ‘You heard all that?’ he asked.

  They both nodded.

  ‘I’m going with the girl to take a look in the town at where the Germans are holding him,’ he said. ‘One of you two must return to camp. This has to get back.’

  He held up the package.

  ‘Smithy, I want you to take it,’ he said.

  ‘Why? I should come with you,’ Smithy said.

  ‘It has to be you,’ Rafferty said and passed his friend the package. Smithy took it. ‘I can’t trust Fitz to find his own way back.’

  ‘Hey,’ Fitz said.

  Rafferty grinned.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  The girl led the way. There were two roads in and two roads out and they converged on a square in the centre of the town. The square was weakly lit and deserted. Rafferty, Fitz and the French girl kept in the shadows behind the corner of the entrance and peered across the opening to where the girl pointed. In the gloom, they could see the town hall. Two German soldiers guarded the entrance. They held rifles, stood on the steps and faced down into the square. If Rafferty and Fitz were going in, they would have to find another way.

  ‘Can you get a car?’ Rafferty whispered. The girl didn’t understand. ‘Une voiture?’ he said. His accent was terrible. She nodded. ‘Tell your friends, la résistance, une voiture ici,’ he said and pointed along the road that led from the town.

  The girl nodded again. She smiled at Rafferty and embraced him in a natural Gallic gesture.

  ‘Merci,’ she said, before turning quickly and disappearing into the night.

  They stared at the German guards.

  ‘Let’s take a look at the back,’ Rafferty said.

  Fitz agreed.

  The town was empty. There was probably a night-time curfew, Rafferty thought. The rear of the town hall was in darkness. The windows had deep ledges and between the stone blocks were deep grooves. Deep enough for finger and toe holds.

  ‘Let’s climb up and take a look,’ Rafferty whispered.

  It was easy to reach the roof where a parapet allowed them to stand comfortably. They walked around to the corner, keeping low, and they tried the windows but none of them opened.

  ‘Let’s go over the roof and see what’s in the middle.’ They scaled across the sloping tiles to the other side and dropped down onto a small flat roof. Set in the corner was a raised square roof light. The room below was in darkness. They peered in but couldn’t see. Rafferty pulled his knife and ran it inside the seal along the frame until it reached the latch. He snatched the knife upwards and the latch spun free. Fitz lifted the window all the way, allowing the hinges to hold the weight. Rafferty stuck his head inside. He allowed his body to follow, and then lowered himself all the way in. Fitz did the same. They found themselves in a small storeroom. The only door, on the inside wall, was unlocked.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Fitz asked.

  ‘Let’s try to find him,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘What if he’s already dead?’

  ‘Then we’re wasting our time.’

  Rafferty opened the door and the two young soldiers stepped out into a dark corridor. They held their machine guns ready. The building was quiet. They followed the corridor to the end. One of the rooms contained sleeping men. They could hear them snoring through the door. They ignored the main staircase and found the back way down. On the next floor, ornate wall lamps illuminated the wide corridor. It gave the passageway a warm yellow glow.

  ‘If this is the town hall,’ Fitz said, ‘then there could be holding cells in the basement. He’s probably there.’

  They carried on down the back stairway until they reached the ground floor. At the end of the corridor, an open doorway led them down a flight of stone steps and into the basement where they found holding cells, like dungeons, just as Fitz had predicted. It wasn’t hard to find the American. All they had to do was follow the sounds.

  The American spy had been unlucky. An officer of the Schutzstaffel (SS) had been in the town when the Gestapo, working on intelligence from an informant, had made the arrest. Instead of the Germans holding the spy and then transferring him to a larger town, or possibly to Paris, for interrogation, the SS officer, wanting to extract the American’s secrets without delay, had chosen to carry out the interrogation personally.

  Rafferty and Fitz approached the cell door. It was unguarded and ajar. The opening was small, but it allowed them to see inside. Rafferty lowered his face and peered in. He immediately saw why the American spy had been screaming. Spotlights illuminated the scene with theatrical clarity. The man sat in a chair held by ropes tied around his chest and legs. His face was gaunt and strained like an image from Dante’s inferno. Cold sweat glistened on his white skin. The man knew his death was going to be a slow and painful journey. The officer of the Schutzstaffel stood in front of the chair. The tunic of his uniform remained buttoned to his chin despite his work, and he appeared relaxed as though attending an enjoyable social gathering where he was engaged in an interesting conversation. On either side stood two Gestapo guards. One held the American’s wrist, forcing his hand towards the SS officer. The other waited with a lit blowtorch. The SS officer held a pair of bolt cutters with long metal handles and heavy, sharpened pincers opened ready like mechanical jaws. His spoken German sounded almost polite. The American shook his head. Again, the SS officer spoke calmly as if he were addressing an elderly relative. Although the American’s eyes were defiant, he couldn’t disguise the fear. It surrounded him like a burial shroud. The SS officer smiled casually and then placed the open pincers around the American’s finger above the second knuckle. Then he spoke again. The American courageously shook his head. The SS officer shrugged and pushed the metal handles together making the cutting pincers squeeze tightly shut. The finger came off easily and cleanly, dropped onto the stone floor, and lay beside the first one. The American screamed. Blood poured from the amputation. The Gestapo guard placed the stump of the finger into the white-hot flame of the blowtorch cauterised the wound. The American howled and howled. The running blood burned away and sizzled briefly as the flame boiled the wound. They didn’t want their prisoner to die from loss of blood befor
e he had told them everything they wanted to know. The American groaned stoically and the pain disfigured his face.

