Codename Eagle

by Robert Rigby

  Odile slowly nodded her head. “And with new enemies nearby, that becomes even more dangerous.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I thought it best to meet here, rather than at home or the factory.” He turned at Inigo. “That is, if you don’t mind, of course.”

  “I’m honoured, Henri,” the Spaniard said, refilling his glass to the brim and downing it in one go.

  Josette couldn’t stop herself from thinking that if Inigo kept drinking at that pace he wouldn’t be much use if it came to a fight. But she stopped herself from mentioning it.

  “What about Paul and Didier,” she asked her father, “any word from them?”

  Henri shook his head. “From them, no.”

  “Then what do we do?” Max asked urgently. “We can’t sit here doing nothing, those people have my wife!”

  “We can only wait,” Henri replied. “Paul and Didier have been gone for most of the day; we must hope they’ve discovered something. I’ve left instructions with my wife for them to come here as soon as they get back.”

  “You said you hadn’t heard from them,” Odile said to her son. “Does that mean you’ve heard from someone else?”

  “Yes, I have. From London; news about Eagle.”

  “Eagle?” Max said, looking confused. “What is Eagle?”

  “It’s … it’s the codename for … for another operation we are involved in.” Belatedly, Henri had realized that he shouldn’t have mentioned Eagle in front of Max or Inigo, or, come to that, his mother. It was information they didn’t need to know.

  Nevertheless, Inigo was impressed. “Wonderful,” he said, thumping down a flattened palm on the table. He refilled his glass again and lifted it in a toast. “Death to all fascists!”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  At last Victor Forêt was receiving the respect he deserved. He felt better, much less tense, and the tightness gripping his chest for the past couple of days was easing at last.

  He had reported his sighting of Max Bernard to the German officer, who thanked him generously and complimented him on his observational skills. If the German was at all angry or even frustrated that Victor had spotted Bernard and then lost him again within seconds, he didn’t show it. And when Victor announced that he had even more vital information, Lau smiled indulgently. “Please continue,” he said.

  “The old woman and the girl I saw with Bernard, they are family to Henri Mazet, his mother and his daughter.”

  “And?”

  Victor sat back in his chair and rested the interlocked fingers of his hands on his bulging beer gut. He was more confident now. “Last year I suspected that Henri Mazet was part of the Resistance group I thought was operating in Lavelanet. I sent in my report; perhaps you saw it?”

  Lau nodded.

  “You may remember that I also suspected a gendarme officer, Gaston Rouzard, of being part of the group.”

  “Yes, I read that.”

  “But then Rouzard was killed and the rumours of a Resistance group faded away. There wasn’t much to report on after that, people here seemed to have lost their appetite for resistance.”

  “Remind me of how this Rouzard died?”

  “He was shot. No one was ever charged with the crime and there were no suspects. Gaston was a policeman and sometimes policemen make enemies. But seeing Max Bernard with the Mazet women today made me think that I was right after all about Henri Mazet. He must be Resistance, Bernard knew that and went to him for help. It seems likely, don’t you think?” Victor smiled his most ingratiating smile and waited while Lau considered his theory.

  “You know where Henri Mazet lives?”

  “Yes, it’s a big house close to the edge of town. Stands on its own; all very grand. He owns the biggest textile factory in Lavelanet, too. Plenty of money.”

  “And his mother, does she live with him?”

  “No, she has a house by the river. I know the house – not the street name or the number, but I could show you the place. When I was driving here I realized that Bernard must be in hiding there.”

  Lau beckoned to his radio operator, Otto Berg. “Make contact with headquarters and tell them I am confident we will capture our target tomorrow. Set a time as soon as possible for the pick-up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Berg left the room and Lau turned to his second-in-command, Erich Steidle. “Bernard won’t return to Bélesta, so it’s pointless watching his house any more. Go and fetch the others – we’ll need them tomorrow. Use our friend Monsieur Forêt’s car.”

