‘In the Zone Interdite we were being hunted, yes – in so far as every intruder was. But after that long night’s march we were out of it – in open country south of Ceret, right? It was a longish haul. There’d been an easier, shorter way the passeurs used until then, but the Boches had got on to that right away. That’s one thing, the other is that normally we’d have started from Perpignan – over the River Tech and through the Zone Interdite south-westward. Long, long way, but none of that railway business. Would have brought us to the same point south of Ceret, from where in fact we did make your beeline for the frontier – crossed it in daylight and set course for Figueras. I was actually the first escaper Eladio took that way. Once in Spain the problem was the Gardia Civil and their bloody concentration camp. I forget what it was called, but escapees could disappear into it for years. Anyway, Eladio knew his onions, and as I must have told you I ended up in Barcelona, eventually Gibraltar.’
‘Ah. That’s another thing I was going to mention – I have a note that your friend Marilyn said something about Portugal, and I’d taken that to mean a ship or flight from Lisbon.’
‘Marilyn was slightly up the pole on this one, wasn’t she. Would you like fresh coffee?’
‘No – really—’
‘Not doing much with that croissant, either.’
‘Well—’
‘Hard day’s night, eh? Tell you about Ben now, may I?’
‘Yes. Please.’
‘Brisbane 1957, then. Ben in the timber business, his father’s deputy. Bare facts only now, because when this crowd thins a bit, or Brussaud makes a move—’
‘Madame Viernet hasn’t got anywhere near him yet.’
‘Our president’s with him, controlling it or trying to. So many of them want to be seen and if possible photographed with him. And BCRA naturally have priority, it’s their show, so—’
‘Isn’t she a BCRA widow?’
‘No. Daughter. She’s a lot younger than we are.’ A smile. ‘Believe it or not. Her father survived Buchenvald, poor devil. I met her at the last reunion – the one Brussaud did not attend – although we’d been in touch before that. But now listen. Brisbane – Middle Harbour Yacht Club. Ben and I were lunching there – we did quite often… Oh, d’you remember at one time he was set on becoming a painter? Living before the war in Paris, washing dishes in hotels while – well, chasing girls as much as painting pictures – actually sold one canvas in all that time, to a pie-eyed Yank on a cross-Channel steamer. Anyway he’d persevered with it, off and on – even when he was at sea in his beloved motor gunboats – never got anywhere much with it, but then about the time we got married he found he had a real talent for just sketching – you know, pencil sketches?’
‘Did he sell them?’
‘Didn’t try to, that I knew of. More of a parlour trick, dash one off and surprise a friend with it. Anyway – MHYC, the two of us on our own, place crowded, and suddenly old genius is at it again – on the back of a menu, pencil flying around, then it’s stopped and he’s telling me, “Rosie, don’t look round, don’t look anywhere except at me. Important you don’t, OK?”
‘I nod, he swivels the thing around flat on the table and pushes it at me, asks me does it ring any bells.’
‘Does it?’
‘My head’s spinning and I feel a bit sick. I’m looking at what’s unquestionably the face of a man I saw shot dead twenty-five years earlier. In the same visual memory I’m seeing Jake riddled, crumpling – and Ben’s seeing from my expression something’s – amiss. Haywire. I’m managing to keep my eyes on his face all right because in an odd way I dread seeing the man himself – if he’s there, could be – and Ben seeing I’m in a state, telling me quietly, “He’s not keen to have you see him, either. Near had a fit when he spotted you. Foreigner, I guess – funny way of handling his knife and fork.”
‘I whispered to him, “Ben, I saw this guy shot. Frenchman, name of Marc Voreux.”’
I cut in with ‘Rosie, this story has gone weird!’
‘How about weirder still – name also André Brussaud?’
Pause. Noise in the brasserie unabated, but between us a silence while my brain coped with it. Finally I tried her with ‘So your hero there – for starters, the man you saw shot wasn’t killed.’
Small shrug. ‘Might say the name just went out of circulation. Jake’s two slugs had knocked him flat, I’d had no doubt it was a dead man fading. And neither Gérard nor Andrés said anything to suggest otherwise, one simply took it for granted. I was delighted he was dead but it wasn’t him I was mostly thinking about.’
