The Guardian of Lies

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘. . . altitude of thirty-five thousand feet . . . mainstay of Strategic Air Command’s bomber strength . . .’

  Léon couldn’t see Eloïse’s face, though he’d tried. She was seated at the front beside her father. Clarisse on her right. Around the edge of the room stood a phalanx of American airmen, observing their French visitors with an attitude that Léon could only describe as professional but condescending, like the investigator into Mickey Ashton’s murder. Léon was well aware that in American minds the French were inefficient, impolite and still had public lavatories that were little more than a hole in the ground. Americans were obsessed with plumbing. Plumbing and weapons. They were good at both.

  ‘Now the big one,’ Colonel Masson announced before pressing the button for the next slide. ‘Our giant of the skies.’

  He paused for dramatic effect. Léon saw Eloïse turn her head and say something to Clarisse, who smiled in response. Eloïse’s profile looked tense and her hand brushed across her scar, just as the image of a gigantic aircraft burst on to the screen. Immediately the man in front of Léon cheered and a smattering of applause followed it.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the B-36 Peacemaker. We call it our “long rifle” because it will keep the peace for France and for all of Western Europe from as far away as America.’

  More applause. It was hard for Léon to gaze at the Peacemaker and not feel grateful to it for the protection it offered. He could sense the conflicting emotions rampaging through the room, but no one looked ready to cause trouble. Not yet.

  ‘Built by Convair in San Diego in California, the Peacemaker is the largest mass-produced piston-engined aircraft ever built.’

  The headmistress muttered something sharply under her breath, pressed her hands to her breasts, then twitched her head to stare at Léon to see whether he’d noticed. In her way she reminded him of the colonel, tall and commanding, accustomed to giving orders.

  ‘. . . with a wingspan of two hundred and thirty feet and with four bomb bays capable of delivering . . .’

  Something had happened. Eloïse was sitting bolt upright, shoulders stiff. Neck taut. What the hell had occurred while his attention was on Madeleine Caron at his side?

  ‘. . . a phenomenal cruising altitude that puts it out of reach of most enemy interceptors and anti-aircraft guns . . .’

  Léon checked the image on screen. What was there to upset Eloïse? Nothing. Just the plane. He scanned the room. Nothing out of place.

  ‘. . . with a range of ten thousand miles . . .’

  Eloïse turned. Eyes huge. They sought him out. He threw her a what’s-gone-wrong expression but she abruptly got a grip on herself, shook her head at him and turned back to the colonel.

  ‘. . . can stay aloft for forty hours . . .’

  Léon rose to his feet, excused himself as he made his way to the end of the row of seats, and moved quietly forward, keeping against the side wall. One of the airmen positioned at the edges of the room politely asked him to remain still until the colonel had finished.

  Colonel Masson was wrapping it up. ‘But these are just pictures. No substitute for the real thing.’ He smiled at his audience, then waved a hand towards the door. ‘We will now take you outside and escort you around the base to show you the facilities and, more to the point, the aircraft up close. I’m sure you’d all enjoy . . .’

  Mayor Durand stood, waiting until all eyes turned to him, then he interrupted the colonel. He ran a hand down his gold chain of office, fingering the bull’s head at the centre.

  ‘Colonel Masson, I speak on behalf of all the people of Serriac when I say it is the nuclear weapons that you store here that causes us greatest concern.’

  There was a chorus of murmurs but the colonel quelled any rising unrest with a firm nod of agreement. ‘That is why, Monsieur le Maire, as part of the tour, we will be taking you over to the concrete igloos where the nuclear bombs are stored and we will be explaining a certain number of safety measures that are in place.’ He reintroduced the smile. ‘Don’t worry, none of the bombs is armed. That process only takes place once a bomb is onboard the aircraft. And now,’ he indicated the door, ‘before the tour, let us demonstrate the awesome power that the Soviet Union is up against. It so happens that one of America’s mighty Convair B-36 aircraft is overflying France today, so we are fortunate that it will be performing a fly-past for us here at Dumoulin Air Base. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Peacemaker.’

