After only a few quiet weeks in the country, word came that the “phony” war, the “drôle de guerre,” had finally turned real. Rumor fell upon rumor, conflicting stories filled the newspapers, but one thing was certain—the discredited Third Republic would soon fall to the German invasion. The government leaders in Paris closed up shop and fled. The first haggard refugees straggled into Gascony, starving and exhausted, telling of hundreds of thousands if not millions of others who had abandoned northern France as the armor of the Third Reich overran their homeland. The mass exodus of civilians had eventually dispersed when confronted by limited food and fuel and local resentment. Few country folk were willing to share their own supplies and shelter the strangers.
Most fugitives returned to the cities, villages and farms they had abandoned in fear. The national government had moved first to Tours, and then the Germans forced it farther southwest to Bordeaux before an armistice finally brought the war to a standstill. Millions of French soldiers disappeared into Boche prison camps. The spa town of Vichy became the new, centrally-located French capital. Although France officially maintained self-rule, she found herself divided into occupied and “free” zones, her conquerors would dictate the terms of continued existence, and French fascists and reactionaries hastened to assume a guiding role in implementing the new order.
Erika and René found themselves in the Occupied Zone. By chance, their last move had placed them within the more tightly-controlled coastal region along the “Atlantic Wall.” Their forged papers gave them residency in the back yard of a Waffen-SS battalion stationed outside Bayonne near the seaside resort of Biarritz. Here at last they saw opportunities to actively fight the Nazi tyranny with quiet acts of sabotage. Local partisans gathered to learn how a bit of sand or a handful of metal shavings in the gearbox of a vehicle could hamper the Boche occupation, how communication lines could easily be disrupted with a snip of shears, and how organized work slowdowns and “mistakes” in deliveries and engineering could cost the enemy valuable time, energy and resources. René made contacts dockside, finding camaraderie with those accustomed to the river and the sea and anxious to confound the occupying forces.
But the personal risks increased daily as ever more locals learned of René and Erika’s activities, and soon they got wind of strangers frequenting local bars and inns seeking a broad-shouldered German with a limp and a long-legged blonde with a young son named Leo. They found themselves backed into the geographic corner of France and their pursuer unrelenting and ruthless, and they knew their days of freedom might be numbered.
CHAPTER SIX
Loire Valley, Occupied France
11 August 1941
The flight had been long and cold, but now young Devon Whitaker dropped the woolen blanket from his shoulders as he approached the “joe hole.” Strong crosswinds and turbulence had made the passage even rockier. The constant thrum of the Bristol Mercury engine created a sympathetic vibration in his head, so he barely heard the flight sergeant shout “ten minutes out.” The enlisted man tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the small light staring from the forward cabin wall. After hours of red it had finally turned to yellow. Devon checked the straps of his parachute once again. He watched the man trip the hold-downs at the hatch and shuddered in anticipation despite himself.
Devon’s assignment for MI6 had been clear, and also clearly difficult. Once on the ground he was to hide his gear and stow the wireless in a well-noted spot until he or another operative could put it to good use. He would contact an established and well-trusted way station for escaping British pilots and POWs, a farmhouse near Tours. From there he would follow the underground railway south, ostensibly trying to escape the Occupied Zone and seek further help in nominally neutral Spain on his way to Gibraltar or Lisbon.
In reality, his task was much more challenging and dangerous. MI6 had recently learned that several fugitives had gone missing along this escape route. Somewhere lurked a double-crossing partisan or a Gestapo plant, waiting to trap the unwary fugitive and surrender him to the SS. The last agent British intelligence had put in the field to unmask the traitor had also disappeared. So Devon was here to give it a second go, to play the hapless refugee, seeking to draw forth the treachery and root out its source.
He thought of Trish, and wished himself luck and speedy success.
The Westland Lysander banked sharply to circle over the drop zone. The engine throttled back and silence reigned as the plane entered a glide, and the flight sergeant moved the hatch cover aside. The black abyss beckoned with a howling wind. Then the damned light was green and it was time to go and go quickly. He dangled his feet at the edge, said a quick prayer, and let himself drop into the prop wash. The static line did its trick and he felt the jerk and the chute blossomed above him, an exhilarating carnival ride.
He pulled down on the lift webs and the chute steadied, the plane was gone, and the earth approached in the darkness below. He spotted three flashes from a torch and knew his reception was waiting. In the distance, unexpected anti-aircraft fire pitted the sky and searchlights pierced the heavens, but he was happy for any diversion to draw attention from his small plane and its descending cargo.
As his booted feet raced toward the ground he felt a sudden gust drag him off course and a large farm machine rose toward him, spotted too late to veer aside. The impact slammed him into something unforgiving and doubled him over, deflating his lungs and hurting like hell before he tumbled several meters to the ground. For a few moments he lay unmoving beside a threshing machine of some sort. Once he found his breath, a quick survey found all limbs intact, his forehead bleeding profusely, and an aching certainty that he had broken—or at the very least bruised—several ribs.
Where the hell’s my guide? The flashlight signal had been clear enough. The man had to be around somewhere. Devon’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, the sky glowing faintly brighter than the deep shadows around him. He knew time was of the essence. He had to move out quickly to avoid capture, since his drop plane may have been spotted.
