280
Nanette brought in the Cordon Bleu.
She glanced affectionately at Thomas and silently cut his portion into small pieces before leaving the room. Colonel Werthe smiled. "You've made a conquest there. Where was I? Ah, yes. That little show of ours. Well, after we had got our bogus file ready I went to Eicher and asked him whether his department had arrested a certain Pierre Hunebelle. I played the perfect innocent. Yes, he said at once, we've got him in Fresnes. Then I showed him my file with the initials gekados, meaning 'Secret Army Headquarters Case.' I dropped a lot of dark hints about the interest of Canaris, Himmler and so on, swore him to secrecy and finally let him read the file. After that it was quite simple for me to take over the custody of a spy so important to German interests as Hunebelle."
"But why, Colonel? What do you want of me?"
"The best Cordon Bleu I ever tasted! Well, seriously, Herr Lieven, we need you. We are faced with a problem which only a man like yourself can solve."
"I hate secret service work," said Thomas Lieven. He thought of Chantal, Bastian and all his other friends. His heart ached for them. "I hate and despise all the secret services in the world." -
Colonel Werthe said: "It's just half-past one. At four o'clock I have an appointment with Admiral Canaris in the Lutetia. He wants to talk to you. If you consent to work for us, our gekados file will get you out of the clutches of the Security Service. If you refuse, I can do nothing more for you. I shall have to hand you back to Eicher."
Thomas stared at him. Five seconds passed.
"Well?" demanded the colonel.
[3]
"Forward, roll!" yelled Sergeant-major Adolf Bieselang in the vast hair of the gymnasium. With a groan, Thomas Lieven somersaulted forward.
"Backward, roll!" yelled Sergeant-major Adolf Bieselang. With a groan, Thomas Lieven somersaulted backward. Eleven other men groaned with him. There were six Germans, a Norwegian, an Italian, a Ukrainian and two Indians.
The Indians kept their turbans on while they somersaulted. The custom did not admit of infringements.
Sergeant-major Bieselang wore the uniform of the German Air Force. He was forty-five years old, lean, sallow and al-
ways, apparently, on the point of bursting with fury. The mere sight of his enormous open mouth with its many lead-filled teeth struck instant terror into the soul. Sergeant-major Bieselang kept his mouth open almost permanently, what with yelling by day and snoring by night
A widower of two years' standing with an extraordinarily pretty marriageable daughter, Bieselang operated some sixty miles northwest of Berlin, near the village of Wittstock on the River Dosse.
His job was to train parachute troops, although, to his rage, not in uniform but in plainclothes, a set of extremely peculiar blokes with extremely peculiar assignments, both Germans and foreigners, a repulsive lot of typical bloody civilians.
"And forward ro-o-oll!"
Thomas Lieven, alias Jean Leblanc, alias Pierre Hunebelle, somersaulted head first.
The date was February 3, 1943.
It was cold. The sky over the Marches of Brandenburg looked like a gray cloth. The roar of low-flying practice aircraft never ceased.
Thomas Lieven, pacifist and gourmet, who loved women and hated war, the man who detested secret services, had made up his mind to work for a secret service once again. He had driven with Colonel Werthe to the Hotel Lutetia in Paris, where he had met Admiral Canaris, the mysterious chief of German Intelligence.
Thomas Lieven knew that if he were handed back to the Gestapo he would be dead in a month. Traces of blood had already appeared in his urine.
Thomas Lieven considered the most horrible of lives to be preferable to the most honorable of deaths. All the same, he had not denied his principles even in the presence of the white-haired Admiral. "Hen* Canaris, I will work for you because I have no choice. But I warn you that I will neither kill, threaten, terrorize, torment nor kidnap anybody. If that is the sort of work you have in mind for me I would rather go back to the Avenue Foch."
The admiral shook his head gravely. "Herr Lieven, the mission I would like you to take up is intended to prevent bloodshed and save human lives, so far as it remains within our power to achieve that aim." He raised his voice. "Both German and French lives. Is that what you would like to do?"
"I would always like to save human lives, irrespective of nationality or religion."