  A USAF airman, wearing uniform trousers so crisp they looked to Léon like they might snap if he bent a leg, whisked open the door and from outside rolled the sound of thunder, but louder, longer, stronger than any thunder they had ever heard. A mighty growing roar. For a moment it felt to Léon as if the end of the world was coming.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I am outside. Staring up at the sky. For a split second I couldn’t think straight. The noise pummelled my brain. Six 28-cylinder engines roared past just over my head and all I could feel was the power of the great Peacemaker on its fly-past, the ferocious mind-bending power. Called the Peacemaker because you only needed to take one look at it coming for you and you would go down on bended knees to make peace immediately.

  But I wasn’t ready to make peace. Not now. Not while these men of war were gazing with such devotion up into the skies that they were missing what was right under their noses.

  We had all been herded outside and divided into four groups for the tour, ready to view the camp recreational facilities – the gym, swimming pool, cinema, bars, games room, library, boxing ring, as well as the church, hospital and technical control centre. It struck me as a bad idea. Like showing starving kids the steak and chips you get to eat every night.

  ‘First,’ announced Major Joel Dirke, ‘we will show you the stars of the show today – the aircraft themselves. But don’t go too close. I wouldn’t want any VIP guests to get sucked up by a jet or pulverised by a propeller.’ He waved his hand like a magician producing them out of a hat and we all turned to inspect the large group of planes at the start of the runway, engines already fired up. ‘Thunderjet fighters at the front. The B-50 bombers at the rear.’

  I saw the way he looked at them. The way a parent looks at a beloved child singing on stage, pride and joy gleaming on his face. Clarisse had been swept into a different group but I’d made straight for this one the moment I saw he was to be its escort. Interestingly, so did the mayor. He came to stand right next to me.

  ‘You have been asking too many questions, Eloïse,’ he said, leaning too close, checking my reactions. ‘Getting in the way.’

  No preamble. No charm. No, ‘Nice to see you here, Eloïse.’ I didn’t back away.

  ‘Getting in the way of what?’ I asked.

  ‘In the way of things you don’t understand. Of people you don’t know.’ He added with emphasis, ‘People you don’t want to know.’

  His eyes were hard and leaden. If he thought he could frighten me, he was right. Blood pounded in my chest.

  I gave him a smile. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have your camera with you today.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, I know how you like to keep photographs in your desk.’

  I was stirring. Stirring hard.

  His teeth bit down on his lower lip, so fiercely he must have tasted blood. It effectively stopped any words rushing out, but the expression in his eyes made the pounding rise to my throat.

  ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ Major Dirke said, raising his voice over the increasing noise of the aircraft engines, ‘let me introduce you to the elephant walk.’

  Several people laughed.

  ‘Elephant walk is a USAF term for when a number of aircraft taxi in close formation down the runway for minimum interval take-off.’ He smiled at me. I didn’t smile back.

  Twelve silver planes were rolling towards us. In the lead came six fighters in pairs, with six huge bombers tight behind them, with ‘U.S. AIR FORCE’ emblazone
d in huge letters on their sides in case we should forget who was laying on this show for us today. I glanced round for Léon, wanting him at my side, but he was standing behind the four groups, deep in conversation with Colonel Masson. Discussing the Mickey Ashton murder, I guessed, but all talk was forced to cease as the brain-drilling whine of the jets grew louder.

  A phalanx of raw power roared past us as the first two fighters surged up into the air together with such unimaginable force that I could feel it pressing down on my body. Rattling my lungs and pushing against my eyeballs. Vibrating the ground under my feet. Shaking me up. Adrenaline pulsing. As the next pair of fighters accelerated with a blast at our eardrums, I looked around at the faces in the crowd, all transfixed. Except one.

  Time seemed to slow to little more than a crawl as I registered a face with eyes blinking in slow motion, a hand with no rings undoing a jacket’s top button, reaching inside, under an oyster-coloured blouse to bring out . . .

