Aubrielle's Call

by Bowen, C. Marie

  “Who’s this baroness?” John asked, his voice quiet and filled with menace.

  “The Baroness Nescato,” Karl whispered. “She searches for you.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Nescato?” John’s gut tightened.

  Impossible.

  His vision blurred, and he struggled to take a breath. To hear the sorceress’s name after two millennium… He inhaled through his nose.

  She had to be dead.

  “Where did you hear that name?” he demanded.

  “Where? From the baroness herself.” Karl sneered. “She gave instruction on how to identify you.”

  “You lie.” His jaw clenched as blood pounded in his ears. “The witch, Nescato, is dead.”

  “The baroness is indeed a witch, although a living one,” the valet whispered. “And as impossible to kill as you.” He spat another mouthful of blood between John’s feet. “Mein Führer is fascinated with how her proximity bends—probability.”

  Billy and Henri emerged from the back room supporting François between them.

  The old smuggler attempted to regain his feet. His face was beaten and bloody. He blinked swollen, bloodstained eyes at the two men in the kitchen. “Tuez-le, mon ami. Kill that salopard.”

  The clatter of boots on the metal stair and a woman’s shrill shout gave a small warning. Machine-gun fire erupted through the open door, and a man followed the barrage into the room.

  John knocked Karl to the ground, pulled his revolver, and shot at the shadowed figure in the doorway.

  Their attacker grunted and spun sideways, his back against the door frame. His cap fell to the ground as he lurched upright. He bared his teeth and raised the machine-gun at John.

  Henri fired Karl’s weapon twice from behind the sofa. Both rounds pierced his target in the chest.

  The armed man squeezed the trigger as he fell, firing a burst into the floor.

  Cries of terror and running sounded from the hall, but for the moment, the exit stood clear.

  John yanked Karl from the floor, wrapped his arm around the valet’s neck, and shoved him toward the door. “We need to get to the truck.” Near the room’s entrance, he nudged the Thompson with his toe. “Billy, take this.”

  “Non.” François bent and grasped the strap. “C’est pour moi.”

  John eyed the Frenchman. “Suit yourself.” He tipped his head toward Karl. “But I still have questions for this one. I need him alive.”

  A spray of bullets forestalled François’s reply and drove them from the opening.

  Henri spun out of the line of fire and crouched beside the entrance. He stole a brief glance toward the staircase, looking both up and down. He rested his head against the wall and held up one finger and pointed up. Then wiggled his fingers like running legs and pointed down and out toward the stairs.

  François lunged into the doorway with a raw scream. Bullets from his weapon pinged from the metal stairs as spent casings littered the floor. When he released the trigger, he swayed backward into the room.

  Billy steadied him. “We need to get you to the hospital, mate.”

  Blood dripped from the electrical wire hanging from François’s wrists. Although he'd been cut free, the remaining wire dug deep into his flesh. He peered at his friend through slits in his swollen eyes. “Oui, je sais.”

  “First, we have to get out of here.” John swung Karl forward, lifting the Nazi off his feet.

  Karl held onto John’s forearm with both hands as he gasped for breath.

  Henri eased into the hall. His gun trained on the stairs leading to the top floor. Satisfied, he glanced at John as he walked around the body. “Here’s another of your automatics.”

  “Take it,” John responded.

  Henri slipped Karl’s revolver beneath his belt and picked up the machine-gun. He headed down the stairs, the weapon snug against his shoulder.

  “You’ve got François?” John asked Billy as he hauled Karl out the door. Without waiting for a reply, the big man stepped over the dead shooter and backed toward the stairs. His head swiveled back and forth as the building’s occupants sprang to life.

  In the absence of gunfire, curious residents peeked from their doors. The terrified ones scurried through the hallway in their nightclothes seeking a safe exit. Doors were thrown open and slammed shut. The sharp sound ricocheted down the hall like gunfire. A shout of anger, followed by rushing footsteps, echoed down from the corridor above.

  John hurried down the steps. Below him, he saw Henri make the turn on the second landing headed to the ground floor.

  A man wearing a blue nightshirt yelled profanities in French as he shook his finger at the stairs.

  At the bottom, Henri held the door. “Hurry.”

  John pushed Karl through the doorway and put his back to the building. His arm tight around the German’s neck.

  Billy pulled the keys from his pocket with one hand as he and François left the stairwell into the night air. His other arm supported François.

  Above them, glass shattered.

  John spun away from the falling shards, carrying Karl with him.

  The rat-tat-tat of automatic fire punctuated sparks on the pavement and nipped at Henri’s heels. He dove into the street behind the line of parked vehicles.

  Past the cars, Billy and François hurried toward the truck.

  “Damn—” An elbow rammed into John’s stomach just as his shoulder exploded in pain, knocking him to his knees.