"We have to try to subdue dangerous groups of French partisans. One of our people has reported that a newly organized and strong resistance unit is attempting to get in touch with London. As is well known, the British War Office supports the French resistance movement and directs many of its groups. The unit I have mentioned needs another radio set and a decoding book. I wish you to deliver both articles, Herr Lieven."
"I see," said Thomas.
"You speak fluent English and French. You have lived for years in England You would be dropped with the transmitter over partisan territory, posing as a British officer. It would be a special type of transmitter."
"I see," said Thomas for the second time.
"A British aircraft will bring you to the locality. We have a few captured RAF planes which we use in these cases. Of course we shall have to give you some parachute training first."
"I see," said Thomas for the third time.
[4]
Thomas knew that the Germans had occupied Marseilles. He wondered what had happened to Chantal. Was she still alive? Had she been deported, arrested or perhaps tortured like himself?
He lay sleepless when he woke from terrifying dreams about her. In the hideous dormitory of the barracks six men snored and groaned. Chantal, he thought... we were just going to Switzerland to live in peace ... in peace.
Weeks ago he had tried to get letters through to her. In Paris, at the Hotel Lutetia, Colonel Werthe had promised to see to it. Thomas had given another letter to an interpreter he had met at the language school, who was going to Marseilles. But Thomas's own address had been perpetually changing for the last few weeks. There wasn't much chance of a letter from Chantal reaching him. Meanwhile the ferocious sergeant-major, Bieselang, drove his twelve pupils pitilessly on. After practice indoors they went out to the frozen fields, where the ground was as hard as iron. After buckling on their loose parachutes they had to stand in the airstream created by an aero-engine mounted on a pedestal. The parachute flew open in the blast and carried the helpless trainee off across country. He had to learn how to swing the parachute around and throw himself on top of it to expel the air.
Cuts and scratches, bruised knees and sprained wrists abounded. But Bieselang kept his twelve novices hard at it from six in the morning till six in the evening. The next stage involved jumping from a considerable height through a structure resembling the trap door of a Ju 52 onto a blanket held by four other pupils.
"Straight knees, you scum! Straight knees!" bawled the sergeant-major.
If the knees weren't kept straight you fell on your face or strained every muscle in your body. Bieselang taught his pupils everything they had to know. The trouble was that his methods were too brutal.
The night before their first real jump he ordered them all to make their wills and leave these documents behind in sealed envelopes. All their property also had to be packed up before they went to bed. "So that we can send the stuff away to your families if you get it tomorrow morning!"
Bieselang considered that he was laying a psychological trap for them by this explanation. He wanted to see which of his squad would get the wind up. They all did, except one. Bieselang bellowed at him: "Where's your will, Number Seven?"
Thomas answered, meek as a lamb: "I don't need one. A man who has had the benefit of your training, sergeant-major, can easily survive any jump!"
Next day however Bieselang at last exceeded his instructions. About nine o'clock in the morning they all climbed into an obsolete old rattletrap of a Ju 52 and went up to a height of about five hundred feet The twelve trainees,
their ripcords loose, stood one behind the other in the rear of the aircraft The pilot's buzzer sounded.
"Get ready to jump!" roared Bieselang, who was standing to leeward of the open trap door. All the apprentices were now wearing steel helmets, in the case of the two Indians underneath their turbans. All were* grasping heavy tommy-guns.
Number One, the Italian, stepped forward. Bieselang struck him on the shoulder. The man spread his arms wide and sprang into the void, parallel with the left-hand wing of the aircraft. His ripcoard, which was fastened to a steel hook, went taut and tore open his parachute. He immediately dropped away downward behind the aircraft.
Number Two and Number Three followed. Thomas noticed a dryness of his lips and wondered whether he would faint during the drop or kill himself. Oddly enough he suddenly
longed inordinately for a mouthful of goose liver. How I wish I could have stayed with Chantal, he thought. We were so happy together ...