  Fitz and Rafferty watched with their heads together. They agreed on what to do with a telepathic certainty. Each readied his weapon. Their eyes met. It was time to roll the dice. Rafferty pulled wide the door and targeted the German holding the bolt cutters. Fitz, shoulder to shoulder with his friend, targeted the guard holding the American’s arm. They fired together. The recoils echoed and blood sprayed from the Germans’ skulls as their bodies dropped. The other guard turned towards the door and blowtorch fell from his hand. Rafferty and Fitz shot him simultaneously and he followed his blowtorch to the ground.

  The American was dazed and his eyes, creased in pain, stared unsure and unseeing. Two men dressed in black with black faces. Were they really there to rescue him?

  Fitz cut the ropes while Rafferty checked the three Germans were dead. The American held his hand up and stared at his two missing fingers. Rafferty pulled him to his feet.

  ‘We have to go,’ he told him. ‘The gunfire will bring the guards.’

  Fitz grasped his other arm.

  ‘Come on, move.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Back up to the roof and out the way we came.’

  Rafferty looked at the American’s hand.

  ‘Can you climb?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said weakly.

  They went back the way they had come. They were quick but careful. The staircase was clear and they reached the storeroom in less than two minutes.

  Inside, they moved a table. Rafferty stood on it and pulled himself up through the opening. The American went next. Fitz pushed him and Rafferty pulled him. Fitz then joined them on the flat roof. They listened. They heard nothing. Their luck seemed to be holding.

  They scaled across the tiled roof and dropped onto the parapet.

  ‘This is where we have to climb down using the toe and finger holds between the blocks,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Can you do it?’ Fitz said.

  The American nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Rafferty led, the American followed and Fitz went last. The American gripped with his three fingers and dropped to the ground a few moments after Rafferty. As Fitz joined them, they heard the siren sound. It wailed, growing in intensity and then fading before sounding itself repeatedly. Rafferty and Fitz both knew what it meant. It meant their luck had run out. They hoped there would be a small number of Germans to start with. Soon, though, there would be more. Once the sleeping soldiers had fallen out of bed and got themselves organised. Escaping, then, would be impossible. How many guards were already on duty and able to search the town and put up roadblocks? The two young soldiers knew they had to move fast and get out quickly. They both wondered if the girl would be waiting for them with a car. Without her what chance did they have of getting out alive?

  ‘We have to move quickly,’ Rafferty said. He put a hand on the American spy’s shoulder. The man was holding his throbbing hand and trying to ease the pain. He nodded. He understood the position.

  They moved hurriedly to the corner of the building and peered into the square. Activity and shouting were coming from the Town Hall. The two guards, who were by the door earlier, were now at the bottom of the steps, rifles held in their hands, listening to orders given by a German officer standing above them. He wore a peaked cap and waved a swagger stick.

  ‘He’s telling them to begin a search of the perimeter of the building and then the square itself,’ the American spy whispered, translating the shouted German. ‘They are to capture the prisoner alive,’ he translated further.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ Fitz said. ‘This party’s over.’

  Rafferty agreed.

  ‘We’ll have to make a run for it,’ he said. ‘We have to get out of the square. The nearest exit is that one.’ He pointed at their escape route.

  The three men ducked out, breaking cover, keeping to the shadows and ran away from the building towards the exit from the square that opened out towards the road. Rafferty led, followed by the spy, with Fitz at the rear. A shout in German came from behind them. Rifle fire followed the shout. Rafferty, still running, turned to look. He saw Fitz jump forward, his head going back as if he was searching the night sky for something important and then he stumbled. His feet tripped and his body sunk as if its weight had somehow become ten times heavier. He slapped onto the stone cobbles and his twisted body lay still with his arm held out unnaturally, caught and fixed by the rigidity of his machine gun.

  Without thinking, Rafferty stopped. He turned back and ran to his friend.

  ‘Keep going,’ he shouted to the spy as he ran past him. ‘Get to the road and look for a car.’

  Rifle fire, aimed at Rafferty by the German guards, flew past his body. He reached Fitz and dropped beside him. Both German guards, with the officer following, were now advancing on him quickly. Fitz was unconscious. Rafferty glanced up at the three Germans and saw them silhouetted by the weak lamplight. He watched them lift their guns and fire again. Rafferty could hear the loud stamp of boots on the stone flagons and hear the bullets passing above his head.

