Sins of the Flesh

by Fern Michaels

  Mickey had no trouble, but Yvette had been unable to apply the simple rules until Mickey had hissed in her ear, “Pretend this is the German who slaughtered Henri. Always think of Henri. That’s why we’re here.” That had been at the last stages of twilight. Two hours of practice sessions later, every man in the small group had felt Yvette’s wrath.

  “You’ll do,” Jean said gruffly. Mickey beamed her pleasure. For days she’d been worried that Yvette would fall apart and not be able to do her share, and Mickey was unwilling to have her partner with anyone else because of that fear.

  The inch-high candle in the tin plate was starting to sputter. The group’s thoughts were one: Where was Raoul? The night would be wasted if he didn’t appear soon, for without his direction and his orders from England they would be useless.

  Fifteen minutes later, as the candle hissed to blackness, Raoul Berne arrived with the rain that sliced against the farmhouse windows. Silently he advanced to the circle of people, a small torch in his hand. He was tall but squat-looking somehow in his bulky peasant clothes. The battered British cap he wore in no way disguised his French face. His mouth was thin and tight, his nose aquiline. In the yellow light from the torch, Mickey noticed that his eyes were a peculiar shade of gray, almost translucent. There was a sense of power and competence about him that relaxed her. Yvette inched closer to Mickey as he began to speak.

  “We’ll work in threes. Each of you will be given a paper with your instructions. I’ll give you five minutes to memorize it, then you burn the paper. Be sure nothing is left behind, for we will not be returning. Ninety minutes before dawn you will make your way to the next house that will be safe. If you are wounded, you will be left behind, is that understood? I have…pills, each of you will be given one in case you are captured by the Germans.”

  Mickey’s blood ran cold as she reached for the lethal white capsule. For a moment she thought Yvette would refuse it, but when her friend reached for it her hand was steady. For a full moment Raoul’s translucent eyes locked with Mickey’s. Although she wanted to look away, she couldn’t tear her eyes from his burning gaze.

  “We’ll transmit at exactly two minutes after four o’clock. You,” he said, jabbing a long finger at Yvette, “will do the transmitting. I like women with red hair and green eyes.” His voice was a friendly growl, and Yvette yelped in fright. Mickey bit down on her lip to hide her smile.

  “How many Germans do you think he’s killed?” Yvette whispered in Mickey’s ear.

  “Ask me directly, mam’selle,” Raoul interjected. “Twenty-eight, and I loved every minute of it. How many fearsome Germans have you killed for our country?”

  “N-none,” Yvette stammered.

  “That will change tonight. You will be with me and the woman next to you. You will be my lookout, and you,” he said, pointing to Mickey, “will help me with the explosives.” Mickey nodded. “The Brits tell us if we are successful in blowing up the Cherbourg communications center; they can bomb the German sub base at dawn. Our timing is crucial, so let’s run through it one more time. This rain is a godsend,” he muttered to no one in particular.

  Minutes later they separated, each group heading in a different direction. The rain beat down, soaking them to the skin in seconds. It took the best part of three hours to reach their objective, fighting the beating rain and slashing winds. Suddenly Raoul drew up short, then turned to Yvette and hissed through his teeth. “I smell your fear, and that’s not good for any of us. You will concentrate on what has to be done, lock your mind on our people and what these filthy bastards are doing to them. In Nantes today they gunned down forty people—women and children. Think of that.”

  Raoul next addressed himself to Mickey. “We are less than a kilometer away from the center. There are patrols from here on in. Usually no more than three, one for each of us, eh? We crawl now, on our bellies, and make no sound.”

  As if they would, Mickey thought fearfully. Would she die here attempting to blow up a communications center she wondered. Who would tell Philippe and Reuben? There would be no one to identify her body, and she would be listed simply as missing. The thoughts were driven from her mind as she inched her way forward, directly behind Raoul.

  Harsh, guttural German words swirled about Mickey, carried on the wind. Suddenly Raoul stopped, and Mickey’s chin thumped down on his boot. Less than ten feet from them stood two German soldiers. They began to walk away, and once they were past, Raoul whispered to Mickey, who in turn whispered to Yvette: “They’ll return in less than seven minutes.” Mickey knew without being told that she and Raoul would come up behind, pull back the man’s head and drive the knife home, right through the jugular vein.