Number Six, the Ukrainian, unexpectedly shrank away from Bieselang, bumping into Thomas and screaming in sudden panic: "No—no—no—"
Typical nervous breakdown, thought Thomas mechanically. Induced by fear. Perfectly intelligible. It was laid down in the training regulations that no one must be compelled to jump. If anyone refused to jump on two successive flights, he was to be dismissed.
Sergeant-major Adolf Bieselang, however, couldn't have cared less about printed instructions. He roared: "You skunk! You cowardly son of a bitch, get on with it, will you?" He seized the shaking recruit, pulled him to the trap and delivered a mighty kick against his backside. With a shriek the wretched man went spinning into the void.
Before Thomas could recover from his indignation at this scene he found himself being jerked forward. The sergeant-major's boot crashed against his own hindquarters and he too dropped down, down, down through the empty air.
[51
Thomas survived the first parachute jump of his life without serious injury.
As he was returning to the barracks on the evening of February 27, he passed a high barbed-wire fence which separated the secret agents' enclosure from that of the air force trainees. A paratrooper on the other side of the barrier whistled to him. "Hey, hey!"
"What's the matter?"
"You look like a fellow a man called Bastian was describing to me."
In a second Thomas, who had been dog-tired, was wide awake. "Bastian?"
"Is your name Pierre Hunebelle?"
"Yes, that's me ... do you know—did you hear anything about a certain Chantal Tessier?"
"Tessier? No. I only know this man called Bastian Fabre. Gave me three of those gold coins of theirs to take you this letter . . . here, I must be off now . . . sergeant-major's coming . . ."
Thomas Lieven found an envelope in his hand. He sat
down on a milestone. The light was fading and the air felt cold. But he didn't notice it. He tore open the envelope, pulled out the enclosure and began to read, with his heart thumping like a sledge hammer.
Marseilles. 5.2.43.
Dear old Pierre,
I don't know how to begin this letter. You may be kicking up the daisies as I write.
These last weeks I've been looking about and bumped into a guy who's got a pip on each shoulder. Works for both the resistance and the Germans. He'd heard from Paris what happened to you. If I ever meet one of those cursed Security swine I'll strangle him with my own hands. Then you went to another mob, so this bloke said. How the hell did you manage it? Now, apparently, you're being trained as a paratrooper somewhere near Berlin. Well, if that isn't enough to make a man sick! My old pal Pierre a German paratrooper! I could laugh if I didn't want to cry over it.
I got to know a German soldier in Montpellier, a decent sort. But I made sure by lining his pocket for him. He's off to Berlin today so I gave him this letter.
Chantal got two letters from you. But we had no one we could trust to take an answer.
I'm fond of you, boy. You know that. So it's specially hard for me to write what's been happening here. On the 24th January German Headquarters ordered the Old Port to be cleared.
That day they arrested about 6000 people in our quarter. You know many of them. They also closed over 1000 bars and knocking-shops. Regular set-tos there were with some of the girls. You never saw anything like it.
We were only given four hours to clear out before the demolition squads moved in. Chantal, Hoofy and I hung on to the last minute. She was raving mad to get her hands on Baldy, the piss-begotten sod who turned you in to the Gestapo.
Well, so that evening we waited for him in the entry to a house in the rue Mazenod, opposite his hideout. We knew he was lying low in the cellar there. Chantal said he was bound to leave when they started dynamiting. So
we waited there for hours. Boy, was that an evening! Smoke and dust everywhere. One house after another going up. Men yelling, women shrieking, children howling...
[6]
Smoke, dust explosions, yells, shrieks and howls ...
When it grew dark the sinister red glare of the burning buildings lit up the scene. Chantal stood motionless in a dim doorway. She wore tight-fitting trousers and a leather jacket, a red scarf over her dark hair. Under the jacket she gripped a tommy-gun. Her white, feline features were rigidly set.
Another house went up. Bricks and mortar rained down. Screams, oaths in German, shouts and the trampling of field boots resounded.
"For Christ's sake, Chantal, let's get going," Bastian urged. *The Germans will be here at any moment. If they see we're armed—"
Chantal shook her head sullenly. "You shove off. I'm staying here." Her voice sounded hoarse. She coughed. "I know Baldy's over there in the cellar. He's bound to come out, the swine. And I'm going to rub him out if it's the last thing I do."