  In one fluid movement, he lifted the light machine gun, gripped it tightly, and rolled deftly away from Fitz in a dive over his left shoulder. He spun across the cobbles, lifted the gun, targeted the nearest man and squeezed off a two-second burst. His Johnny gun chattered loudly and sent out a metallic echo that bounced around the square like an Italian tenor warming up before a big concert. The bullets took the first guard down. Rafferty came up onto his feet and in the same movement tightened the machine gun under his arm one-handed. The nearest German had almost reached him. The officer had stopped and was preparing to target him with his raised pistol. A second, maybe two. Time seemed to slow and actions stutter. He had no time to shoot. He leapt forward, racing with all his might and shoulder charged the guard, slamming hard into his chest. As the man staggered backwards, Rafferty aimed, still one-handed, at the officer and squeezed away a chattering blast. A single bullet tore through the German’s neck just above his tunic. He twisted and fell. Rafferty spun rapidly, turning his Johnny gun back and firing a close range roar into the winded guard. The bullets thumped through his chest and he went down, dropping his rifle, which clattered noisily on the stone covered ground.

  After the gunfire, the silence consumed the square. Rafferty’s breathing sounded loud inside his ears. He listened for any sound. There wasn’t any. He swung his Johnny gun over his back, bent down and lifted Fitz up by his arm. He grabbed his friend’s shirt and felt something wet and sticky. It was Fitz’s blood. Rafferty lifted his friend over his shoulder, turned with the extra weight pressing down on his thighs and ran for the opening, and escape from the square.

  He made it. Beyond the lamplight, the darkness forced Rafferty to concentrate on his direction while his eyes adjusted. He kept up a good pace and reached the road, which turned downhill. He almost lost his footing twice and had to alter his hold on Fitz. His friend was heavy.

  ‘We’ll soon be home,’ he said, breathing hard. His friend didn’t answer. ‘I’m going to get you back,’ he said. ‘Hang on.’ There was still no answer.

  Rafferty searched ahead for a car or for the spy, or for the French girl. He couldn’t see any of them. The only thing ahead was the empty, silent road and the dark night that seemed to isolate and taunt him. The heavy weight of his unconscious friend pressed heavily on his shoulder. He knew the Germans would soon be following. He kept going. He stayed on the road and followed it as it wound away between the hedgerows. An owl hooted and swooped ahead of him. He saw its light feathers in the moonlight. He slowed, listened and watched. His senses burned and they seemed to possess the same intensity as the nocturnal hunter. He saw the movement even before he heard it. It was a flash of light colour through the bushes and trees on his left-hand side. He dropped to his knees and froze. Still holding Fitz, he lifted his machine gun and waited.


  ‘Ici,’ the girl called as loudly as she dared.

  Rafferty breathed out with relief and then saw the pretty French face. She rushed to him with concern. He got back up with her help. They left the road and went through the hedgerow. Together, they covered the two hundred yards along a grass track to where a small, four-door car waited with its engine ticking over and both rear doors wide open. The vehicle was in darkness. They had hidden it well from the road and it was ready to move with a young man waiting in the driver’s seat. The American spy sat beside him in the passenger seat. He had bound his hand with a silk scarf the girl had given him. Pain still creased his brow and the pallor of his face was the colour and texture of wax. The driver spoke rapidly in French. He was anxious.

  ‘We must leave now,’ the spy translated.

  Rafferty placed Fitz on the back seat and then got in himself. The girl sat on the other side. They drove along the rough, grass track beside the fields and the car bounced wildly. The young driver must have had good eyes or known the track well to go so fast in the darkness with his lights off. Rafferty tried to examine Fitz. The bullet had entered in the back and his shirt was soaked in blood.

  ‘Is he alive?’ the American spy asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Rafferty said.

  The driver spoke rapidly in French without taking his eyes from the track.

  ‘He says we are going to a safe house,’ the spy translated. ‘It’s a nearby farm. He wants to know what we are going to do.’

  ‘Let’s get safe. Then we can decide,’ Rafferty said.

  They parked inside a barn and hid the car behind a stack of bales. They let themselves into the farmhouse.

  Once out of bed, and after a brief explanation given by the driver and the girl, the elderly farming couple made coffee and tended to the wounded. The wife and the girl cleaned and dressed the spy’s hand while the three other men—Rafferty, the farmer and the driver—examined Fitz. They cut away his shirt and the farmer held a light so they could see. The bullet had struck Fitz between his shoulder blades. Blood had congealed around the black puncture wound. After rolling him over, the farmer placed his ear on Fitz’s chest and listened for his heartbeat. He lifted his head and stared into the young American’s white face for a few seconds.