‘No. Of course. Jake… But – Voreux’s Boche chums must have carted him off, and in due course – some hospital got him back on his feet?’
‘And he’d then got away from them. If they were holding him, that is. Supposed to have been working for them, maybe, ratted on them, resurfaced as aide to Jean Moulin and then Resistance leader/hero in his own right. Going after Gestapo was his speciality, gunning them down as often as not in broad daylight, well-planned operations but with a high degree of personal exposure. That’s the legend anyway what makes him so famous. Back to Ben, though – Brussaud and another Frenchman had come up to Brisbane from Sydney in a Nicholson 65 owned by some Trade Department official. They were part of a mission from the Quai d’Orsay promoting a big trade deal – armaments or aircraft, might have been. There was a lot of PR angle on it, this famous war hero now political big cheese – and Ben and I stirring things in Canberra through contacts of my well-connected father-in-law – me knowing said war hero to have been a traitor who’d tried to sell me to the Gestapo, had Jake killed – oh, and Déclan—’
‘You’re saying Déclan was—’
‘Poor Alain got himself caught – arrested, and – usual thing. He’d have had a good chance of making it over the Pyrenees if he’d just run for it, but he tried to take his wife with him, went back for her. No reason to think she shopped him – Marc must have done that.’ A hand flipping out, pointing across the room – ‘I mean that thing. Alain would have just walked into it. They – La Geste – had him in Paris, Rue des Saussaies, we got to know of it later through a woman agent who was there at the time and actually survived.’
‘As you did, on a later occasion.’
She grimaced. ‘Come to think of it, so I did. But – poor old Déclan. He was such a good fellow. Terrific, actually. Hardball really cost us, didn’t it… Look – must finish this – from my own point of view it’s really what I got you here for. Brussaud had seen me in the club, and he knew I’d seen him. Ben’s father had these connections, and within days we were badgering X, Y and Z – caused a lot of trouble, weren’t popular – and the French withdrew him, pronto – maybe at his own request. Likely would have been. So it was all out of Canberra’s hair – you’d think might have proved something to them, but they still as good as told us to get lost. And Brussaud really wanted me lost – dead – and he or his employers put out a contract on me – left that behind him, you might say. Three times – well, the one I had no doubt at all was an attempted hit, I was leaving my hairdresser’s in Brisbane and a car damn near ran me down, I knew it had been deliberate, but – no proof, police didn’t believe me. Either that time or the others. Even Ben began to wonder – commiserating looks and – what I’d been through in my SOE deployments, then the shock of seeing that bastard bringing it all back… And not long after, they got him. I mean Ben. As I told you, didn’t I. Early ’58. A business trip he had to make every couple of months – I’d always gone with him, we had friends nearby we’d stay with – but I had a bad go of flu, last-minute decision he’d go on his own – well, vicinity of Mount Lindesay, that’s not far south of Brisbane, a heavy truck knocked him off the road, sent his Chev bouncing down the hillside – burst into flame. It was my side, front passenger seat, the truck had hit. Not being all that tall in the saddle, they wouldn’t have expected to see much of me – especially if I’d nodded off, as I might have – long trip an
d oven-hot. There was a witness but she was a moron – no identification, police got nowhere.’
Movement of the hands. ‘Just goodbye Ben.’
‘Dreadful, Rosie.’
‘Bad enough.’ A nod. ‘As bad as it could have been, actually.’
She’d part-risen from her chair to get a sight of the Viernet woman, who was at a table with some other people now; she saw Rosie and raised her hands in a despairing motion. Obviously they had something going together. Mutual interest in getting to close quarters with that creature, I supposed. But with what in mind… She’d turned back to me: ‘Brussaud had left the French government’s service by the time I moved here from Australia. He wasn’t the reason I made the move – long before that I’d had a Brisbane lawyer consult people in Paris on what if anything might be done – like suing for criminal damage, or whatever, but – see, for Ben’s murder, how – no shred of evidence there in Aussie even – and for 1942–43 there was damn-all either. No Marc Voreux on any record or in any memory, let alone linked to the famous Brussaud. He’d simply appeared on the scene out of the Resistance milieu in ’43, no one knew anything of his origins. Parisian was all, mightn’t have had a childhood. And having quit the Foreign Service he’d settled in Réunion. BCRA records were as sparse as SOE’s – sparser, even – and of course there were no survivors. Hell – Jake, Déclan… I mean, who else, where else?’
