Citadel

by Kate Mosse

  ‘Poor devil,’ muttered Pujol.

  Baillard looked out of the window towards the Pic de Vicdessos in the distance. The fierce afternoon sun blasted down upon the exposed peaks, casting long shadows across the land.

  ‘Authié has spent the past two years in Chartres, if the wireless report is to be believed. So I am certain, now, for whom he works and what other prize that man is seeking.’ His voice hardened. ‘I intend to make sure he does not get it.’

  ‘If you say so, Audric.’

  ‘The story is coming to its end, amic,’ he said. ‘This story, at least.’

  ‘So long as it’s a happy ending,’ Pujol muttered.

  Baillard did not answer.

  Chapter 113

  CARCASSONNE

  Sandrine stood by the sink, feeling the cold edge of the porcelain in the small of her back. Marianne was at the stove. Raoul was sitting at the table, his hands in his pockets, watching Suzanne work.

  Suzanne placed her ingredients on the table. Forty centimetres of cast-iron pipe, a section of a drainpipe taken from one of the derelict houses near the abattoir in the Aire de la Pépinière. The pipe was already packed with explosive. Sandrine watched as she bolted a stopper into each end, drilled a small hole about halfway down, and pushed into it a fuse that went down into the explosive.

  ‘It’s a simple, reliable, basic device,’ Suzanne said. ‘A child could do it. There’s two centimetres of fuse here, which will take about two minutes to burn, give or take.’

  Sandrine glanced at Raoul’s face.

  ‘Not much time to get out of the way,’ he said.

  ‘Long enough,’ Sandrine replied.

  ‘What’s the rest of it?’ Raoul asked, pointing at the duplicate parts.

  ‘A decoy,’ Sandrine explained. ‘We’ve done it before, placing two identical devices in locations close to one another – one in the Tour du Grand Burlas and the other in the Tour de la Justice – except one is live and the other one’s a dummy. It means that if anyone talks, the soldiers have a fifty-fifty chance of finding the wrong device rather than the real one.’

  Raoul nodded. ‘Good idea. Who’s responsible for the dummy?’

  ‘Gaston has a friend who works in a restaurant by the Porte de l’Aude, a kitchen porter. He’s going to set it in the Tour de la Justice tonight. It’s the closest we can get to the Hôtel de la Cité, where the dinner’s being held.’

  Suzanne turned to Marianne. ‘Is that ready yet?’

  Marianne came over from the stove holding the tin saucepan at arm’s length in front of her. Raoul wafted his hand in front of his nose.

  ‘Goose fat,’ Suzanne said, seeing the expression on his face. ‘Vile smell, I grant you, but the best way to keep the pipe airtight. More efficient than wax. Less volatile.’

  They watched as Suzanne greased the pipe, then put the last few components in place.

  ‘Right, that’s done.’

  She stood up, gathered everything up in a tea towel and gently carried the device to the sideboard beside the kitchen door. Marianne handed her a cloth for her hands.

  ‘I’ll show you what to do before we go,’ Suzanne said to Sandrine. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to stay? Just until it’s in place, at least.’

  Sandrine glanced at her sister and saw the look of resignation in her eyes, then shook her head.

  ‘No, it’s all right. Better you should go. Take the package to Gaston, then catch tonight’s train. Who knows when there’ll be another.’ She smiled. ‘Raoul and I will manage.’

  ‘Isn’t Lucie going with you two?’ Raoul asked.

  Marianne shook her head. ‘Not at the moment. She doesn’t want to uproot Jean-Jacques.’ She paused. ‘Suzanne’s mother is very fond of him. She helps out with him a great deal.’

  ‘Lucie should be all right,’ Sandrine said, seeing the look of concern on Raoul’s face. ‘She’s so changed since Authié last saw her. And even if he did go looking for her, he’d never think to try Madame Peyre’s address.’

  Raoul nodded, but Sandrine could see he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘The most important thing at this moment is for Suzanne and Marianne to leave,’ she said.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Marianne asked Suzanne.

  ‘I need to pack this lot up, then change.’

