Beacon of Vengeance

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  She had left him with the horses beside a field planted in peppers. Ryan watched her stroll onto the country road which led to a small village in the distance. As the animals grazed near a creek, Ryan assessed his damaged feet and decided things were healing as well as could be expected. The pressure on the stirrups had caused fresh blood to dampen his socks. He tugged them off to soak his feet in the stream and some of the scabs remained attached to the wool. The cool water felt soothing, and his thoughts drifted.

  He could never have foreseen Horst’s manipulations of The Group. Kohl and his Gestapo partners had used Ryan and Ed from the start. Once the bogus program was in play, Horst must have spotted their uncommon family name on the progress reports destined for Heydrich, and further investigation had brought the bastard straight to Ryan. From there it was only a matter of using Ed to draw his brother in. Now that duplicity had worked twice, and Ryan shook his head at the calculated treachery of his nemesis. He had walked into the Gurs trap totally unprepared despite espionage training and awareness of how dangerous Europe had become. He would not allow anyone to catch him off-guard again.

  Almost an hour passed before a sharp whistle startled him awake, and he found himself on the receiving end of the lapping tongue of a golden retriever. The dog acted as if she had known Ryan her entire life, bounding around him and trying to climb onto his shoulders. He jumped up quickly to escape that insatiable tongue.

  “Down, girl,” called his guide, “Lucille, down!”

  Lucille ignored the commands.

  “A friend of yours?” Ryan raised an arm to fend off another attack.

  “They both are.” She gestured back to a woman about her own age coming up the path, a leash in her hand. His guide explained Ryan’s presence with a simple “Américain,” which seemed to say enough. The newcomer, shorter and more buxom than his companion, gave him a shy smile. With only a “bonjour, monsieur” upon greeting and an “au revoir” before taking the reins of the two horses, she headed into the woods they had recently left. The retriever, sniffing at Ryan’s trouser cuffs, noticed her mistress gone and quickly disappeared into the trees.

  “So what now?”

  She gestured to his shoes. “Put those on and get ready to walk.”

  They followed the tree line to the road and turned downhill from there, keeping an eye out for traffic. There was little to watch for—an occasional horse-drawn wagon, a farm couple on foot carrying a rake and a shovel, and a man pedaling valiantly on a bicycle-drawn cart filled with terracotta tiles. The sun was rising at their backs but the verdant hills kept the roadway in shadow, and they stayed close to the roadside ditch in case a motorized vehicle approached. After a few kilometers Ryan’s feet ached, each step a painful reminder of his recent thrashing. “How much longer?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Bayonne.”

  “On foot? That seems a ways.”

  “You’ve made it this far, now do the rest.”

  Walking alongside this silent woman drove him nuts. One could only admire her physical attributes for so long before the urge to know the person behind them crept in, and after an hour without exchanging a word, Ryan decided to take another tack. “You seem to know your way around a firearm.”

  “One must to survive a war.”

  “Your father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he the one who taught you to handle that rifle so well?”

  She strode on a ways before replying. “Yes. My father…and my husband.”

  Ryan couldn’t hide his surprise. “You’re married?” He’d seen no ring on her hand.

  “Widowed. Look, monsieur.” She waited for him to catch up. “Let’s get one thing settled—I don’t want to know you better, I don’t share my life story with anyone, and I sure as hell don’t want to go to bed with you, so give it a rest. As far as I’m concerned, once we reach Bayonne you’re on your own.”

  They walked on and he began to talk, more to himself, since she gave no sign of listening. He spoke of the harrowing race across Germany with Erika and Leo almost three years earlier—broad terms, no names or details. How his old university friend René had risked everything to help. He didn’t speak of the stolen protocol, not knowing her attitude toward Jews. And finally he described the Gestapo trap at Gurs and how she and her partisans had saved him from le Masque. He said he had to get his friends out of France. He’d been a reporter, and was now a low-level diplomat. His throat felt tight because he not only wanted this woman’s help, he needed it. And because the memories of ’38 still haunted him.