  “My car!” Victor said looking horrified. “But—”

  “Unless you have any objections, monsieur,” Lau said, his voice suddenly much less cordial.

  Victor’s newfound confidence swiftly drained away. “No … not objections … not exactly.” He looked at Steidle. “But you will take care of the car, won’t you?”

  Steidle grinned. “I’ll treat it as though it were my own.” He held out one hand, palm upwards. “Keys?”

  Reluctantly, Victor dug into a pocket and brought out the keys to his car. Steidle took them, nodded and left without another word.

  As the door closed, Lau smiled at Victor. “You’ll be staying here with us tonight.”

  “What!”

  “You told me you can show us the way to the old woman’s house. You’ll do exactly that first thing in the morning.”

  “But … but I can’t stay here. I have customers … my café…”

  “Monsieur Forêt, I have much to do this evening, so please don’t waste my time. You’ll go with two of my men to the woman’s house, and if, as you predict, Bernard is hiding there, they’ll bring him back here. My own team will target his other possible hiding place. This time Max Bernard will not escape us.” He smiled at Victor. “Then your part of the operation will be finished and you can return to your café in your precious car.”

  The tension gripping Victor’s chest had returned. His bottom lip dropped; he was short of breath. He stared, mouth gaping.

  “Close your mouth, Monsieur Forêt,” Lau said. “You look like a fish.”

  Victor snapped his mouth shut.

  “Of course, that leaves me the twins to deal with,” Lau continued, to himself more than to Victor. “I would be justified in shooting them both after the way they betrayed us.”

  The twins were locked in a room upstairs, along with Julia Bernard.

  Victor’s main concern, as always, was for himself. “But if you shoot them, that would mean all sorts of complications later,” he managed to gasp. “How would it be explained? They’ve been seen with me, there would be questions. My cover could be compromised.”

  “I don’t intend to shoot them,” Lau said curtly. “We’ll need their lorry in the operation tomorrow, and when we leave here for good they’ll do exactly as they were originally meant to do: provide the torches for our plane when it lands. If they cooperate, with no further stupidity or heroic actions, they’ll live.”

  The words were spoken casually, but the threat was there, as it always was with Hauptmann Kurt Lau.

  As Victor nodded his head vigorously, the radio operator returned to the room.

  “Yes?” Lau said.

  “Weather report for tomorrow is good, sir: a full moon, clear sky. After that it’s more uncertain for several days. So pick-up is set for tomorrow, sir, at around midnight.”

  Lau smiled. “Good. We’ll be ready.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The pistol felt as though it was burning a hole in Alain Noury’s pocket.

  A lot of old weapons had made their way across the Pyrenees during the Spanish Civil War. Spanish weapons, German, Russian, American, even ancient Mexican rifles had been carried across the mountains with the fleeing Republicans.

  Some had been given away, others sold, exchanged for food, stolen, or ferreted away to be sold at a future date.

  That was how Alain Noury had come into possession of his “Spanish Colt” pistol. It was called the Spanish Colt because it was an exact replica of
the US army issue Colt 45, but smaller and 9mm. The pistol, with a supply of ammunition, had become his for just a few francs a couple of years earlier.

  And having fetched it from its usual hiding place at the house in Espezel, Alain felt now that at the very least it had to be brandished.

  He was sitting in his van, across the square from the café, waiting for Victor Forêt to return.

  Night had fallen and Alain was cold and fed up. He wanted to know what had happened to Victor, but was getting tired of waiting.

  He looked over to the café for what was probably the twentieth time, then, deciding to take a chance, climbed out of the van and strode quickly across the square.

  The doorbell jangled as he pushed open the café door. Every head turned in his direction. Not a lot happened in Forêt’s bar at night: a new arrival was something to break the boredom.