With effort and some reluctance, Devon pulled himself upright, and a stabbing pain jolted through his chest. He drew only the shallowest of breaths. He cautiously unzipped the camouflage jumpsuit and removed his crash helmet, and tore a strip of shirttail to wrap his bleeding forehead. Every move cost excruciating pain, but he gradually paid it less mind. Shock settling in, he reasoned—all the better. As practiced many times, he gathered the silk of the chute and tied it off with the cords, then peered toward a distant hedge row. He crouched below the line of the crop and scanned the dark field. Nothing moved. He waited long minutes, knowing someone might be observing him. Finally, painful step by step, he crossed the field in a low crouch, unwilling to show his silhouette to the sky, tediously hauling the bundled chute and jump clothing and the small suitcase with the wireless.
Devon nearly missed the body. It lay face down in the irrigation ditch just meters from his feet. With effort he turned the man over to reveal a dark slash against the white of the throat. Half-buried in the mud of the trench glowed an Ever Ready. He turned off the flashlight. He had no choice but to continue.
Long minutes passed before he reached a small wood near a country road. Alert for any movement around him, he used the collapsible shovel to bury the transmitter. The excruciating task demanded a quarter hour and left him drenched in sweat, but now he felt ready to move on at last. Someone had betrayed his mission before it ever began. Someone was waiting out there for him.
I should never have stolen your heart, Trish, nor you mine.
Devon knew to hurry. Once on the road he checked the markings on a kilometer stone, a benchmark to the hidden wireless. He cautiously followed the long row of evenly-spaced trees pointing south. His worker’s garb was caked with mud. His chest ached, and every breath drew stabbing pain. The first priority was finding a local willing to help. Priority two, and not necessarily in that order, was to survive long enough to complete his mission.
A twig snapped behind him. He had been moving attuned to his surroundings, so the crack shattered the still of the night, and he gripped the pistol tucked at his waist. With the rush of the assault came a guttural oath growled in the heat of rage: “Espèce de salaud!”
Devon knew to expect the butcher’s knife plunging around his neck, and his adrenaline surged as he reacted as trained. The dead partisan’s entry wound had been at the left carotid, so Devon knew the assault would come from behind with a weapon in the attacker’s right hand. The agent ducked to his left while seizing the man’s wrist and used the attacker’s momentum to propel the assailant into the ditch beneath the tree line. Devon cringed in pain and reached again for his pistol, but the handgun had disappeared during the attack. Instead he dropped atop the downed man’s chest, pinning his knife hand to the ground. The stench of the man told him this was no trained assassin, but rather an unwashed peasant, insane and murderous, and inept in the use of weapons.
“Who the hell are you?” Devon whispered through gritted teeth.
“Who the fuck cares, connard?”
A lifetime of farming had given the man incredible strength compared to Devon’s weakened state. He felt his energy ebbing and knew he couldn’t outlast this enraged farmer.
“I’ll slit you prick to gullet and bleed you dry before you bastards steal another pig!” The threat was a low growl in the assailant’s throat.
My God, thought Devon, he’s no Gestapo thug—he’s killing us over poaching. But killing all the same, and Devon had neither the patience nor stamina to convince a berserk peasant that black market pork was far from his mind.
“Putain de merde, you’ve got it wrong, monsieur! Stop struggling and let me explain!”
“Explain this!” With a violent jerk, the assailant wrenched his knife-hand free and swung with sudden momentum, forcing Devon to reel back. The blade had yet to complete its arc and did little damage. But the brutal blow from the butt of the knife sent agonizing waves clear to Devon’s spine, amplifying the damage done by the parachute landing. In a last desperate lunge, he twisted the peasant’s blade and buried it deep in his attacker’s chest. A froth of blood gurgled from the man’s lips, and Devon collapsed atop him, forcing the last breath from the assailant’s body.
Bloody fucking Christ, he thought as he finally rolled off, struggling for breath, now we’re both done for.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Paris, Occupied France
11 August 1941
The loathing gnawed at his gut, forcing Ryan Lemmon to take deep breaths to still the tension. He braced his hands on the edge of the conference table and allowed the incessant drone of the negotiations to wash over him. The leather band of his watch only partially covered the pale scars at his cuff, and the stench of burning flesh rose again in his mind, memories of the searing pain. Without self-restraint—and armed SS guards stationed at either end of the room—he could easily lunge over and throttle the man.
Across the table stared Richard Kohl, former head of German and Austrian Affairs at the State Department in Washington, ousted for ties to the German-American Bund. Here sat the same despicable bastard who destroyed priceless intelligence which cost Ryan so much anguish, photographic evidence stolen by Erika that might have saved innocent lives had it ever reached the right hands in Washington. He cast a smug grin in Ryan’s direction.
Ryan could still picture Kohl’s manipulation and bigotry back in ‘38, as he disputed the very existence of that remarkable information. His boss at State had shown his true anti-Semitic colors, driving Ryan from Washington and into a deep spiral of depression which had plagued him for years. Only word of his German friends’ internment in a holding camp in France had brought him back to intelligence service barely two months before. His life had found new meaning. Ryan would now fulfill a promise made to Erika von Kredow in their deepest moment of despair—he would save her life and that of their little boy.