  The German’s torch was pointed low, lighting their way. This was their signal. Mickey and Raoul stepped out into the road, their arms outstretched. The sound of the snap as the first German’s neck broke was so loud, it was like thunder in Mickey’s ears. With Yvette’s help she dragged the corpse into the brush at the side of the dirt road.

  Raoul took a moment before dropping to the ground. “The first one is the hardest. After that it gets easier. Remember that.”

  Mickey believed him implicitly. She’d actually enjoyed snapping the man’s neck. There was blood on her hands, but she didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t French blood, she could live with what she’d done.

  “Slow and easy now,” Raoul murmured, “we’re less than half a kilometer from the center. The Germans are everywhere. Maybe not too many tonight because of the rain. The Boche likes comfort, so my estimate would be half the usual number.” The women nodded.

  Fifteen minutes later the communications center loomed ahead of them, blacker than the night and sky. A dim yellow light could be seen through the rain. Inside, the Germans were laughing and joking, undoubtedly congratulating themselves on their daily victories over the defenseless French. Maybe some were sleeping on a night like this, dreaming of their families or of Adolf Hitler, the maniacal leader of the German Reich.

  Raoul glanced at his watch. Earlier he’d been fearful that the women would slow him down, but they were actually seventy seconds ahead of schedule. Time to take a deep breath. Time to bolster the redheaded woman. “We have exactly seventeen minutes and twelve seconds to string the explosives. In six minutes two or three Germans, depending on their manpower in this weather, will walk right by us. They must be taken care of. Their shift ends in twenty-five minutes, so no one will look for them until that time.”

  “How…how do you know this?” Yvette whispered.

  “Because, madame, I have been sitting on that rise every night for the past fourteen days. I know what the Germans are going to do before they do it. They are predictable, and this group is lazy.” Raoul waited, his eyes glued to his watch. “Now,” he hissed.

  Mickey slithered to the right, followed by Yvette’s ample body. Even before she saw them, she could smell the cigarette smoke. Nodding to Yvette as she came upward in a knee crouch, she ticked off her fingers to the count of ten with the point of the knife. Then she moved forward, making a sloshing sound in the muddy road. The Germans turned, their torch shining upward, bathing Mickey’s face in its yellow glow. She froze in her tracks, her thoughts rushing to Philippe and Reuben.

  Yvette sprang to life, diving for the legs of the German closest to her. Her knife went in lightning fast, and then she shoved and pulled upward. Confident that she’d ripped the man’s heart in two, she fell backward. The torch was on the ground, and she could hear Mickey panting close by. When she rolled away, straining to see, her body touched something soft yet solid. Mickey or the German? She reached for the torch and picked it up. It was the German, blood spouting from his mouth.

  “Yours is still alive,” she whispered, hoping Mickey could hear her. Holding the light closer to the man’s face, she smiled down at him, enjoying the fear in his eyes. Then, still smiling, she lifted her foot in its heavy boot and smashed it down on the man’s face. When she raised her foot there was noth
ing left of the man’s face. “For Henri and all those poor souls in Nantes,” she snarled.

  Mickey had left to take her place with Raoul and the explosives. Yvette realized she would have to drag the two bodies herself. At that minute she felt an enormous surge of strength. Whatever had to be done, she could do. For the coward that she was, she’d done well this evening, and Raoul was right: the second one was easier.

  Later, when they were a kilometer away from the communications center and waiting for the moment the plunger shot downward, Yvette whispered to Mickey, “I finished him off for you. He would have died anyway within minutes; I just hastened his death. He burns in hell now.”

  Mickey shook her head. “I was thinking about Philippe and Reuben. I froze, Yvette.”

  “Yes, but you recovered and did what was expected of you. He was right, Mickey; the second was easier. What do you think?”

  “Yes, much easier.”

