No one looked surprised. ‘Why?’ said Amélie. ‘After all, Renard, or rather Félix Mouton, has lived here most of his life.’
It dawned on me that they already knew he’d returned. ‘True, but there was only a week between us following him around the streets of Bournemouth and spotting him back here in Rochefort. That’s pretty impressive.’
Max stuffed an oversized wedge of bread into his mouth and tried to speak. ‘Maybe he didn’t go to Berlin.’ He saw my puzzled look, chewed hurriedly and swallowed hard before offering his reasoning. ‘Perhaps he came straight back to Rochefort. My theory is that he’s brought the blueprints here, to the château, or rather to the laboratories there.’
That would make sense, I realized. ‘Have you told London, Freya? That Renard and Véronique have been seen in Rochefort.’
‘No need, according to Jacques. He said that everything was being taken care of.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Loki, pulling a face.
Freya glanced to the ceiling as if to say, God knows. Amélie shrugged. I felt uneasy. Just what did Jacques have planned? How come he knew Renard was back in Rochefort? All through our training at Mulberry House, Jacques seemed to know a lot of things, important things, that none of the rest of us did. And I’d had enough of being given just part of the picture. I made a mental note to challenge Jacques about exactly what he knew as soon as he showed his face. These were dangerous times and I didn’t want any nasty surprises.
Chapter Twenty-five
Beware of Fat Men!
THE NEXT MORNING we all set off on our various tasks. I prayed we didn’t get stopped without identity papers. If we did, it would be down to Amélie to do the talking. She instructed me to act dumb, stupid, or as she said, ‘Un imbécile.’ She reckoned the Germans would soon grow tired of trying to question an idiot! I was happy to play along.
Elaborating on his plan to get into the fuel depot, Max thought it best that we complemented our German uniforms by making ourselves look a little older. Top of Amélie’s shopping list was some talcum powder to grey our hair and a bottle of collodion to age our skin.
But first there were the leaflets to deliver. This took us across town and mercifully proved uneventful, until Amélie led me towards a smart street called the rue St Patrick. She stopped at the corner and grabbed my arm. ‘Listen, Finn. Keep your eyes open. They may be watching number twelve.’
She hurried on past one large imposing stone house after another. I noticed her snatching brief glances at the tall ornate windows. ‘Who might be watching?’ I asked repeatedly. She said nothing. My anxiety ratcheted up a notch when she stopped outside number twelve and peered at it over the top of a hedge.
‘I think it is safe, Finn. Follow me.’
Hurrying up the path, she knocked briskly on the door while I scanned the road for suspicious-looking characters, and neighbouring houses for twitching curtains. There was no reply, despite her striking the door with her fist so hard I could hear the noise echoing through the inside hall.
‘Just slip the leaflet under the door,’ I suggested. ‘Or wedge it somewhere in the frame.’
Ignoring me, she set about hunting beneath some flower pots.
‘What are you doing?’
She stood up, clutching a key. It suddenly dawned on me. This was her house! I was scared – so much so I could hardly breathe. Jacques had said the house was being watched, that it was too dangerous to come here. ‘Are you mad?’ I whispered. ‘What if …?’
Unlocking the front door, she gave it a firm kick open and exclaimed, ‘Voilà!’
On her heels, I slammed the door behind me and leaned heavily against it. ‘You had no right coming here,’ I snapped. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
She spun round and our eyes locked together. ‘I had to, Finn. Don’t you understand? It might be the last …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Maman!’ she called out over her shoulder.
‘There’s no one here,’ I said breathlessly, my heart pounding. ‘We should go.’
‘Maman!’ she shouted repeatedly as she moved from room to room. Hands on hips, and rather confused, she added, ‘Je ne comprend pas pourquoi?’
Then it hit me. Something was terribly wrong. The house had that dusty, stale, musty odour of somewhere that had been shut up for a long time. The kitchen pantry had little food in it, and what there was had gone rotten. It was obvious that no one had been living here for some considerable time.
