Beacon of Vengeance

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  She knew Florian was itching to take out this criminal. She caught his eye and gave a slight shake of the head. Better to wait.

  “You’ll find me a fair man, Mademoiselle Lesney. So let me demonstrate my reasonable nature. I shall accept thirty per cent out of the goodness of my heart, and I guarantee that none of your people run any further risk. Naturally, as your new partner, I will review your books weekly. And to help compensate for my lesser cut, I will also help with your orders for wine and spirits. You’ll continue to place the orders, while I oversee deliveries.”

  Serge stepped over to the desk, his arm intentionally brushing Marita’s breast in passing. He extinguished the cigar in her crystal ashtray, then stopped short directly at her side and spoke softly into her ear. “And should the deliveries occasionally come up short by a few cases, I’ll make certain that the purveyors take full responsibility so it won’t impact our profits.”

  Marita stepped back to give herself distance. “I need time to think all this through, monsieur. I’m not sure I can run this club and still feed myself on that percentage.”

  “Take all the time you want, mademoiselle. It’s all the same to me. But I can only guarantee the safety of those young girls of yours—or even that crippled boy who haunts the alleyway—once I’ve become your partner in this charming establishment, clear?”

  “Very.”

  “Then I’ll wish you good night. Here’s my card. Call when you’ve made your decision.” He gave Florian a jaundiced smile, shutting the door behind him as he left the room.

  She sat stunned as she heard the man proclaim loudly from the top of the staircase to the waiting men below: “The rest of you, clear on out. The position’s taken, there’s nothing here for you.”

  “Want me to go after him, miss? I can easily take that bastard.” Florian’s voice dripped menace as he pulled a pistol from his pocket and checked the cartridges.

  “No!…no, thank you, it’s all right. We’ll handle this.”

  She looked at the calling card in her hand, expensively-engraved with only a name and phone number:

  Serge Bergieux, Facilitateur de Commerce.

  The club was closed for the night. Florian had been last to leave, his reluctance apparent, but she assured him she was fine and they would work this out. She locked the front doors behind him and double-checked the rear door. A few small lamps still burned on the club dance floor but the stage was dark.

  Argent wasn’t expected until the following evening, but she needed him now. Marita sat at her desk and lifted the receiver. The number she had memorized was for emergencies only, but when it came to her people she wouldn’t take chances. This Serge had proven he meant business. She dialed, and a woman answered, the voice frail and quaking like a grandmother’s.

  Marita gave her nom de guerre followed by his. “Céleste for Argent.” He would understand and come as quickly as he could. The woman said only “confirmé” and replaced the receiver.

  Marita opened the desk drawer to remove the last of her Gauloises and light up, holding the smoke in her lungs as she waited for the nicotine to work its magic. She went to the office door and locked it, something rarely done before. Five minutes later, as she threw the crumpled cigarette pack in the waste bin after double-checking its contents, her phone jangled.

  The sound startled her and she almost tipped over the glass of Cognac. Lost in thought, deep in self-recrimination, she had been reliving again the loss of her family.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gascony, Occupied France

  16 August 1941

  Ryan’s fingers surveyed the base of his skull. He winced as he propped himself up on the narrow bed, the soles of his feet raw, his head aching. The scab on his neck broke loose and he sensed fresh, sticky blood. He felt like hell warmed over. Yet in spite of all physical discomfort he was newly energized, having escaped Horst’s grasp once again. Good God, first Marburg back in ‘34, then Kehl, and now this rabbit out of the hat!

  And most important, he now knew that Erika and René were somewhere close in southwestern France and for the moment safe from Horst’s reach. He himself might now do what von Kredow obviously could not accomplish without him—find his friends. The letters and visas to get them out of France had been lost in Horst’s trap, but new ones were only a telegram or phone call away.

  A breeze tugged at the frayed curtain, revealing glimpses of rolling pasture and a woodland patch below. In the far distance ocean sketched an azure ribbon along the horizon. The Atlantic. It had to be the Occupied Zone, he presumed somewhere near Bayonne. Horst had mentioned Biarritz, the resort town on the Bay of Biscay.