  Raoul held up his hand. “Ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…”

  The sky was a giant roman candle as charge after charge of explosives rocketed upward. Raoul gave them no time to savor their victory. “Come, we still have work to do, ladies. Until we hear the British bombing the sub base, all we did was blow up a communications center that can be operational again in twenty-four hours.” His voice was harsh but not unkind. “Keep up with me now, the rain is letting up.”

  Yvette cursed under her breath. “So much for being enamored of my red hair and green eyes.”

  Mickey smiled, her thoughts far away in America with the two men she loved most. But this was the last time she would give free rein to her thoughts. Tonight she’d almost been killed because she’d indulged her emotions. She had to stay alive to see Philippe again—and maybe, God willing, Reuben, too. From now on she would be positive and aggressive, concentrating on sabotaging the Germans any way she could. Philippe and Reuben belonged to another life.

  Later, when their night’s work was finally over and they were approaching the safe farmhouse, Mickey realized she was almost happy. She’d contributed to France’s fight. Now she had time to enjoy the countryside, at least for a few minutes. How clean and fresh it smelled. How safe it looked.

  “We’ll wait here for the others,” Raoul announced. “We have a perfect vantage point; we’re hidden and can watch the farmhouse for a while. Because it was safe two days ago doesn’t mean it’s safe today.” He raised his binoculars. When he was satisfied that the house was empty, he passed a cigarette to Mickey and Yvette. They smiled at one another as the RAF planes dropped their bombs on the sub base. Later Raoul and the two women welcomed the rest of their party as they straggled in in small groups.

  “This is our biggest coup to date, and we have reason to be proud and thankful that we’ve all returned,” Raoul congratulated them. “Now let’s see if we can find some food at the farmhouse, for my belly is growling.”

  With the night’s work behind them and a meager amount of food in her belly, Mickey took her turn resting. The fear she’d lived with all night long was dissipating slowly, to be replaced with a strange kind of exultation. Her eyes strayed to Yvette, who was crouched in the fetal position, thinking God knew what.

  Mickey wished she were clairvoyant so she could reassure Yvette of the future. Not for the first time, she wondered what lay in store for them. The moment they had joined the Resistance, her old life had slipped away from her. Even her name had been changed; one could not be betrayed if one’s name wasn’t known. She was called Chapeau and Yvette was referred to as Maman. Only in whispers did the two friends refer to each other by their given names, and Mickey knew even that was a mistake. Somehow, though, it helped to make sense of their situation.

  She’d heard bits and pieces concerning their next strike and the next safe house run by an aging farm couple who had spirited shot-down RAF pilots and fleeing Jews over the mountains—thirty-seven French-Jewish children, parentless and seeking refuge. Her heart had turned over when she’d heard about the children who would be her responsibility. So many little lives, and none of them past ten years of age! How would the little ones make the climb over the mountains? How many would they lose? She prayed for the strength and stamina to see her through the coming days. And when she’d finished those prayers, she prayed anew for those of her countrymen who had betrayed their own for food and the promise of life. She couldn’t judge those people. What would she herself not have done to protect Philippe? No, there would be others to judge French traitors someday.

  Chapter Twelve

  August’s vicious heat wave ground to a final halt and gave way to normal temperatures during the last days of the month. It was a particularly trying time, with the war news going from bad to worse to devastating. Daniel Bishop was fretful and fearful and half angry. Fretful and fearful because there had been no news of Mickey. Reuben called every day, and he was now at the point where he dreaded the calls, although he did his best to make his voice as cheerful as possible. Philippe usually called right after his father, and as the days wore on, the boy grew frantic—which did nothing for Daniel’s frame of mind.

  Nellie would be ready to leave for the coast in a few days, and he was already feeling his loss. Rajean was sullen most of the time, curled on a chair with a book he knew she wasn’t reading. They spoke very little these days, and when they did she snapped and snarled at him. Something was bothering his wife, and it wasn’t the fact that Nellie was leaving. On the contrary, he’d perceived a definite sense of relief in his wife at their daughter’s coming departure. Tonight he was going to have a talk, a serious one, with his wife. Nellie would be out, so they would have the house to themselves and could argue as loudly as they wanted.