A shrill outburst of feminine shrieks rang out. Some way up the street soldiers were driving a mob of women toward them, some dressed only in kimonos or peignoirs. They were hitting out right and left, biting, kicking and scratching at their escorts.
"Yvonne's gang," said Hoofy, as the tumultuous group, yelling obscene curses in both male and female voices, drew level with the doorway.
Bastian suddenly roared: "There he is!"
Dantes Villeforte and three other men were emerging from the house opposite. Baldy was wearing a short fur jacket, his bodyguard thick pullovers. The butts of revolvers protruded from the pockets of their trousers.
Bastian leveled his own pistol. But Chantal struck the barrel down, shouting: "No! You'll hit that girl!" The women were still tussling with the German soldiers in front of the entry.
After that things happened fast.
Dantes Villeforte, bending low, made a dash for one of the soldiers, a non-commissioned officer. The Corsican took care,
as he went, to keep either a soldier or one of the women between himself and Chantal.
He showed the Security man a pass signed by a certain Sturmbannfiihrer Eicher of the Paris Gestapo. Talking fast, Villeforte pointed to the doorway where Chantal, Bastian and Hoofy were standing.
Chantal instantly leveled her tommy-gun, but hesitated for a moment, as two or three women were still standing between her and the Corsican.
That hesitation cost Chantal her life. With a fiendish grin Villeforte, ducking behind one of the girls, aimed his own gun and fired a long burst.
Without uttering a sound Chantal staggered and dropped to the littered pavement. A stream of blood dyed the leather jacket red. She lay motionless. The life drained out of her splendid eyes.
"Come on!" yelled Hoofy. "Through the courtyard! Over the wall!"
Bastian knew that every second counted now. He swung around, firing at Villeforte. He saw the Corsican reel, clutching at his left arm and squealing like a stuck pig.
Then Bastian and Hoofy ran for their lives. They knew every inch of the Old Quarter, every short cut. Behind the yard wall there was a grating giving access to a sewage pipe. By climbing down into the drainage system they could get c
lear away from the quarter.
m
Bastian's letter continued: "We managed to escape through the old sewer."
Thomas Lieven let the letter fall. He stared away into the violet shadows of the gathering dusk and wiped the tears out of his eyes. *
Then he read on.
I went to ground in Montpellier. If you're ever that way, ask for me at Mile. Duval's, No. 12 Boulevard Napoleon, that's where I hang out now.
Pierre, old pal, our dear Chantal is dead. I know of course, how thick you two were. She told me once that you might have married her. You know that, as your friend, I'm as hard hit by this as you. Life is a filthy business. I wonder if we shall ever see each other again
and if so when and where. All the best, old pal. The thing makes me sick. Can't write more.
Bastian.
It was quite dark now. Thomas Lieven sat on the milestone. It was cold. But Thomas did not feel the cold. The tears were running down his cheeks.
Dead. Chantal was dead. Suddenly he buried his head in his hands and groaned aloud. God, how he longed for her! It was terrible to think of her wild moods, her laughter and her love.
He did not hear the voices calling him from the barracks, where he had been missed. He sat in the cold, thinking of his lost love and weeping.
[8]
On April 4, 1943, shortly after midnight, a British aircraft of the Blenheim type flew in at a height of 750 feet over a lonely, wooded stretch of country between Limoges and Clermont-Ferrand. After describing a wide arc the aircraft flew in a second itme. Two fires blazed up on the ground below, followed by three red lights and finally the white flash of an electric torch, the agreed signal.
Two Luftwaffe pilots and a Luftwaffe wireless operator sat in the machine, which bore the blue, white and red circles of the Royal Air Force. Behind the uniformed men stood another in brown overalls of English manufacture, with a parachute, also made in England, buckled to his belt.
He possessed expertly forged British papers in the name of Robert Almond Everett, together with a captain's military pass. In addition to his walrus mustache and long, thick side whiskers he had British cigarettes, British rations and British medical supplies with him.
The Monte Cristo Cover-Up Page 31