  Time sped up. It cartwheeled forward and I started to move. To open my mouth. To shout a warning. To drag my feet from the concrete in which they had sunk and hurl myself forwards.

  Too late. My hand reached out but found . . . nothing. The headmistress was gone. Mademoiselle Madeleine Caron was charging across the gap that lay between the visitors and the runway as fast as her long legs would carry her and in each hand she gripped what looked like a large khaki egg. Her loose skirt was billowing around her legs with every stride and her hat flew off, so that her long greying hair streamed out behind her.

  A collective cry rose from the onlookers, a shout of warning from the airmen. All drowned out by the deafening sound of the jet engines. She was jinking from side to side as she ran, quick and agile. The crack of a rifle ripped through the air but the bullet spat harmlessly into the ground at her feet. She sent one of the grenades spinning through the air with all the grace and speed of a fast bowler in English cricket.

  Time paused. We all saw it. The grenade arcing through the air. Hitting the concrete runway. Rolling. Over and over. No one breathed. Then time was off again at top speed. The explosion. The crater. The undercarriage of a plane blown apart, the wing crashing on to the concrete. The noise a dull thump, a screech of metal.

  Madeleine Caron spun to face us, bullets dancing around her as she took off once more, dodging and darting, coming right at us. A red stain flowered on the shoulder of her jacket but she kept running, drawing back her other arm to throw what was clutched in her hand.

  All around me people turned to run, screaming. Everything happening fast, feet tumbling over each other. I saw her face now. Drained of colour. As if all her blood had flowed into her rage. Two more bullets thudded into her side but she stumbled on until one keen marksman sent a shot right through her thigh. She dropped to her knees. Hauled back her arm and launched the last grenade. Straight at me.

  I jerked back. Tried to run. An elbow thudded into my back, a foot hooked around my ankle. I stumbled, scrabbling on all fours, fingernails clawing at the concrete to find a hold. My body braced itself for limbs to be blown apart but, when the explosion came, it wasn’t what I expected. I heard the boom all right. But then it felt like being hit by a truck from behind. I crashed to the ground face-first and crimson pain seemed to scorch right up inside my head. I knew I must be standing at the mouth of hell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I risked opening one eye a crack. The light was dim and I could taste blood on my teeth. I opened my other eye. Not a good move. Pain turned into blinding light inside my head. I closed my eyes, waited till I could catch hold of a few ricocheting thoughts and attach them together, then opened my eyes again.

  A sense of grief sat heavy on my chest, crushing my ribs, but I didn’t know why. It took me a full minute to work out that I was in my own bed in my own bedroom and that the grunting noise I could hear was my own breathing. I tried to pull together the images spinning through my mind but they kept splintering apart again and again until the only one I was left with was Mademoiselle Madeleine Caron on her knees, blood darkening her blouse and seeping from her mouth. Her eyes huge with rage. And hate.

  I raised a hand to my face and found a bandage on my forehead, a dressing on my nose, and as I touched it with cautious fingertips I swore under my breath.

  Léon? Where was Léon? Was he hurt? An image of him lying bleeding on the ground tore through my mind, but surely he’d been too far back with the colonel. Dimly I dragged forward the memory of him in conversation. He must be safe. But . . . I could still see a blurred image . . . of a dark uniform shredded.

  ‘Please.’ I whispered the word out loud to give it strength. ‘Please let him be safe.’

  ‘Who do you mean, Eloïse?’

  My head rolled to the side. A man’s face broke into a thousand pieces and slowly re-formed. Amber eyes. Sandy hair. A look of concern softening his features.

  ‘André,’ I murmured.

  André was seated in a chair beside my bed. He was smoking a cigarette and had a book open on his lap. Even though I couldn’t see its cover, I knew by the extreme thickness of it that it was Les Misérables. He reached out, slotted my hand in his and closed his fingers around mine. His were warm, mine were cold.

  ‘That was close, little sister.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Too close.’ He leaned forward and kissed my head.