‘But Jacques said that he’d been here and …’ The perplexed expression on her face turned to one of alarm. ‘What’s going on, Finn?’
I had no idea. I wondered why Jacques had claimed to have visited the house and spoken to his mother if, in fact, he hadn’t. The only explanation I could think of was that, like us, he had found it empty. Fearing something awful might have happened, maybe he decided to protect his sister by not telling her. Unsure how she might react, I chose not to share my thoughts with her either. ‘We’ll find out from your brother later,’ I said, trying to sound casual, reassuring, as if there was undoubtedly a perfectly sensible explanation. ‘Can we go now? Please?’
Heading for the centre of town, I tried to behave as if I’d lived in Rochefort all my life, born and bred here, stepping confidently along pavements as if I’d done so a million times already. It was easier said than done. Everything was so unfamiliar. My nerves were on edge, my stomach unsettled to the point where I felt nauseous. Amélie was still pondering what on earth could have happened to her mother.
Entering the vast square, I saw it was market day. Stalls had been set out in a huddle on the cobbles. Hurrying past them, it soon became apparent just how dreadfully scarce fresh food was. Nevertheless, the townsfolk of Rochefort had ventured out in numbers, no doubt keen to bask in the warmth of the spring sunshine. Cyclists weaved through the crowds ringing their bells and waving to neighbours and friends. Old men in threadbare jackets, worn leather boots and berets perched on walls or sat huddled together on benches. I guessed they were probably gossiping about the war, reminiscing about the good old days when France was a force to be reckoned with, and updating each other on the latest scandals unfolding behind closed doors.
Amélie walked briskly and with purpose. She did not want to get stopped, especially with me in tow, no matter how convincing an imbecile I was. What she didn’t realize, however, was that if I was searched, my lack of papers wasn’t the only potential problem. A German soldier might also wonder about the foot-long, slender metal tube hidden in the lining of my coat, accessible by a loop of string poking through a small hole in my inside pocket. It was a welrod. Good old Smithy had kindly thrown a few into the supplies along with all the Stens and explosives, and that morning I’d decided it was safer to carry than a revolver. The welrod contained a single bullet and came complete with silencer. As we hurried past the hôtel de ville with its swastika fluttering in the breeze, I began to wonder if I’d been wise to arm myself at all. Maybe I really was a bit of an imbécile. Maybe I didn’t need to pretend.
Guards slouched in doorways, their faces blank with boredom, their rifles propped up against doors and windowsills. Others stood in small huddles, smoking and chatting. I recalled our training at Mulberry House. If there was trouble, if we needed to make a run for it, which way would I go? Could I weave between the stalls, hide beneath one, grab a bicycle and dash down a side street? My fear of capture made me look at everything with a very different eye.
Of the various items on our shopping list, the collodion was likely to pose the greatest difficulty. It wasn’t something people purchased very often. When applied to the skin, the syrupy liquid dries rapidly, leaving a crinkly residue. Perfect, according to Stanley Briggs, for ageing the skin or faking wounds and scars. Because it was used in some medicines, a pharmacy seemed our best bet, although our enquiries at the first three shops were met by despairing shakes of the head. Amélie knew of one more shop worth trying. It was a small pharmacy tucked away in one corner of the town square. With
luck we’d be able to get the talcum powder there too.
As Amélie pushed open the shop door, a small brass bell tinkled above her head. At the same moment I spotted something in the square. A tall, skinny young man stepped out of a telephone kiosk, looked upwards and gave a blatant signal to someone. My Special Ops training told me that his nod was no accident, no nervous tic. He peered across the square. The expression on his face was odd; sharp, I thought, definitely focused, and maybe a little vengeful. Curious, I turned and looked in the same direction.