  ‘The train isn’t until six thirty, is it?’ Sandrine said.

  ‘Yes, but the checks are bound to take some time,’ Marianne said. ‘Why don’t I do this for you,’ she offered, gesturing at the components for the decoy, ‘and you go and get ready.’

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ Suzanne said, walking out of the kitchen. Seconds later, Sandrine heard the heavy tread of her boots on the stairs.

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  ‘Could you do me a favour and check the wireless, Raoul?’ Sandrine said. ‘Just in case something’s happened we should be aware of. There should be a bulletin any minute now.’

  Realising that she wanted time to say goodbye to Marianne in private, he got up quickly and went out of the room.

  The two sisters were left alone. Marianne found a canvas bag and carefully put the parts into it, then sat down at the table again. Overhead, they could hear Suzanne moving about.

  ‘This is it, then,’ Marianne said.

  ‘For a day or two, that’s all,’ Sandrine said. ‘We’ll do what we have to do, then we’ll join you. By Sunday we’ll all be together in Coustaussa.’ She smiled. ‘Like old times.’

  Marianne nodded. ‘Now the time’s come, I can’t wait to see Marieta. I’ve tried not to miss her too much.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sandrine said. ‘Though I bet she won’t have changed a bit.’

  Marianne smiled. ‘I wonder what Liesl will be like? Two years is a long time between sixteen and eighteen.’

  ‘Raoul says she’s very beautiful.’

  Marianne threw a glance at her. ‘Is that a touch of jealousy?’

  Sandrine blushed. ‘No, not at all. I’m just saying.’

  Marianne laughed, then the smile slid from her face. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘You know I will,’ she said softly. ‘And Raoul will be with me. He’ll make sure I’m all right.’

  Marianne nodded. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been going to pieces in the last few weeks. You keep going and keep going then, suddenly, you lose your nerve. No reason, or rather . . . I suppose Suzanne being picked up, that did for me.’

  Sandrine nodded. ‘I know. I understand.’

  She hesitated, then decided to ask outright what she had known for a long time.

  ‘You love her,’ she said.

  Marianne met her gaze. She hesitated, on the point of framing the conventional response, then stopped. It was clear in her face that she, too, was conscious of the fact that however much care Sandrine, or Marianne herself, took – however matter-of-fact their conversation – this might be the last time they spoke to each other.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Did Thierry realise?’ Sandrine asked, genuinely curious. ‘Or is it a more recent thing?’

  ‘Certainly Thierry knew.’ Marianne smiled. ‘It suited him just as well, you see. Harder for him, of course.’

  Sandrine frowned, then realised what Marianne was saying. ‘Oh. I see. You were a cover for him.’

  ‘It’s the only good thing that’s come out of any of this,’ she said quietly. ‘In some ways, it’s been easier than it would have been in peacetime.’

  The sound of Suzanne coming back down the stairs brought the conversation to a close.

  ‘I’m glad for you,’ Sandrine said quickly.

  Marianne nodded. ‘Me too.’ She turned and smiled as Suzanne walked in. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  Suzanne nodded. ‘All set,’ she said.

  The three women walked back into the hall, where two suitcases were sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Raoul came out of the salon to say goodbye.

  ‘We’ll join you as soon as we can,’ he said. ‘Sunday, Mon
day at the latest.’

  ‘Look after her,’ Marianne said, as Raoul hugged her.

  ‘I will.’

  Raoul shook hands with Suzanne, then went back into the salon to act as lookout at the window.

  ‘You’re clear on what to do?’ Suzanne said to Sandrine.

  ‘Lord, you two are as bad as each other,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will be careful, as I always am. I will go through the exact same procedures as I always do.’ She smiled. ‘And it will be fine, as it always is. Don’t worry.’

  ‘All clear,’ Raoul called from the salon.

  ‘All the copies of Libertat were collected by the couriers,’ Suzanne said, ‘so nothing to worry about there.’

  ‘Good.’

  Suzanne turned to Marianne. ‘I’ll see you on the platform at half past five. If for any reason I’m not there, you go on. I’ll catch you up.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you be there?’ Marianne said quickly. ‘I’m not going without you.’