Now the malicious man’s smirk reflected in the polished walnut conference table of the Hôtel de Crillon. His hair was thinner three years later, his eyeglasses thicker along with the belly straining against his vest. No longer forced to radiate geniality, his eyes glared cold and aloof. His lapel sported a swastika pin, and at his side sat the SS colonel heading the German delegation. The Third Reich and the American government working hand-in-hand for the mutual benefit of all—welcome to the Department of State’s emerging Special War Problems Division.
Ryan shot a glance at his brother Edward, if only to measure his reaction to their former boss. Ed appeared to be taking it all in stride, just part of the job. His gaze appeared fixed on the German colonel now speaking and he seemed to ignore Kohl altogether.
The chief American delegate signaled an aide to pass the brown-leather portfolio to his counterpart on the other side. The man dutifully carried the file around to the German aide, who then spread out the contents before the Nazi colonel. Carefully-typed sheets listed the names, identities and last-known location of American citizens who had disappeared in the wake of the German Blitzkrieg. Many had gone missing as the Wehrmacht charged into battle, first into Poland and Eastern Europe, then a year later into the Netherlands and Belgium on the way to France. And now, barely twelve months had passed since Paris had fallen to the Reich juggernaut. But they heard no talk in this meeting of common people, no mention of suffering masses or prisoners of war. Here the concern was for powerful businessmen, scientists, even university scholars, influential people of political, commercial, or strategic importance to each respective government or its commerce. Two records of names, one common goal.
The SS colonel turned the pages slowly and methodically, as if he might recognize one of the many names spread out before him. “Your list is complete?”
“Let’s say it’s a good beginning. Other names will surface in the coming months, but this gives us a solid starting point. Our people are already working on your roster of German citizens caught outside the Reich who may be having difficulty returning home.”
As a neutral negotiator, the United States was acting as an intermediary between the Allies and the Germans in this exchange endeavor. All parties tacitly expected that this neutrality would have a short fuse. America had proven its support for the Allied war effort through the recently-enacted Lend-Lease policy passed by Congress. Ships, armaments and war materiel were underway. Even if America eventually became an active combatant, the need for some existing diplomatic mechanism to repatriate certain important citizens was recognized by both parties at this Paris meeting.
“As you’re aware, war takes a serious toll. Many disappear without a trace, but we’ll certainly do our best to track these people down.” He squinted through his monocle at the American embassy officer, then removed the signature page and slid the portfolio to Kohl on his right. “We’ll be obliged to strike from your roll any enemies of the Reich or known criminals.”
“Understood, but we’re in agreement that both our governments are committed to repatriating any innocent citizens who’ve found themselves, through no fault of their own, in harm’s way.”
“Aber natürlich.” The colonel removed the cigarette from its holder and carefully wiped the mouthpiece on a linen napkin. He used his gilded fountain pen to sign with a flourish alongside the American official’s signature and looked up. “For the moment, I believe our work here is done. I’m told that, to get this program rolling, you’ve already brought us a valued German citizen anxious to return to the Reich?” He removed the monocle from his eye.
The American embassy officer turned to Edward, who nodded. “Yes, Mr. Lemmon here will make the arrangements for the transfer of Mr. Goldblum later this afternoon. Meanwhile, allow me to express the appreciation of the U.S. government for this cooperation. We’re confident it will be of mutual benefit in the coming months—” he pushed back his chair, “and perhaps years.” Those seated around the table rose to shake hands.
The colonel nodded in agreement and the guards
stood to attention as he reached across the table to the embassy official. Edward smiled tightly as he shook the hands of both the German officer and his former boss.
Ryan held Kohl’s gaze but did not offer his hand.
“Doctor Lemmon, how nice to work together again, if now from opposite sides of the table.” He dropped his outstretched hand. “And once again to find the able brothers working side-by-side—truly touching.” Kohl offered another insipid smile. “Now, shall bygones be bygones? Why allow past differences to hamper a mutually-rewarding mission, right?”
Ryan turned abruptly on his heels, clutching his briefcase tightly to restrain the fury in his hands. He headed toward the door, leaving Ed to follow and the bastard Kohl chuckling to his back. Kohl in bed with the Nazis—the last straw. A quick glance at his watch. With this travesty of an organizational meeting finalized, Ryan could now turn to undoing the damage of years past. Time to help old friends. Old enemies could be handled later.
The SS guards saluted smartly as the American delegation left the conference room and headed for the lobby. The wide hallway glowed with Sèvres porcelain vases holding freshly-cut flowers, proof that money still flowed to the conquerors and their collaborators. A porter manned either side of the wrought-iron gates at the entry. One asked Edward whether to bring around one of the official sedans parked below. Ed shook his head brusquely and took Ryan by the elbow, steering him off to the side of the landing. He reached for a fresh pack of cigarettes and offered his brother a smoke. Ryan declined, a pipe his usual preference.
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