‘Germany?’
‘Tried there. Not much of a try, but…’ Shake of the head. ‘Tried SIS, of course. The Hardball team had got von Schleben out, I knew that, but believe it or not they didn’t, they’d never heard of him. As for SOE, you must know from your own researches that most of Section F’s records were shredded or burnt when they shut us down at the end of it.’
‘Yes. Coming back to you and Ben, though – presumably by the time you moved to Paris they’d given up trying to kill you?’
She nodded. ‘Two things, as I see it. No – three. One, I’d become harmless. Efforts getting absolutely nowhere told me that. Two, if they’d had another shot at me and bungled it, light might have been thrown on Ben’s murder. And three—’
I’d put a hand on one of hers: ‘Looks like they’re moving, Rosie.’
‘Well, at long last…’
General movement – that nucleus in the centre shifting, breaking up. And the Viernet woman on her feet, looking this way. Rosie slid her chair back. ‘Stay with me, will you?’
‘Of course. But what are we—’
A hand lightly on my arm: ‘Could be I’m not entirely harmless.’ She’d said that as I came round to her side of the table – and caught my first sight of André Brussaud. Asking her, ‘That him with the yellow face?’
‘And the other one’s our conference president, Armand Ruillaud.’
‘The heavyweight.’
‘Not exactly slim-line, is he. But my God, Brussaud has not weathered well!’
He certainly had not. Parchment-yellow, scrawny, stooped, leaning left-handed on a stick; thin, slack lips smirking at whatever Ruillaud was saying. Lizard-like – but by his manner enjoying the guest-of-honour role, limping alongside the burly president with his silver chain and medallion of some kind dangling on his rather prominent poitrine. They were heading for the glass door leading to the hotel foyer, so we were well placed to intercept them – Rosie I guessed having had that intention all along: and Amélie Viernet, I saw, closing up fast from somewhere on our port quarter.
Rosie had raised a hand to Ruillaud, who’d seen it, focused on her cautiously but now smiled, touched Brussaud’s arm: Brussaud had also noticed her, and instantly lost his smirk. Ruillaud said with a hand out towards her, ‘Madame Quarry, Brussaud, a very welcome guest-delegate from SOE. She has generously agreed to follow your address with a brief one of her own, on behalf of our former British colleagues. Still so minded I hope, madame?’
‘With your permission.’ Smiling at Brussaud’s frozen, mask-like stare. ‘A tribute from those of us who knew the incomparable André Brussaud in his heyday.’ She added – to him, with no smile, ‘Those of us who survived it, that is.’
‘You didn’t think to mention this, Ruillaud?’
‘Oh, a surprise for you, I thought – as well as a pleasure for the rest of us. I mean to say, a tribute from our Britannic allies?’
‘And who’s this?’
Asking who Amélie was. I was rather in the background – not a member of the club, so to speak. Rosie telling Ruillaud, ‘Madame Viernet is the daughter of one of your most distinguished BCRA field agents – the late Clément Fonquéreuil, author and historian.’
‘Clement Fonquéreuil, no less?’ Ruillaud was visibly impressed. ‘We’re honoured indeed, madame! Brussaud, d’you realise—’
‘Heard of him, but—’
Amélie said, ‘You met him on a December night in 1942 on Canet-Plage near Perpignan and drove him in your van to Narbonne. His field name at that time was Gérone.’
‘Forty-two.’ Dismissive gesture. ‘I’ve no recollection of any—’
‘My father later survived the extermination camp at Buchenwald.’
Ruillaud was wide-eyed: ‘Why, I do remember there was a biographical note in his famous Charlemagne et les Franks to the effect that he had done so. What a man he was. But I’m ashamed, not to have realised—’
Rosie put in, ‘The thing is, monsieur, Madame Viernet would like your approval of her adding a few words to my own address. The fact is, I was on Canet-Plage myself that night, and I think your delegates might find the conjoined memories intriguing – if we keep it short and to the point?’