  ‘Come on, don’t get rattled. It’s just the usual precautions, you know how it is. I will be there. But if there’s a problem, it will be better if I know you’re on your way. Safe. You see?’

  Marianne pulled herself together. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  Sandrine opened the door. Suzanne picked up her suitcase, then, without a backward glance, walked down the steps and away to the right, out of sight.

  A few minutes later, Marianne did the same, though headed in the opposite direction, away from the station.

  Sandrine stood listening to her sister’s footsteps echoing down the rue du Palais, blinking away the tears. Neither of them had said it, but both sisters knew it was possible they were saying goodbye to their childhood home for ever.

  ‘Just us now,’ she said, as Raoul came to stand beside her.

  ‘Just us,’ he said, putting his arms around her.

  Finally, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, Sandrine gave in. She broke down and cried. Raoul held her, stroking her hair and saying nothing.

  Chapter 114

  TARASCON

  ‘POUR ARRÊTER LES CRIMES DE LA GESTAPO ET MILICE,’ Baillard said, reading the headline on the tract lying on Pujol’s kitchen table. ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘The railway station,’ Pujol said with a smile. ‘The guard said there was a suitcase under the seat in the last carriage. Nobody claimed it, so he opened it up and found about fifty of these inside. He called the Milice, but of course they were all otherwise occupied keeping guard at Pierre Déjean’s funeral, so the perpetrator – whoever he was – was long gone.’

  ‘Of course,’ Baillard said. ‘What happened to the rest of them?’

  ‘As the guard explained to the milicien who came to collect the suitcase, there was an unfortunate gust of wind at about the moment he opened the lid, so strong he was unable to prevent some of the tracts from being blown out of the station and into the street.’

  A smile lit Baillard’s gaunt face. ‘Es vertat. It is true that the Tramontana can be particularly fierce at this time of year.’

  The two old men looked at one another. Pujol read the headline again.

  ‘Sure you didn’t write this yourself, Baillard?’ he chuckled. ‘The fact that it’s called Libertat rather than Libération or Liberté? And that final sentence – “the world belongs to the brave” – sounds like something you’d come out with.’ He gave a snort of amusement. ‘It’s my guess this is what you’ve been doing. Your story about being in a prison camp is all just a cover, isn’t it?’

  Baillard held up both hands in mock surrender. Pujol gave a bark of laughter, then sat down in the chair opposite, expelling air from his lungs as the cushion expelled dust.

  ‘It is a good piece of work,’ Baillard said. ‘Honourable.’

  Baillard wondered. In Coustaussa he had talked to Sandrine Vidal about how important it was to bear witness to the truth. Had he used the word libertat to her? If so, was it possible that she had taken the suggestion?

  ‘Honourable?’ Pujol said, picking up the newspaper. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I haven’t come across this one before.’ He shook his head. ‘These photographs, it must have taken a great deal of courage to get them.’

  ‘So you do not know who might be responsible?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Pujol. ‘There are so many, they come and go. Most of them get shut down in the end,’ he added, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘You know how it is.’

  Baillard nodded. There had been several well-publicised arrests by Gestapo of résistants working for the underground press. The men had all been executed, the women deported to Ravensbrück, a camp just north of Berlin.

  Pujol shambled to the cupboard, took out two glasses and a bottle of red wine, then sat back down at the table.

  ‘Have a little something, go on,’ he said. ‘Present from the mother of one of the lads up the hill, you know. Help keep your spirits up.’

  Baillard smiled properly this time. ‘Your answer to everything, Achille!’

  ‘Have you got a better suggestion?’

  As Baillard took the glass, there was a tap at the front door and the atmosphere shifted. Pujol gestured for him to go into the bedroom, out of sight. Baillard nodded and left, taking his glass with him.

  Pujol put his own down on the table and shambled into the corridor.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m on my way.’

  ‘It’s me, Inspector Pujol.’

  Pujol stopped and called back to Baillard. ‘It’s all right, it’s Geneviève Saint-Loup.’

