by Kate Mosse
It was morning when he escaped. Pretended to be unconscious, so they left him unguarded. Managed to climb out of the broken window and snapped the padlock on the gate. But he was too weak to get far and although he made it down to Païchérou, down to the river, on to the rocks, he hadn’t the strength. He’d slipped, fainted. The water pressing into his mouth, his nose.
He tried to remember. There’d been a girl, hadn’t there? Pulled him out of the water. It hadn’t mattered anyway. They’d come after him, brought him back here. Now, again, the drip, drip of the cellar, the bare earth under his feet.
‘Komm. If you tell me, this will stop.’
With each word, another strike with the iron bar, cutting through the silent air, the steady breathing of his captors within it, the marks on his broken body telling the story of every blow he’d received.
‘He’s passed out. Hurry.’
Antoine hoped they were talking about him, welcoming the thought that he would not have to feel any more. But a sponge was thrust into his mouth. The sour, sharp vinegar made him gag. His cracked lips recoiled in protest and he tried to twist free, but hands on his shoulders held him firm. He smelt blood and wondered if it was his own or if someone else had sat on this chair before him. Then water running over his head, his shoulders, down into his lap, shocking him into speech.
‘I don’t know . . .’
Antoine didn’t know if that was true. Hours ago, days, between the kicks and punches and the burns from the cigarettes, the smell of the singed hairs on his arms and the hiss of skin, he’d forgotten what the man wanted. None of it made sense. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what he had already said.
‘Antoine,’ said the man, drawing the vowels out so softly. ‘Your friend died, you remember? You had a telegram, yes? Cast your mind back. To March 1939, remember? We found Rahn in the snow, the mountains of the Wilder Kaiser. Nothing you say can harm him now. He’s at peace. We have his diaries, all his notes, letters. He worked for us, didn’t you know that? We know that if he had left anything behind – the key – it would have been in your safe keeping, yes? The key?’
Antoine knew they were lying. If they had everything, then why were they asking him questions? He didn’t understand anything. The old man would know. He tried again to shake his head, but his bones, his muscles, nothing worked any more. Words were coming back to him, fragments of memory.
‘D-Die-Dietrich,’ he said. If he kept saying this, they would believe that there was a key, that they were looking for a key, then the secret would be kept from them at least.
‘The skeleton key, yes?’
Antoine felt the man’s breath, eager, suddenly on his face. Saw the death’s-head brooch on his lapel. Otto Rahn had worn one too. He’d written to tell him he had joined them, then nothing more until just before the end. Life became too dark after that.
‘Rahn gave you a key to look after?’ The man’s voice was closer still. ‘Where is it now, Antoine? What’s it for?’
His friends hadn’t liked Otto, but there was something about him that made you listen to his stories. Beautiful stories, clever, words taking flight. Antoine never dreamed there was any truth in them.
The old man had told him to be careful. Antoine should have listened, but he’d thought he’d outwitted them. In a way he had, though the cost was too high.
‘All true . . .’
The man’s voice, sharp again, impatient. ‘What’s that you say?’
Antoine was slipping away, like a boat coming loose of its moorings, a gentle letting go. Remembering the words written on the map. He hoped the girl was all right. Kind . . . she was gentle. She had tried to help. He didn’t know his torturer. Hadn’t seen his face, only a grey suit, and the pink, waxy skin on his left arm when he rolled up his shirt sleeves, as if he’d been burnt. The Cathars had been given to the fire, hadn’t they? The good men, Otto had called them.
The old man knew all about them.
‘Gottesfreunde,’ Antoine whispered. ‘Forgotten.’