  The heavy door creaked and the petite woman whose rifle had taken out the Gestapo officer glared down at him.

  “You hit me, mademoiselle.”

  “True.” No trace of a smile in response to his. “Twice, actually. You wouldn’t go down.”

  “A first for me, I assure you.”

  Her glacial features betrayed no sign of a thaw. His head throbbed and the soles of his feet burned. His fingers left a pale smear of blood as he wiped them on the sheet, and still he smiled. He felt so lucky to be free of the Gestapo.

  “So why first save me from the Germans and then knock me out?”

  He clearly remembered the removal of handcuffs, the short trip beside corpses with straw scratching his face and an obnoxious itch beneath his clothing. After they picked up a sentry they made a rumbling stop under dense tree cover, and he followed orders to get down onto the dirt road, every awkward step agonizing, only to have this lovely young woman come up behind him and club him with the butt of her rifle. Twice, apparently.

  “Silence! I’ll do it again if you don’t shut up. You’re disturbing your roommate.” Ryan turned with some difficulty, his neck as sore as his feet. A man lay on the floor, a blanket covering his rough straw mattress. Ryan saw a head of curly black hair but couldn’t make out his face. The man appeared to sleep, certainly not concerned with them.

  “You really found me a threat? I’m surprised you didn’t shoot me for good measure.”

  “It did cross my mind.”

  “Then why the rescue?”

  “We expect to find le Masque, we end up with a would-be Errol Flynn. No papers, no shoes, just bloody feet and a smart mouth.” She checked his chamber pot before sliding it back beneath the bed.

  “The Mask”—von Kredow, of course.

  “My apologies for any inconvenience.” Ryan attempted his smile again.

  “A favorite of theirs, by the way.” She pointed to his exposed feet. “The wooden bar, the chairs, the switch.” She drew open the curtain and scanned the courtyard below.

  “Sawhorses, actually, but otherwise—”

  “Sawhorses, chairs, would one have been better than the other?”

  “Well, most likely not.” He raised one foot to take a closer look at the damage.

  “Free advice for you, Monsieur l’Américain. It’s never the specifics that count, never the details—you might as well learn that—all that really matters is the ultimate goal. In this world we now live in, the end really does justify any means.”

  “Sorry to speak specifically again, but my goal is to get out of this place, and now.” He smiled past the pounding in his temples. “I work for the American State Department. They’ll be searching for me.”

  “Je m’en fous.” She showed that indifference by squatting down beside the other man’s straw mattress, resting a hand on the man’s brow to check for a fever, then adjusting his pillow. She was obviously ignoring the American.

  Ryan saw no response to her ministrations. Perhaps the man’s unconscious rather than asleep? “Miss, please just give me shoes and a phone and I’ll be out of your hair.” He swung his feet to the wooden planks, only to quickly lift them again. They hurt like hell.

  “What brings you to this corner of France, anyway? Shouldn’t you be cowering across the Atlantic, debating American neutrality in the European war?” />
  “I’ve friends here, old friends who desperately need my help. I plan to find them before the Germans can kill them.

  She rubbed her temples and sighed. “You’re all alike, you know…you men.” Bitterness suffused her tone. “So go ahead—leave now, as far as I’m concerned.” Her glance could have melted ice. “You’re just one more cocky fool to bother with, nothing to me but unwanted trouble. Go on, get out of here—your ‘State Department’ is welcome to you!”

  Her French carried a southern flair, perhaps a hint of the Basque tongue. Despite the bitter words, the fire in her eyes was appealing, and he liked the upturned nose. She was obviously offended by anyone gauche enough to be born American. The woman was probably only in her twenties and might not find Ryan interesting, but his wit and charm had won over much more difficult subjects. His spirits remained high despite his painful head, neck and feet. After escaping certain death, Ryan wasn’t ready to let this woman’s disdain kill his enthusiasm for life. Von Kredow needed Ryan as bait, and now the bait was off the hook and had likely learned enough in the process to track Erika and René down first. But until he had recovered enough to walk on his own he might as well make the best of things. The company of this pretty woman seemed a perfect distraction. Besides, her skill with a rifle meant he preferred having her on his side.