  She hadn’t smiled once, cold even at the description of Leo, and once he was done talking she remained in her own private thoughts.

  Within the hour they arrived at a larger village, a few streets of neatly-maintained two-story houses with red shutters and cobbled lanes. They drank from the small fountain in the center of the square, bending low to catch the flow from the rusted iron spout. The mountain water was icy and refreshing. They walked past a tobacco shop, and Ryan waited while the girl parted the beaded curtain to speak with the woman at the counter.

  Magazines and newspapers hung in the rack outside the door, to the side a display of postcards with scenes of happier days—a couple picnicking on a hillside of wildflowers, a farmers’ market strung with colorful banners, children bathing on a beach while parents watched from bright cabañas. The headlines praised the German progress on the eastern front against the Stalinist menace, and Hitler glared from atop a podium, his arm raised in half-hearted salute. Ryan picked up the subtle aroma of tobacco and longed for his briar, but a glance inside showed the shelves almost bare, and his cash reserves taken from the British agent might have to go a long way.

  The young woman—damn how he wished for her name!—stepped from the shop carrying two tickets. “At five past the hour the bus for Bayonne comes through, so we’ve about thirty-five minutes to wait. I suggest finding something to eat.” They took a table beneath a red-and-white umbrella and settled for ersatz coffee with cream, but the baguette was fresh and the butter tasted incredibly rich.

  Then, without preamble, she suddenly spoke up. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy where you come from, monsieur. But there’s no room for anyone new in my life, so just leave it alone. I’ll get you to the coast, but then we part ways.”

  “Of course. I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

  Shouts and laughter rose from the end of the street and they turned to watch young children in smocks race down the slope toward school with rucksacks bouncing. A few lingered behind, those not as anxious to sit in a classroom on such a pleasant morning.

  “The boy—” Ryan heard the catch in her throat, “…how old?”

  “Three and a half then, now nearly seven.”

  “And you know he still lives?” She was looking away, her glistening eyes following the backs of the children.

  “Yes.” Ryan swallowed, his own throat constricted. “At the moment.”

  She got up abruptly and entered the café and returned in less than a minute. “It’s nearly time, we should be going.” She reached for the valise.

  “We need a watch.” Ryan hadn’t seen his own since the beating in Gurs.

  The bus rumbled onto the narrow square a few minutes early and its engine idled roughly at the stop. A crowd had gathered outside to board, but the seats inside were all taken, and Ryan and the woman would have to stand for the ride into the city. As they joined the queue he gestured for her to go first.

  At the step she turned back to him. “You’ll never need my full name—but call me Nicole. And no more stories from you. I’ll stay with you until you’ve found your friends. D’accord?”

  He nodded.

  “One more thing—if I were you, I’d run like hell and get as far away from me as possible, and quickly, because I only bring trouble.” And then she was up the steps and pushing past the other passengers to put distance between
them.

  That’s progress, Ryan thought.

  The Auberge Royale in Bayonne was anything but royal. A few blocks from the waterfront up Rue Laurac just north of the Adour River, the seedy boarding house rented beds by day or hour. Five francs, either way. Ryan and Nicole took a room upon arrival, just a short walk from the bus and train stations. No questions asked, no documentation of identity requested.

  Nicole immediately claimed the bed, making clear the metal-framed cot with a badly-stained mattress was to be hers alone. A pillow and yellowed sheet with thread-bare blanket came at no extra charge, and the unshaven clerk downstairs with the loose dentures had specifically mentioned that no maid service was available. They weren’t surprised once they saw the room. The bedclothes had seldom seen a laundrywoman’s touch. Ryan accepted the braided rug as his bedding. Sharing one room made sense, since a man and woman traveling together but occupying separate rooms invited curiosity, the last thing they needed. She rolled up her coat for a pillow and tossed him the filthy one from the bed. Both napped before he headed out to try contacting his friends in the drinking establishments along the waterfront.