  Alain felt uneasy as he stepped inside, not knowing if Victor had told Celine that he’d thrown him out of the café and banned him from coming back. If Celine ordered Alain out, he would go without an argument. He didn’t want to get into a fight with Celine. More importantly, he didn’t want to be known as someone who had been beaten in a fight with her.

  But as he stepped up to the bar, it seemed as though his fears were unfounded. Celine managed a grudging nod. It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome, but it was as good as it got with Celine.

  “A beer, please,” Alain said, a little tentatively.

  Celine drew the beer, thudded the glass onto the bar top and picked up the few coins Alain had placed there. She said nothing; giving customer satisfaction was not Celine’s way.

  Relaxing a little, Alain sipped his beer and glanced around the room at the half a dozen men seated at tables. He recognized them all, but no one showed any interest in starting a conversation. That suited Alain: he was there for information, not a friendly chat.

  It was hardly warmer inside the café than it had been out in the van. In the open stove, a single log appeared to be losing the battle to stay alight. More logs were stacked to one side, but none of the customers had been brave enough yet to lift one from the pile and slide it into the stove: if Celine wanted the place warmer, she would do it herself.

  “Where’s Victor tonight?” Alain asked Celine, who had propped her burly frame onto a wooden stool and was sawing at her pink-painted fingernails with a metal file.

  She scowled, but didn’t look up as she continued with her work. “You tell me. Went out hours ago and left me here minding the place. Like a servant! I’ll kill him when he gets back!”

  Alain smiled and took another sip of beer, but then Celine stopped sawing her nails and glared at him. “It was your cousin he went with, one of those twins from the forest. What are they are up to? Where’ve they gone, eh?”

  “No idea,” Alain said. “Didn’t Victor tell you?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking you if he’d told me, would I?” Celine growled. She went back to her nails and then sighed loudly as a customer approached the bar. Reluctantly she hauled herself off the stool to serve him.

  Alain drained his beer. There was no point in staying any longer; he’d learned as much as he was going to, and if Victor did turn up, there would be trouble.

  “Thanks,” he said. Celine didn’t bother to reply.

  Nodding to a couple of the men, he left and returned quickly to his van. But then Alain saw two figures approaching the café. They didn’t go in, but stopped at the front of the terrace. They appeared to be looking inside.

  Alain waited and watched. He couldn’t make out who they were. The square was dimly lit and the lights from the café only silhouetted the figures. After a few moments they turned and walked away.

  Quietly, Alain stepped from the van and followed them, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket and curling his fingers around the pistol as he walked.

  They went into the same narrow side street that Victor had taken earlier. Alain followed again, keeping his distance as before. The street was unlit, but thin strands of dull yellow light spilled from the gaps in closed shutters.

  Alain could hear footsteps and low, muttered voices. Then the footsteps stopped.

  Alain stopped too. He backed into the shadows of a porch.

  An engine started; seconds later a motorbike passed by. Alain caught a glimpse of Didier Brunet and his friend Paul.

  Them again. First on the plateau and now here. It couldn’t be a coincidence. They were up to something.

  Alain’s grip on the pistol tightened. He already had a score to settle with those two, along with Henri Mazet and his daughter, Josette. Everything that had happened the previous year was their fault. It was all down to them.

  Alain had been part of a lucrative and enterprising business based on robbery and murder. The victims were wealthy northerners, usually Jews, fleeing the Nazis and desperate to cross the Pyrenees to Spain and freedom. Alain, Gaston and Yvette would deliver them into the hands of their contacts, a group of Andorran mountain men.

  Yvette was related to one of the Andorrans who would lead their hapless, disorientated and frightened victims part way across the mountains and then kill them, stealing their valuables and cash before disposing of their bodies.

  It was going well and they were all making a small fortune. Gaston had grand ideas about taking over the local Resistance movement and using some of his cash to spread misinformation and disrupt their actions. Gaston had been old-fashioned. He wanted stability and order, and as far as he was concerned, that meant Marshal Petain and the Vichy government staying in power.