  That was all. But I could feel a jumpiness in his fingers that had not been there before.

  ‘What happened? After she threw the grenade. Who was hurt?’

  ‘Two guests died.’

  My heart stopped. ‘Who?’

  ‘Two men from the bank. No one you know.’

  No one you know. Four words that pieced my world back together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘For their families.’ Guilt soured my stomach. ‘If I hadn’t suggested this open day on the base, they would still be alive.’

  ‘No, that’s nonsense. It would have happened eventually. When the USAF got round to inviting locals over in an attempt to build bridges, Mademoiselle Caron would have done exactly the same. It seems she was hell-bent on causing mayhem from what I heard.’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘Was the mayor hurt?’

  ‘No, unfortunately.’

  ‘And Léon?’

  There. The question was out.

  ‘Don’t look so worried. You can’t get rid of Léon so easily.’

  ‘He’s okay?’

  ‘He took a hit but not serious.’

  I pushed myself to sit up straight and wanted to seize the words from his tongue. ‘How bad? Where is he? What happened to him?’

  ‘Calm down, you’ll only start bleeding again. Lie back. He’s doing okay, that’s what the ambulance men said when they brought you home. He’s in the military hospital at the air base. His back got a bit cut up, but he’ll survive.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and smiled at me. ‘Léon is made of solid steel, you should know that.’

  I nodded, just once. Lights darted across my eyes, making André’s face sparkle. ‘Tell me what happened at the end.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘I was hit from behind. Was it the blast from the grenade? It felt like a truck.’

  The truck in Paris slammed into her mind . . . the strings of blood hurling themselves across the car.

  ‘No, no truck. It was Léon. It seems he threw himself over you to protect you, but the blast hit him so hard that he smacked you into the ground. Concussion and a broken nose, but you’ll live.’

  The silence grew loud in the room while we both considered whether that last statement was true or not.

  ‘A hero,’ André muttered softly.

  Was he happy for Léon? Proud of his friend? Or jealous? I couldn’t tell. He released my hand, folded his arms and looked serious.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘down to business. Let’s hear everything that occurred at the air base.’

  I lay back against the pillow and talked him
through it, step by step. When I say ‘talked him through it’, that’s not quite true. There were several times when I found my eyes shut and my talking was all inside my head, so I had to backtrack. But he was patient. Gentle. Kinder than he’d been since the crash. We talked about Madeleine Caron. Deceased. Shot dead. ‘She was a raving Communist,’ he said, ‘and she certainly made her point. That will be millions of dollars worth of damage she caused to the planes and the runway. I don’t think Colonel Masson will be inviting locals around again in a hurry.’

  I told him about my conversation with Mayor Durand. I left it till last because I knew he would be angry.

  ‘You told him you knew about the copied documents in his desk? Are you crazy, Eloïse? Why the hell did you do that?’

  ‘Because I am sick to death of having my life threatened. Can’t you see that? I am sick of having people hiding in shadows, stalking my movements and making my mind spiral down into black holes. I want to drag them out of the shadows. To hold them up to the light where I can get a good look at the bastards.’

  I was shaking. Not with fear this time. Not with shock. I was shaking with gut-wrenching rage. ‘I’m not like you, André,’ I said fiercely. ‘I thought I was. But too many people are getting hurt. Including you. I can’t accept it as a necessary part of the job, I can’t live with them hovering round my bed at night. I thought I could but I was wrong.’

  ‘Eloïse, hush, let it go.’ He stroked my arm where the blisters from the stable fire had left their mark. ‘Rest now. It’s almost morning, it will be light soon and then the shadows will melt away and you’ll feel like my brave Eloïse again.’

  But it wasn’t true, I knew that. I would never feel like that Eloïse again. I’d lost something in that blast yesterday that I wouldn’t be getting back.

  ‘I told Mayor Durand that I knew about the top-secret documents in his desk because I wanted to frighten him, to panic him into making a mistake. It’s the only way he’ll ever reveal his source of Intelligence at the air base.’