  Enough was enough. His spirits perked up momentarily at the thought he’d had earlier this morning of going to the coast with Nellie for a week or so. Rajean would probably be glad to be rid of him so she could get into whatever kind of trouble he was keeping her from at the moment. If Nellie didn’t mind having him tag along, that’s exactly what he’d do. It would be good to see Reuben and Jane, and even Max. And his desire to discuss Mickey and the war in Europe was so strong, he felt light-headed.

  Daniel glanced down at his desk. Every pending piece of work could be assigned to a junior man at the office. Besides, he would be a telephone call away if a snag occurred. In the meantime he could concentrate on Mickey, Reuben, and Philippe.

  Yes, Philippe…Daniel pauseda moment, recalling the most recent telephone call from the boy, the one he’d asked Daniel to keep under his hat. Something about a gut feeling he had about a new phenomenon called tele…tele…Daniel frowned, trying to remember. Tele-something—a technological breakthrough, apparently, and one that Philippe was currently looking into. Television—yes, that was it. Seeing a picture on a box in one’s living room was the way the boy had described it. Philippe wanted to get the jump on the other studios and hoped that by working on the project secretly he could even override Reuben’s opposition when the time came. Daniel admired the boy’s determination; perhaps that was why he was using Nellie and her trip to California. Going along with her gave him an excuse to look into the matter. This television would be a challenge, the boy said, not of the decade, but of a lifetime.

  Daniel slammed his desk drawer and stood up. It was time to go home. Christ, he hated the thought. If he had anyplace else to go, he’d never return to the house in Georgetown. Of course, when Nellie was there it was different. But with Rajean there alone, the place resembled a war zone—and he had to do something about it before he became mortally wounded. He wanted to breathe again, to laugh and smile, to joke and cry. Goddammit, he wanted his life back!

  Ten days before he’d hired a firm of private detectives to observe his wife, but so far all they’d been able to report was that Rajean made daily phone calls from a phone booth in the Rexall drugstore. Hardly grounds for divorce.

  So…if Nellie agreed to his accompanying her to California, he would b
ait his trap for Rajean. He’d had her on short shrift these last weeks, and she was staying grudgingly in line. Before he left he’d give her some money and let her dig her own hole. It was a sneaky maneuver, but it would get him back his life—and at the moment that mattered more than anything else.

  To Daniel’s relief, no steam billowed upward from the cobbled Georgetown streets. It was actually pleasant driving home, with a perfect light breeze that ruffled his thinning hair through the car window. Most important of all, the oppressive humidity was gone.

  The umbrellalike elm rustled overhead, a friendly sound to Daniel’s ears, when he pulled the car to the curb. For a moment he just sat in the car and savored the early evening. Unfortunately his house loomed before him, a solid reminder of the task he had yet to perform. He’d never liked this Jack Sprat house from the first moment he’d set foot in it. Back then he’d acquiesced to just about anything Rajean wanted just to see her smile at him. Now he knew that he’d never been truly in love with his wife. Love, that wonderful heart-singing feeling when all you wanted was the other person’s happiness was what he’d hungered for. And he’d been so naive, thinking if he gave all of himself emotionally, physically, and financially, his happiness would come back twofold. All he’d gotten was misery. And Nellie, although Nellie and his happiness did not go hand in hand. But for that part of the light in his life, he would not short-change Rajean. With a weary sigh he prepared himself to leave the car and go inside.

  The small foyer with its white tile floor, so sterile-looking, seemed dim. There were no flowers on the hall table, and no light shone from the narrow living room. In the kitchen he found a bowl of salad and a cheese sandwich on the table, wrapped in wax paper. Ignoring them, he poked his head out the back door. Someone had watered the flower beds recently. The little walled garden smelled earthy and damp. The four tomato plants held up by thin stakes had been his contribution, and now there were two ripe tomatoes on one of the vines. He loped down the steps to the garden and pulled one of the tomatoes off the vine, then rubbed it on his pant leg before biting into it. His very own tomato, nurtured by Nellie with water and fertilizer. He had to remember to thank her. Grinning wryly, he entered the deserted kitchen, banging the screen door behind him.