Some distance away a large trestle table had been set out in the shelter of a stone archway. Two German Wehrmacht officers were sitting behind it. Armed guards stood beside them. A small queue of men and women began gathering to their left, stretching out along the pavement. The young man by the kiosk glanced at his watch and then, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, hurried off into a side street. Something was going on. I just knew it. I peered up to where he’d signalled – the church and its ornate bell tower. At first I was blinded by the low sunlight, but gradually my eyes adjusted to the brightness. It was then I realized there was someone up there, in the tower, crouching between the stone pillars. Seeing him made me swallow hard. Whoever it was had a rifle! He carefully, purposefully, raised it to his shoulder. Then I realized I recognized him. Pierre! I fizzed with panic. Something terrible was about to happen. And trouble was the last thing we needed.
I ran into the pharmacy and closed the door. The bell tinkled again. Amélie was standing by the cash register. The pharmacist, a woman of about forty with greying hair and thick glasses poised precariously on the very tip of her nose, had already put a tin of talc in a paper bag resting on the counter. Amélie took the opportunity to stock up on supplies, asking for five large crepe bandages which ended up in the bag too. The pharmacist scratched the back of her head thoughtfully, however, when Amélie enquired about the collodion. My heart sank. Then, raising a finger as if she’d suddenly remembered something, she said she’d take a look out the back of her shop, just in case there was an old bottle gathering dust. I waited for her to disappear before speaking. ‘We’ve got to go,’ I said quietly, tugging gently on Amélie’s sleeve. ‘There’s going to be trouble here any minute.’
‘What are you talking about, Finn?’
‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘Pierre Truffaut’s out there and he’s about to do something he’ll regret. Put the money on the counter and let’s get out of here. Now!’
‘Ah, bon!’ came a shout from out the back of the shop. The pharmacist reappeared clutching a small brown bottle. ‘Huit francs,’ she declared, placing the bottle carefully into the bag.
Amélie dug into her purse and slowly began counting out the money. Hurry up! I fretted. I went to the door and peered out. A clock above the entrance to the town hall struck eleven. On the last clang, a car appeared at speed from a side street, its tyres screeching as it swerved round the corner and entered the square. There were two young men inside. It was too late to do anything. All I could do was stand and watch.
The car, a rusting, mud-encrusted grey Citroën that looked as if it had spent its life crossing fields and transporting bales of straw, slowed down as it approached the table under the archway. A machine gun appeared out of the passenger’s window. I heard someone scream. Five seconds later the gun’s magazine was empty, walls had been peppered with bullets and the two Wehrmacht officers were dead. Everyone in the queue had thrown themselves to the ground. The Citroën revved and its tyres squealed. The car accelerated in our direction. I glanced up and realized it was Pierre’s turn to act. His job was to give covering fire. As soldiers rushed into the road behind the car, lifted their rifles and took aim, Pierre tried picking them off, one by one. He was a cracking good shot, maybe even good enough to give Freya a run for her money. He didn’t waste a single bullet, either. But there were simply too many soldiers. Several turned their weapons towards the bell tower.
Save yourself, Pierre. You’ve done what you can. Get the hell out of there before they trap you.
The Citroën, its engine howling in low gear, was still heading directly towards us. Everything was happening so fast. The car’s windscreen shattered and the driver slumped forward. A horrible lump formed in my throat as I sensed what was about to unfold. ‘Jesus! Run, Amélie!’ I yelled. Grabbing her hand, I pulled her towards the shop counter. Throwing ourselves over it, we landed in a heap on the other side. I reached up and snatched up the paper bag, and then cowered, tensing my whole body in anticipation. The pharmacist, realizing what was about to happen too, stepped backwards, pressing herself against the shelves of neatly arranged glass jars. She let out a stifled cry. Her spectacles fell from her nose, revealing eyes that were wide open with terror.
I heard the soft thud of tyres mounting the kerb. The sound reached my ears a split second before the Citroën ploughed through the shop window. The noise was deafening. The floor shuddered beneath me. Tiles fell from the ceiling. Bottles toppled from the shelves and smashed all round us. Fainting, the pharmacist slid to the floor. I rose to my knees and dared to peer over the top of the counter. There was a loud hiss amid the dust. Smoke billowed from the crumpled front of the car. A young man lay on the bonnet, on his back, his arms outstretched, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. The other young man, the driver, sat slumped over the wheel. Neither moved a muscle. I spotted soldiers running towards us.