  Alain and Yvette had no such ideals. They just wanted the money, and more of it.

  Then Henri Mazet and the others ruined everything by killing the Andorrans and discovering Yvette and Gaston’s involvement in the scheme. Alain would have been next, which was why he had had to kill Yvette and Gaston, to stop them from giving him away. He hadn’t wanted to do it – it was a shame, a great pity – but there really was no alternative.

  But ever since then, he had planned his revenge on Mazet and the others. It looked now as though the time for that revenge was fast approaching.

  Alain sighed as he walked back to his van, the metal of the Spanish Colt warm in his hand.

  He’d fetched the pistol from its hiding place merely to frighten Victor, but suddenly that didn’t seem quite enough any more. Alain had a strong feeling that one way or another the pistol would kill again before very long.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Five faces were turned in Henri’s direction, waiting for his guidance and words of wisdom, but Henri had no idea what he should say next. He had a lot on his mind and was rhythmically smoothing down the bristles of his moustache with the index finger of his right hand, as he often did when worried.

  The five of them were squeezed into the back room at Inigo’s little house, seated at a rickety wooden table littered with bottles, glasses, empty coffee cups and plates bearing the remnants of a hastily assembled meal.

  Paul and Didier had returned tired and hungry. As they began to tell their story, Inigo fetched bread, cheese and more of his foul-smelling garlic-stuffed sausage.

  The two friends spoke as they ate, explaining what had happened at Bélesta and in the forest. Paul told of how he had managed to overhear the information about Julia, the Germans, the twins and Victor Forêt, ommitting to mention the dangerous situation in the barn.

  Max was elated that his wife had been located. She was still a prisoner, yes, but at least now they knew exactly where she was being held.

  And the revelation that Victor Forêt was collaborating with the enemy was no shock at all to Josette. “I told you I didn’t trust that man, didn’t I!” she exclaimed excitedly to Didier.

  “And I told you too,” Josette said to Paul. “Remember when you first arrived here, I said I was suspicious of Victor, didn’t I?”

  Josette turned her attention to her father. “He’s the traitor, and he killed Yvette, and Gaston Rouzard too.”

  “
That isn’t necessarily the case, Josette.”

  “But it must be; it’s obvious.”

  “No,” Henri said firmly, “it’s not obvious. It’s possible, that’s all. Our main focus must be on what we know for certain.”

  “We went to the café earlier,” Didier said. “We know for certain that Victor wasn’t there.”

  “So he’s with the Germans,” Josette said quickly. “He has to be.”

  “No, he may be with the Germans, Josette,” Henri corrected.

  Josette sighed loudly, exasperation written all over her face.

  “I know we can’t act purely on wild guesses, Henri,” Paul said, “but we have to consider all possibilities now, for our own safety.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “Then we have to accept that Victor Forêt may well know about our Resistance group and that he has told the Germans about us. It was known in Bélesta, which means it’s even more likely to be known here in Lavelanet.”

  Didier nodded his agreement. “So it’s possible that the Germans suspect Max has come to you for help.”

  “Highly possible, yes, which means we must take great care.”

  Josette was impatient to get on. “We will take care, of course, but what do we do next, Papa?”

  Henri wasn’t in the least bit surprised that the direct question about a tactical plan had come from his daughter. His mother, Odile, had left earlier, and Henri had very briefly attempted to convince Josette that she should go too.

  Josette’s response was exactly what Henri had anticipated. “No, Papa, I’m not going! I will not be excluded any more! I’m part of this, like Paul, like Didier and like you!”

  She was right. Henri knew, much as he wanted to, that he could not exclude Josette from the operation. And even if he did, she’d force her way in somehow and that would only increase the danger for them all.

  Now Paul, Didier, Josette, Max and Inigo were staring at Henri, waiting to hear his plan, but he’d been wracking his brains and had nothing concrete to offer.