  The first three he visited proved fruitless, the fourth however more promising. This joint appeared better frequented than the others, and better maintained, which didn’t say all that much. The windows had a yellowish cast from years of exposure to smoke, the aging blinds to block the setting sun lacked an occasional slat, and the linoleum tiles on the floor peeled and cracked at the edges. He gave the customers a brief glance before approaching the long bar.

  “Something to drink, monsieur?” The bartender was old, at least in his sixties, and missing a substantial part of his right ear. Just enough of a stub remained to help support the thick eyeglasses as he scrubbed down the zinc of the bar top.

  “Une bière, s’il-vous-plâit.” Ryan scanned the shabby bar, taking in the patrons, mostly stevedores, one with an unlit stub of a cigarette bobbing in his lips as he spoke to his buddies in a quiet voice but with animated gestures. Two Waffen-SS non-coms in field-gray and billed caps chatted by the window, one rolling a lit cigarette incessantly between his forefingers and thumb as he talked. A cleaning woman worked a mop furiously over some stain on the linoleum just inside the door, pointless from Ryan’s viewpoint given the derelict condition of the flooring. He turned back to the barman who was drawing beer from the tap and slid twenty francs across the smooth surface. “I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can help?”

  “Try Colette’s around the corner, her girls aren’t all that picky.” The bartender eyed the cash. “Head out the door, turn down toward the river, take a left, it’s on the left. Purple shutters—you can’t miss ‘em.”

  “No, I’m looking for a man—” Ryan added another five.

  “Can’t help you there, monsieur.” He turned back to the tap and topped off the glass. Over his shoulder he added: “Try Biarritz. That’s where the foreigners play. You’ll find what you need there.” He slid the beer in front of Ryan. Another five francs hit the counter alongside two for the beer.

  “No, you misunderstand…I’m looking for an old friend, said to be hanging out around here now.”

  “Have a name, monsieur, this friend of yours?” The bartender opened the till to receive the money for the beer and pocketed the extra cash.

  “Likely goes by something new now. Tall, heavyset, quick on his feet despite a slight limp. Right leg. Knows his boats.”

  “Lots of dock men get themselves a limp. What else?”

  Ryan thought quickly, sensing progress at last. “Dueling scars.”

  “Boche, eh monsieur?”

  “No, Alsatian, actually…so French.”

  “Not any longer.”

  Ryan watched the glimmer in the man’s eyes fade and disappear. Alsace and Lorraine had been annexed to the Reich, their citizens made German and subject to military duty by order of the Führer.

  “Sorry. Can’t help you there, monsieur.” He turned to remove glassware from the sudsy water and place it alongside the sink on a drying rack, but Ryan had sensed something in the man’s demeanor and felt he’d made some progress.

  He slid a piece of paper across the counter. “Here’s where I’m staying, in case something occurs to you.”

  The barman nodded, his back still to Ryan, who headed for the exit.

  “Monsieur?”

  Ryan had barely reached the door, side-stepping the mop still in vigorous motion, when he turned. “Yes?”

  “Your order.” He gestured toward the beer, now gone flat.

  “It’s yours, monsieur. Stay in touch.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bayonne, Occupied France

  19 August 1941

  Ryan leaned over the washstand and turned his head from side to side to admire his freshly-groomed face. The photo ID of the English spy Whitaker sat propped up on the glass shelf beneath the cracked mirror. With five days of growth to work with, he’d shaved very carefully to avoid nicks. The shape of the mustache had to be just right. Below his nose ran a pencil-thin, horizontal line of hair with a slight separation in the middle, sparse but certainly giving a dashing look. Isabel was right, he thought. He could almost hear the Berlin reporter making some smart-ass remark. Memories of the stunning girl’s smile and wit flooded in, and with them came the melancholy of loss, no easier to bear despite a decade since she disappeared into the underbelly of the capital city.

  Less impressive than the mustache were the tightly-wound pin curls on his head. Nicole had insisted his appearance must better match the man pictured on the spy’s carte d’identité, so a permanent wave was the answer. She did not wish to risk his being questioned by the authorities as long as they were together. For a long and boring hour she had wound each lock of hair into a tight knot, the stench of the chemicals overwhelming in the narrow room. Thank God it was summer, the window open to the blackened brick wall facing them across the alleyway. Another few minutes and she would apply the final setting chemicals, and then after washing his hair they would judge the results.