Amélie stood up, saw the bodies and shrieked. ‘Non! Claude! Philippe!’
‘Pierre’s other two brothers?’ I asked.
‘Oui, Finn.’
‘Hell! Out the back way,’ I said. ‘Quickly. The Germans will arrest us otherwise. Just for being here.’
We crawled into the back of the shop and ran out through the rear door into a small yard. Once through a wooden gate at the end of the yard, we found ourselves in a narrow alley. We ran as fast as we dared. Amélie was limping slightly. There was a nasty shard of glass stuck in her right knee. Blood was dripping onto her shoe. ‘Stop a second,’ I said when I reckoned we were far enough away. ‘Give me one of those bandages.’
I knelt down, gently picked out the lump of glass, wiped the blood away and then frantically set about wrapping the bandage tightly round her leg. ‘There, that should hold until we get you back to the safe house,’ I said breathlessly. ‘Damn Pierre and his brothers. What were they thinking? They know their orders. No Resistance activities until Operation Death Ray has been completed.’ I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation.
‘Can you really blame them, Finn?’ Amélie replied, flexing her leg and adjusting the knot I’d made in the crepe. ‘After what happened to their father.’
‘Yes, I can blame them,’ I snapped. ‘There’s a bigger picture, Amélie. More is at stake than one man’s revenge against another. Those idiots may have just jeopardized everything. And at least two of them are dead. What a waste. And God knows whether Pierre will get away from the church alive.’
We walked briskly through the streets. Glancing at my watch, I realized it was after half-past eleven. Freya was due to contact London at midday. Jacques was meeting her at the safe house a stone’s throw from the station. The Truffauts’ personal vendetta had complicated things and I reckoned Jacques needed to be informed without delay. There would be reprisals. The town would be swarming with soldiers hammering on doors and searching everywhere. The people of Rochefort would be taught a harsh lesson and made to pay dearly. Suspects would be arrested and interrogated. I wondered just how many innocents would be rounded up, lined up against a wall and shot. My fears also made me anxious for Freya. ‘Do you know the address of the safe house Freya’s using?’
‘Oui, Finn. It’s in the rue de la Gare. But remember, her name is Odette!’
Approaching a busy junction, I came to a decision. ‘We must go there. Jacques needs to know. We have to tell London the situation here is deteriorating.’
Many houses near the station had been boarded up. Breathless, we arrived at
one end of the rue de la Gare. It was a long, arrow-straight road, the station visible at the far end, at least two hundred yards away. ‘The house is about halfway down on the left-hand side, Finn,’ said Amélie. ‘The one with the dark-green door.’
We’d taken barely a dozen steps when I heard ‘Pssst!’
It was Max. Crouching behind a low wall to our right, he looked scared. He held a finger to his lips and beckoned us to join him. We hurried across the road. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, dipping down behind the wall.
I began to explain what we’d just witnessed in the square but Max interrupted, his voice tense with anxiety, ‘See that fat man, Finn? Far end of the street. See him?’
Walking in our direction there was indeed a fat man wearing a long dark raincoat and broad-brimmed hat. Two things struck me as suspicious. One, he walked extremely slowly, and two, he repeatedly peered at his watch.
‘He’s Abwehr,’ Max whispered hatefully. ‘German Intelligence. I’m sure of it. He’s looking out for a transmitter.’
It was one minute before midday. Freya was meticulous. If her schedule, her sked, as it was known, required her to contact London at midday, she’d do her utmost to be right on time. ‘What can we do?’
‘Nothing except pray, Finn. Pray really hard,’ Max replied.
‘Where’s Loki? Did he enter the safe house with Freya?’
My question was met with a shake of Max’s head. He pointed across the road. Loki was pressed deep into a recessed doorway. I gasped in surprise. He was looking directly at me, frantically mouthing something. I couldn’t make out what. I gestured to him, encouraging him to risk crossing the road to join us. But he refused to budge.
‘And what about Jacques?’ I asked Max. ‘He was supposed to meet Freya here.’
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