As he said it, he realised that was true. A few months of friendship, ten years ago, eleven. Otto Rahn, a young German from Michelstadt, travelling with a Swiss friend. Antoine just out of university and with time on his hands. A chance meeting in a café, the pleasure of discovering a shared interest in the same things, treasure and local legends, an initiation into the mythology of the mountains. As 1931 tipped over into 1932, they had read and talked and smoked late into the night, going climbing in the day when the weather permitted, up to the summit of the Pic de Soularac, to the ruins of Montségur and Coustaussa, or down into the belly of the caves of Niaux and Lombrives. Brotherhood – the Fahneneid, the blood oath of the German warrior of legend – it was innocent, harmless. Otto was naïve certainly, but he didn’t think like those maniacs. He was flattered when they invited him to join them, proud of his black uniform. Later, he had become disillusioned, wanted to get out, but by then it was too late.
Ten years ago, more. Antoine had been young and understood nothing. A classics student, Latin and Greek, idealistic. He had never killed a man then. Never seen a man die. If Rahn had lived, the two of them would have been on opposite sides. Ten years. It had been one of those interludes in a life starting out. Antoine didn’t understand. Otto had died more than three years ago. Before all the madness started. So why were these men here now?
‘Sprich.’ Speak.
Antoine heard the anger in the man’s voice and flinched from it.
‘Forgotten,’ he said again, feeling the tug of sweet black sleep.
This time the blow caught him across the face. Antoine heard his nose crack, the splinter of it, then felt the blood, warm and wet, coating his dry lips, but there was no pain. Tears, of relief, slipped from his tired eyes.
‘We’re losing him,’ someone else was shouting, a voice thick with violence and cigarettes. An ugly voice.
Antoine was almost free now, floating above the torture cellar and the pain and the sheer pointlessness of it all. They couldn’t reach him. Rough hands, cold water, dragging a broken body to its feet, he was beyond them.
‘Get the doctor in here,’ the man ordered. ‘Allez, vite.’
Antoine realised he was smiling. The sound of running feet, the door being thrown open, the rustle of the doctor in his bag. Needles, light, a sharp prick, so many people pulling him this way, that.
He died ten minutes later, without revealing anything more about his friend Rahn. Without telling them anything about what he had found or what he knew. And without letting the name of Audric Baillard pass his lips.
Chapter 15
CARCASSONNE
Sandrine carried on writing, writing until her arm ached and she’d set down everything she could remember. Finally, she was done. She leant back against the hard wooden bench and flexed her right hand. She looked up at the desk clerk, determined that he should notice she was still there.
He’d gone. The desk was unmanned. This was her chance. If he refused to let her pass, she’d go and find someone herself. Sandrine stood up, her sense of grievance at being kept waiting pushing her into action.
Shoving the sheets of paper into her pocket, she walked quickly away from the reception, in the direction everyone else had been going all morning, and sneaked through the door on the right.
The atmosphere away from the public space was immediately different. She was in a long and featureless corridor. White tiles on the floor, no windows, just strip lighting all the way along. The walls were painted a clinical washed green and no posters or pictures or notices broke the monotony. On either side, heavy studded doors of reinforced steel.
Sandrine hesitated, but then made herself go on. There was a door at the end of the passage with a card on it – COMMISSAIRE DE POLICE – slotted into a wooden holder. She could hear voices inside. She lifted her hand and knocked sharply before she had time to change her mind.
She heard footsteps on the far side of the door, then the sound of the handle turni
ng, and the same young officer appeared.
‘How did you get in here? This is a restricted area.’
‘I didn’t realise.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted a voice from inside the room.
Sandrine sidestepped the officer and darted into the room.
‘Commissaire, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t see what else to do. I’ve been waiting for hours.’
A senior officer was sitting behind a wide mahogany desk on which a map with small wooden markers was spread out. Behind him was a phalanx of gunmetal-grey filing cabinets, each with several drawers and handwritten white labels set into the handles.
‘What in the name of God is going on?’ He turned on the young officer. ‘Ramond, get her out of here.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ the young man said, ‘official personnel only allowed. You must leave.’
‘I want to report a crime,’ she said.
‘Mademoiselle . . .’
‘I was attacked this morning,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘I thought the police – you – would want to know of a crime committed in Carcassonne.’