  Ryan’s wardrobe had measurably improved since their arrival in Bayonne. Nicole had spotted a flaw in his disguise. The tailored American shirt which he had preferred over the smelly, bloody shirt of the injured spy was too stark a contrast to the rough woolen pants and faded blue jacket.

  A few hours earlier she had suggested the benefits of a shower for both of them, and led Ryan down toward the wharf and a public bathhouse. A stern woman of middle age guarded a small table just inside the entry. Ryan considered whether winding her hair so tightly in a bun might be what kept her from shutting her mouth. Her chatter was constant from the moment they arrived. For two francs apiece dropped in her tray she promised a few minutes warm water, and for an additional franc each the use of two threadbare towels and slivers of cheap soap. A quarter hour later he emerged from the men’s showers to find Nicole waiting, her hair loose and damp in a look he always found sexy. She carried a mysterious bundle wrapped in the damp towel beneath her arm. The bath attendant smiled serenely and for the first time had nothing to say. She patted the pocket of her smock with a wink at Nicole and wished them both a good day as she hurried them out the door.

  Along the Rue Neuve they stopped at a shabby drugstore for toiletries—the permanent wave kit with hairpins, dentifrice, toothbrushes, and a razor with a package of double-edged blades.

  “Keep your money,” she said, as he offered to pay, “The Boches always provide.”

  Once back in their room she had unrolled a decent pair of men’s trousers, a tweed jacket, a once-white shirt and better socks. She laid out the clothing and newly purchase toiletries and hung the towel over the window sill to dry.

  “And how did you pull that off?” He held the pants up for size. A bit short in length but adequate.

  “Don’t ask.”

  Ryan suspected that some poor sap at the bains publics would be sneaking out in embarrassment, clad only in a couple of those threadbare towels.
>
  His shaving task done, he wiped the blade and set aside the razor. Removing a new blade from the cardboard packet he snapped it in two against the wash basin. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he slit the lining of the jacket lapel and tucked the half-blade beneath the seam. It would be unnoticeable to any but the most dedicated searcher.

  Next he opened a groove along the length of a pencil he had lifted from the front desk. He forced the second metal edge sufficiently into the shaft to be gripped by the wood. Finally, he wound thread taken from the cuff of the old trousers to cinch tight the split in the pencil. The make-shift knife went into the pocket of his trousers. Ryan intended never to be caught unprepared again.

  While Nicole went down the hall to the WC to fill the pitcher with water in preparation for rinsing out the hair treatment, Ryan turned his attention to the filthy trousers inherited from Devon Whitaker. Recalling the spy’s words, he examined the roll-up cuffs of the trousers and quickly found a tiny cellophane sleeve. Tapping the envelope gently on his open palm, a single brown pill emerged. A standard-issue potassium cyanide capsule, a rubber-encased glass oval about the size of a pea, and lethal in minutes if ruptured. A short if jolting trip into nothingness.

  Ryan used his thumbnail to pry open the secret compartment in his onyx ring. The chamber behind the stone had been so artfully crafted on the Ponte Vecchio as to be invisible to any but a trained eye with a magnifying loupe. He eased the pill into the ring’s cavity and carefully snapped the lid shut, then opened it again to be certain that the capsule hadn’t burst. It remained intact. The black cameo of the Roman gladiator now hid death on demand.

  When his newly-curled hair was finally dried, Ryan broke into laughter as he examined it in the mirror. Nicole merely nodded her approval of the change.

  The knock at their door came around eight in the evening. They had taken a light meal across from the hotel and given up hope that his potentially promising contact in the bar might actually lead them to René. Lost in separate thoughts and memories, she on the bed and he on the wooden chair, they both started at the sharp rap on the door. Ryan waited to her left behind the door, the cord from her valise quickly knotted, one end in each hand, a garrote if needed.