  Baillard emerged from his hiding place and went back into the kitchen as Geneviève and Eloise came rushing down the corridor.

  ‘It is you! ’ said Geneviève with delight. ‘Eloise, I was right. It was Monsieur Baillard.’

  She rushed up to him, then stopped. Baillard saw her battling not to let her shock at his emaciated appearance show. Eloise had no such qualms.

  ‘You look terrible!’ she said.

  ‘Eloise!’ Geneviève said, elbowing her in the ribs.

  Baillard smiled. ‘Already I begin to improve at the sight of you all.’

  ‘Marieta will be so happy to see you, Monsieur Baillard,’ said Geneviève. ‘She always said you would come back.’

  Baillard sighed. ‘We have experienced many things over the years, she and I,’ he said quietly. ‘Death and loss. Yes, I believe she would have known.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ Eloise said, pointing at the iridescent bottle on the table.

  Baillard’s eyes narrowed. ‘How so?’

  ‘Our father had one just like it, didn’t he, Geneviève?’ She picked it up. ‘Do you know, in fact, I think it’s the same one. Look at the hole at the top.’

  ‘What happened to it, Madomaisèla?’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure, pawned probably, or sold. It was a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He was always in debt.’

  ‘Can you remember when you last saw it?’

  Eloise shook her head. ‘It was the first time – though not the last – that we had no money and everything was sold. I seem to remember he sold boxes of stuff to some German chap who was setting up a guest house near Montségur. Don’t think it lasted long.’

  Pujol’s eyes widened. ‘Could it be Rahn, Baillard?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Baillard said.

  ‘But if Rahn had it, surely he would have looked inside?’

  ‘Not if, as Madomaisèla Eloise says, it was in a box with many other objects.’

  Pujol frowned. ‘You think Rahn had it all shipped back to Germany, then found it just before he died and sent it to Antoine Déjean?’

  ‘I think that might very well be the case,’ Baillard said thoughtfully. ‘I do not suppose you remember when this happened?’

  Eloise shook her head. ‘Not precisely. I was little, no more than nine or ten, which makes it about fifteen years ago.’ She turned to her sister. ‘You were even
younger, so I don’t suppose you recall anything about it.’

  But Geneviève was staring at the newspaper. Baillard saw the look of surprise in her eyes, then alarm, and his earlier suspicions were confirmed. He put the bottle to one side.

  ‘The wind has done the work,’ he said innocently. ‘It seems a suitcase was left at the railway station and the contents were blown about.’

  ‘How unfortunate,’ said Eloise.

  Baillard looked at them both, then slowly a smile broke across his face.

  ‘I wonder, Madomaisèla Geneviève, do you know something about this publication, Libertat?’

  ‘It is difficult to say . . . ’ she replied, throwing a glance at her sister.

  Baillard’s smile grew even wider. ‘I do not think she would object to you telling me, Madomaisèla Geneviève,’ he said quietly. ‘But, of course, you must be guided by your conscience.’

  Pujol stared at Baillard, then at the two girls. ‘Do you have the first idea what he’s talking about?’

  ‘The thing is . . .’ Geneviève began to say.

  Baillard suddenly let out a bellow of laughter. It was so out of character, and so unexpected, that Pujol jumped in surprise.

  ‘What the devil’s got into you, Audric?’ he said irritably.

  ‘Monsieur Baillard knows anyway, I think,’ Eloise said, sitting down at the table.

  ‘Perhaps you could humour an old man, madomaisèla,’ he said. ‘You forget, I have been gone for some time.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur Baillard.’ Genevieve smiled. ‘Liesl took the photographs. I took the film and left it at the boîte aux lettres in Limoux on Sunday, for Raoul to collect and take to Carcassonne.’ She glanced at the images. ‘All went to plan, clearly.’

  ‘Suzanne’s in charge of the printing,’ Eloise said. ‘Marianne sees to the distribution, with the help of two brothers. I don’t know their names, but they’re local. Originally contacts of Raoul, I think.’

  Baillard nodded. ‘And this?’ he said, pointing to the small paragraph about the sabotage of the Berriac tunnel.