  “So why did you hit me? And twice, yet?”

  Her ponytail bounced with the toss of her head. “You’re obviously not the brightest of Americans. Do you really think we’d show you how to find this place?”

  “Well in the future, please consider using a cloth hood.” He touched his sore neck and forced a grin. “It’s far less painful to your captives.”

  She brought in a tray from the hall and set it on the table at the foot of his bed. Ryan saw a wine bottle with a heavy drinking glass, a chunk of cheese, and a crust of brown bread. Everything remained just beyond his reach. He’d have to work for it.

  “Since you’re going nowhere until those feet heal, here are my rules: do exactly as I say or I’ll drop you again. And next time—rest assured—I’ll be hitting harder.” She raised the iron latch and swung open the door.

  “Bien sûr, mademoiselle. I’ll count on that.”

  The door scraped shut.

  He knew she had a smile in her. He just had to work at finding the key.

  Devon heard the voices. At first they came from very far, but then he felt a gentle touch on his forehead and he forced himself to focus on the individual words, and he became aware that one speaker was close enough for him to reach out and touch. A woman—now he was sure—a young woman, and at first he thought Trish was waking him from a very long and disturbing dream.

  But then he knew it was someone else, the voice all wrong and the French—Trish spoke no French—and he could tell the woman wanted nothing to do with the man speaking with her. A Yank, and he wants out of here. Good French, Parisian French, none of the Breton accent which colored Devon’s own. The American likes this young woman, but tries too hard to be clever. We’re brothers under the skin, he and I, thought Devon, I would have tried the same banter, the same double entendre. Before Trish, that is, only before Trish.

  And Devon surrendered again to the lethargy of dying. He was aware of the tears pooling at his eyes, tears for Trish and for what might have been, but he no longer felt pain. He thought back over the last week and wondered at the strange turn of events that brought him to this sorry end. The road to this stinking paillasse on the rough-hewn flooring had been long and challenging.

  His mind drifted to that painful trek to the first station on the escape itinerary. In London he had memorized the underground route from town to town, ever southward across Occupied France. The plan had seemed so simple. A guide would be there to welcome him, to take the wireless off his hands and bring him to the drop-off point, and provide current ration coupons and any newly-forged identification needed.

  Instead, he had the identification papers forged in London, and the would-be guide had died a brutal death in the dark field. And the body of that crazed pig farmer would slowly waste away in the shallow grave Devon had carved out near the road. In his troubled mind he smelled the rich, fresh loam once again. Such a colossal waste of lives over mistaken identity and stolen swine.

  Devon had managed only a few kilometers by dawn. Traffic on the back road was light—a heavily-laden wagon, a local farmwife, her basket filled with beets, her dress hitched up to make pedaling easier, and a postal worker on a bicycle going about his rural deliveries. His instructions had been clear. Don’t approach anyone unless absolutely necessary, just proceed to your first station. Despite the ache in his chest Devon had forged on. What choice had he? He stumbled for cover in the wayside brush when anyone approached. It felt as if a sharp stone lay buried beneath his ribs.

  Some farmers’ fields appeared badly neglected—he’d learned that laborers were at a premium—but other crops were reaching maturity, and Devon found an old plum tree with low-hanging fruit. He hadn’t had a bite since boarding the airplane—his nervous stomach had prevented keeping anything down—so knew he should eat to keep up his strength. Hell, he thought, if they give me gas it can’t be worse than this bloody chest of mine. He soon discovered he’d been wrong.

  His energies had flagged as the sun rose higher and the heat began to drain his reserves. Abdominal cramps only amplified the pain in his chest. By noon he leaned against the trunk of a tree to contemplate a muddy pool of field run-off. Could I possibly make things worse by quenching this hellish thirst?