‘For the last time, Officer Ramond, get her out of here!’
She felt the young officer’s hand in the small of her back, propelling her towards the door.
‘You are supposed to protect us,’ she said furiously, then spun on her heel and walked out.
The moment she was back in the corridor, her legs started to shake. Sandrine felt sick, with anger or nerves she wasn’t sure. She heard the door open and close, then the sound of footsteps behind her as the young officer caught up with her.
‘That wasn’t very sensible,’ he said.
Sandrine pulled a face. ‘I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’
He gave a brief, sweet smile. ‘It’s all right. I’m used to it.’
He led her to a bench, sat down and took out his notebook. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
Sandrine took a deep breath, then launched into her story. ‘I was at Païchérou this morning and there was a man in the water – I thought he was drowning, but there were rope marks on his wrists and . . . I think his family, someone, should know – but when I—’
The officer held up his hand. ‘Wait, hold on a moment,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with your name.’
‘Vidal,’ she replied. ‘Sandrine Sophie Vidal.’
‘And your address?’
‘Rue du Palais.’
Chapter 16
Raoul found rue Emile Zola easily enough and Antoine’s building on the corner. Six individual apartments, each with their own bell. He pressed, then stood back on the pavement and looked up. The shutters were open, but there was no sign of life. He pressed the bell again, a little harder and for a little longer, then once more stepped back and waited. The first-floor window remained closed. Finally, he rang the concierge’s bell instead. A few moments later, a thin woman dressed in black, with a sour expression and sharp eyes, answered the door.
‘I’m looking for Antoine Déjean,’ he said. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘He was here earlier.’
Raoul’s interest quickened. ‘What time was that?’
‘Can’t remember,’ she said, meeting his gaze.
Raoul slipped a coin into her hand.
‘Seven, seven fifteen.’
‘Did you actually see him?’ He got out another couple of francs.
‘No,’ the concierge admitted. ‘But I heard him moving about up there. Who else would it be, that time in the morning?’
Raoul thought for a moment. ‘The thing is, I left something with him that I need to collect. Any chance you could . . .’
She stared at him for a moment, then put the coins in the pocket of her housecoat, went into her office, took a bunch of keys from a hook.
‘Ten minutes,’ she said.
Raoul followed her up to the first floor. She unlocked the door to let him in. Stale, unused air rushed out. A scent of sour tobacco, vanilla, newspaper print hot in the sun beating in through the windows.
‘Ten minutes,’ she repeated.
There was a small lobby, leading into a large room which overlooked the allée d’Iéna, with a fold-out bed in the corner and a kitchenette with a sink and a single gas ring. A few tins of food and two apples, bruised and mouldy, in a china bowl. A narrow corridor led off the lobby to a WC and small bath at the back.
Antoine’s newspapers were stacked corner to corner on a desk, with a few banned pamphlets too. Two low armchairs were set at perfect right angles to the window, facing into the room, all oddly neat and tidy. Raoul got a book down from the shelves, put it back, not sure what he was looking for. Evidence of where Antoine had been at the weekend? Evidence of where he was now?
He looked out of the window on to the allée d’Iéna. He saw a travelling salesman arriving at the Hôtel des Voyageurs and two of the green police cars used for transporting prisoners – paniers à salade as they were known. They were heading towards the compound of the infantry barracks at the far end of the road.
It didn’t take long to search Antoine’s small flat. Raoul was loath to leave, just in case he came back. If it had actually been Antoine the concierge had heard. He smoked his last but one cigarette. At two o’clock, he gave up. He scribbled a note asking Antoine to get in touch, then made a quick detour to answer a call of nature before leaving. The tiny WC smelt sour, the water stagnant.
Raoul buttoned his trousers, reached over and opened the skylight window to air the room, then pulled the thin chain. Nothing happened. The water in the cistern above his head churned and gulped, but didn’t flush. He tried again, jerking down hard on the chain.