‘I’m sure they’d be fascinated – irrespective of how long or short.’ Pausing, looking at Brussaud, who wasn’t showing much enthusiasm. Adding then diplomatically, ‘But perhaps a prior discussion between the three of you – to avoid possible conflicts of memory? You could allow yourselves say half an hour, before we make our way to St-Sernin’s?’
For the Memorial Mass, which was scheduled for ten forty-five. Brussaud checked the time: ‘If that’s really necessary—’
‘I think it’s a first-class idea.’ Rosie said. ‘I’d be mortified to include anything that conflicted with your own recollections.’
‘Excellent.’ Ruillaud beamed. ‘The only thing is, in here you’d be constantly interrupted.’ Glancing round at delegates still waiting for a chance to horn in. ‘And I have the answer to that – there’s a small salon privé adjacent to the manager’s office, which—’
‘Who’s this?’
Brussaud was looking suspiciously at me now. Rosie began – to Ruillaud more than to him – ‘My private guest, and long-time companion—’
‘I’m a writer.’ Shaking hands with Ruillaud. ‘I’ve written four books about her various deployments, and now there’s to be a fifth.’ Brussaud had started towards the glass door, Ruillaud calling after him, ‘I’ll show you where it is, then leave you to it.’ Standing back for Rosie, Amélie and I to precede him; people were coming through from the foyer and Brussaud was having to wait, to let them through. They weren’t delegates, didn’t give him a second glance.
* * *
I’d asked her in a whisper, ‘What are we up to, Rosie?’ and she’d whispered back, ‘Method in one’s madness, I hope. I think we’ve got him. When he sees it, though, God knows—’ Looking round at Amélie, who’d nudged her, murmured, ‘Shush’: then we were in this rather smart little salon that the hotel had placed at Ruillaud’s disposal – off-white, with a soft-blue carpet, and comfortable chairs around an oblong glass table. Brussaud placed himself at the table’s head, surprisingly dropped his stick on it, then took some time lighting himself a black cheroot that he’d no doubt have brought with him from Réunion.
Flicking the spent match away. ‘So what’s the meaning of this charade?’
‘Meaning…’ Rosie shrugged, with a smile across the table at Amélie. ‘Meaning, Marc—’
‘My name is not Marc, it’s André Brussaud.’
‘I don’t believe I ever heard of him.’ Staring at her for a moment: cheroot-smoke leaking from the loose lips. Eyes behind the thick-lensed, wire-framed glasses shifting to Amélie then. ‘You, I certainly never heard of.’
‘How about my father, whom you delivered to the Abwehr?’
‘You’re clearly deranged. Both of you. Oh – is it blackmail?’ A glance at me: ‘Writer, you said?’
‘This’ll be the fifth book in what we’re calling the Rosie Saga. Rosie being Madame Quarry’s given name. You as Marc Voreux knew her by her SOE field name Suzette Treniard, in a réseau they called “Countryman”. You allowed yourself to be turned by the Gestapo.’
Amélie corrected me: ‘By the Abwehr, to be precise.’ She told Brussaud, ‘My father left a memoir – in typescript, not for publication, just for the family. I’ve had some copies made. He describes how you were supposed to have driven him and two others to some safe-house beyond Narbonne but left him and one of the others in the town – at his request, he had old friends there – took the third to the safe-house where Abwehr were expecting you to deliver all three – so they were put to the trouble of arresting them next morning at the station. You were there to identify them. I should explain, he wrote this memoir only for private circulation because he felt it would hardly fit in with the main body of his work. His three-volume History of the Hundred Years’ War, for instance. But as I say I’ve had copies made – following the decease of my husband, whose instincts were strongly against our becoming involved in such controversy – in any controversy, in fact. But I’ve little doubt that today it would attract a great deal of interest. And incidentally I have a copy with me, with passages marked for reading to them at this banquet.’
She looked from Brussaud to me. Having effectively shattered him – left him one might say foundering. I was surprised how quickly – instantly… I suppose the shock – from certainty that there could be no sustainable evidence against him, to – well, effectively instant devastation as it were in one single broadside… Telling me, ‘Gestapo came into it after that. Although apparently they’d been in it anyway, in the background somehow.’
Staying Alive Page 33