  Abruptly a man appeared above him, sweat streaks on his brow and a filthy cap in his hands.

  “You need help, monsieur.” It was a simple statement of fact.

  Devon raised his head with difficulty. “Wouldn’t say no, monsieur.”

  The peasant replaced his cap and helped Devon stand upright, wrapping the weakened man’s arm around his shoulder. They stumbled up to a cart where a mule stretched its neck to the grass lining the edge of the roadway. The man immediately handed the Englishman a bottle of water. He drank greedily.

  Devon couldn’t help wrinkling his nose at the ripe odor, first believing it came from his savior. However, the contents of the cart explained all—a full load of manure ready for spreading on the fields.

  “You’ll prefer to sit up top by me.” The man helped Devon step up to the bench and then took the reins. Devon cast a wary eye at the stinking cargo. “But we’ll need a name, monsieur.”

  “Je m’appelle…” he hesitated, the name of the alias on his forged papers refusing to come back to him in his troubled state.

  “Non, non, monsieur, your personal name is unimportant. Few strangers end up on this road without a purpose, and I’m sure yours is very important. You obviously need medical attention, but all I need to know from you is the name of your destination.”

  “The nearest village, perhaps?” Devon was wary of divulging any unnecessary information.

  The peasant smiled. “Here’s how I suggest we do this, monsieur. I say a name, and you only respond if it doesn’t work for you.”

  Devon nodded.

  “Alors, I propose a fine local name—‘Charrat.’”

  Devon released his breath. “No need for the village, then, monsieur. Let’s go find Madame Charrat. And quickly, please.”

  “Indeed, monsieur, as quickly as Louise here can pull us there.”

  He clicked his tongue and the mule perked up its ears, reluctantly abandoning the fresh grass. The animal broke wind as it took up the load while Devon bent over double, struggling to hold back his own. With such a rich blend of earthy odors surrounding the cart the driver would hardly have noticed. Those damn plums, thought Devon.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Vichy, Vichy France

  18 August 1941

  That week in Vichy had felt like a demotion after working the German Affairs desk in Washington. With all that was happening in Europe, State had hummed as coded cables and overworked couri
ers shot back and forth across the Atlantic, exchanging latest word on the Reich’s territorial expansion and delivering analyses and recommendations back to the field. The war was going well for Hitler, and the discussions and argument on how to get America directly involved in stopping the aggression made for exciting days. Ed had rarely found a moment to relax, and often didn’t make it home until well after nine. The late nights hadn’t pleased Grace either, with two young boys to look after and her social life gone to hell.

  But there in Vichy, boredom reigned alongside Maréchal Pétain, and the Foreign Service embassy personnel was fed up with the spa town’s mindless Pétainistes who drained the place of any semblance of liveliness. The reactionary leaders of the new and prudish French State blamed France’s fall on the hedonistic behavior of her people, and they were intent on eliminating the loose morals and liberal education exemplified by Paris which had made that failure possible. Laws now prohibited public dances until the war’s end, called for all women to quit the working sector and return home to rear children, and those same children sang hymns of praise to the aging leader as if he were the new king or some god.

  In retrospect, troubled Paris seemed a delight despite Nazi occupation. Ed was happy to see his week of meetings nearing completion. It was time to return to the former capital to oversee the incoming arrivals for the exchange program. Even the likelihood of dealing with Kohl was better than wading through this morass of sour, petty bickering and legal repression.

  He hadn’t overcome his astonishment that Mr. Goldblum, the German-American chemical industrialist who traveled with them from Washington to Paris for the initial exchange, had come of his own accord. Before the three ever left the capital, Ryan had described in horrifying detail the proposal for mass eradication of Jews clearly laid out in the stolen protocol. Goldblum had written it off as anti-German propaganda and hysteria crafted by anti-Nazi factions to rile up the Americans to go to war. “It doesn’t matter one bit that I am a Jew—I am first and foremost a German, and my Vaterland needs my services.”