He tried once more, not sure why it bothered him so much that the toilet was blocked, only that it did. He balanced on the seat, feet either side of the bowl, but he couldn’t see inside the cistern. Under the kitchen sink he found an old-fashioned wooden plunger with a rust-coloured rubber head. He climbed back up and poked blind at the blockage with the handle, jabbing it down into the cistern, trying not to let the water slop over the sides. He could feel there was something there, hard against the ballcock. He twisted the stick, jiggered it from side to side, but still couldn’t shift the obstruction, so he rolled up his right sleeve and shoved his hand into the cistern. He felt something soft, a kind of heavy fabric, rolled into a ball. He worked it free and carefully took it out.
Raoul stepped down from the seat, shook the excess water from his hand and wiped it on his trousers, then looked at the wad of dark green waterproof material. As he started to unwrap the package, something slipped out. His hand darted out, just catching it before it hit the uneven lino floor.
It was a small pale glass bottle, heavy and opaque, the hemispherical body patterned with a beautiful blue-green iridescence on one side, like the eye of a peacock’s tail. On the other, a pattern in the glass that looked like leaves. It had a long thin neck with a small hole in the top, as if it had been worn on a chain or a thread, and a stopper of grey wool.
An unexpected explosion of knocking on the apartment door made him jump. He felt his heart lurch as he heard the rattling of keys in the lock.
‘Monsieur,’ came the shrill voice of the concierge, ‘it’s been more than ten minutes.’
‘J’arrive,’ he called out. ‘Merci.’
Raoul looked down at the exquisite tiny object in the palm of his hand, then, without thinking about it, quickly wrapped the bottle in his handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket. He put the damp cloth back in the cistern and was standing in the tiny lobby as the concierge pushed open the door.
‘I lost track of time,’ he said, dropping his last two coins into her open palm as he passed her. ‘You know how it is.’
Aware of her suspicious eyes on his back as he ran down the stairs, he hoped she wasn’t the type to call the police.
The sun was at its zenith. Keeping to the shadows, Raoul walked back towards the centre of t
own. He crossed the tram line and went down the boulevard Omer Sarraut past the Jardin des Plantes.
Outside the Café Terminus, a waiter was writing in chalk on a blackboard advertising they had beer. Raoul stopped. The prices were exorbitant, but he was hot, thirsty and, for once, lucky to be in the right place at the right time. The thought of a cold beer – real beer – was too much to pass up.
He checked in his pockets. He’d given all his loose change to the concierge, but he had a note he’d been saving to buy food. Raoul looked at it, and decided that beer beat the foul black bread they were selling hands down. He ordered at the bar, then took his drink outside to a table in the shade.
For a moment he just enjoyed the cold, sour taste on his tongue, on the back of his throat. Then, as usual, his thoughts started crowding in. Would the demonstration tomorrow change anything? He took another mouthful of beer, his mind turning, as it always did, on memories of war and revolution, resistance, like a permanent newsreel playing in his head.
From that, of course, to his brother. When Raoul had first arrived back in Carcassonne, he’d seen Bruno everywhere. Standing at the counter in the Café des Halles, or coming round the corner of the Quai Riquet, raising his hand to wave. So many men looked like him, reminded Raoul of his loss. As the days turned to weeks, to months, he’d seen Bruno less often. It made him miss him all the more.
Raoul raised his arm to attract the waiter’s attention.
‘S’il vous plaît,’ he said, ordering a second glass.
The shadows moved round. Now, as the beer took hold, weak as it was, Raoul found his thoughts moving from grief to something different, something sweeter. To the girl at the river. The way her eyes fluttered open, just for an instant, and her wild black hair, all out of place. Her strong, determined features.
Chapter 17
‘I know she’s here, officer. Please check your records again.’
Sandrine looked down the corridor and saw Marianne standing at the desk in a blue dress, blue hat, matching gloves and bag. Immaculately turned out, as always.