  Karl spun from John’s grip and dashed away.

  John picked up the gun with his off hand and stumbled between the cars to the relative safety of the street. He sat down hard on the pavement and looked over at Henri.

  Henri shot a short burst toward the window then crouched down and glanced at John. “You’ve been shot.” He fired off another half-dozen rounds.

  “I’ll live,” John replied. I always do. “Where did Karl go? Was he hit?”

  “No. He made it back inside.” Henri ducked as muzzle flash sparked in the window. A spray of bullets punctured tires and shattered car windows.

  John rotated his shoulder. The round had pierced the meat of his right deltoid. Blood flowed freely down his arm. He looked up the side street toward the truck. He expected to see Billy and François dead on the street, but both men were missing. “Billy has the keys,” he said to Henri.

  “I don’t know how much ammunition is left,” Henri replied. “But I have Karl’s revolver. Go to the truck. I’ll cover you.

  John waited until Henri fired at the window, then he staggered to his feet and ran up the street. He dodged onto the walkway, using the cars as a shield.

  Ahead, beside the truck, lay François and Billy.

  François cradled Billy in his arms. When he saw John, he raised his head. “Billy’s been shot. I pulled him out of the street, but—”

  John touched Billy’s neck. He has a pulse. “He’s alive. Were you hit?”

  “Yes.” François closed his eyes. “I’m too weak to get him in the truck.”

  Behind them, the gunfire from the window increased, then discontinued. John looked back at the building and caught sight of Henri, dodging between parked cars. “They’re coming for us. We have to go.”

  Henri ran up behind John and slung the Thompson into the truck bed. “Billy?”

  “He’s alive. Help me get him in the bed.” John pulled the keys from Billy’s fist and shoved them in his pocket. He lifted Billy’s shoulders while Henri guided his feet.

  “I’ll hold him.” Henri climbed in the back and sat beside Billy. “Let’s go.”

  John rounded the truck and slid behind the wheel as François pulled the passenger door closed. The engine cranked twice then roared to life. John dropped it into first and pulled onto the street. “Where’s the nearest hospital?” he asked François.

  “That would be the Hôpital de la Pitié, straight ahead. Head back to town. It’s not far.”

  “Why did Karl take you?” John asked the smuggler.
“What did he want?”

  “Our German friend wanted the rest of the arms shipment.” François lifted his hand from his stomach and stared at it. “He wasn’t satisfied with only three weapons.” The fresh blood on his hand mixed with that from his wrist.

  “How badly are you hurt?” John turned onto the main boulevard into Paris.

  “Not as badly as Billy.” He exhaled a ragged breath. “But if I pass out, give the doctor my full name, François Belliard and tell them to contact the Sûreté nationale.” He grunted as the truck bounced over a bump in the road. “They’ll wonder where I’ve been.”

  “I will,” John assured him.

  Sûreté nationale? Why would the French Police be concerned about a smuggler?

  He tapped the steering wheel and checked the review mirror.

  Henri huddled behind the cab. His hair tossed by the wind.

  Henri and Billy must be freezing. Their coats remained at La Fleur—left behind when they chased the German valet. John blinked, then looked at the smuggler from the corner of his eye. “François, do you work for the French Internal Security?”

  “Oui. Contre-espionnage.” François pressed his hand to his side. “Some of the weapons purchased from the Giselle-Marie were used to expose Nazi agents believed to be in Paris.” His forehead furrowed and he shook his head. “I thought Ken Rice would have told you.”

  John rested his right hand in his lap to keep from moving his shoulder. “The first mate on the Giselle-Marie knows you’re an intelligence agent?”

  “He knows.” François spat a piece of wire he had chewed from his wrist. “So was he, during the Great War, except on the side of the damned British.” He huffed a short chuckle. “His partner, Nigel Keats, gave me the first handgun I ever owned, then married my sister, Giselle.”

  John watched the road for several moments in silence. Reality continued to fall in and out of place. Facts shifted like sand beneath his feet.

  François is who Master Keats meant by family.

  “Does Billy work for British Intelligence?”

  François laughed then groaned. “Non. Billy offered me a way into the smuggling ring—and his friendship.” His swollen gaze met John’s. “The young man was blissfully unaware of such dangerous intrigue. Until he met me.”

  “The German who held you—Karl—what do you know about him?”

  “Karl Reimer is a Nazi agent and a heinous animal, eager to advance within the Third Reich.”

  They had reached the city, and streetlights reflected on François’s swollen face.

  “Turn left up ahead, then your first right. You will see the Hôpital de la Pitié.”

  “Those names Karl collected… How were they sent and to where?”

  “He has a radio hidden somewhere in Paris. He sends encrypted intelligence into Germany.” François gnawed another bit of wire from his flesh. He grunted and spat as the truck stopped in front of the hospital. “The only thing their leader hates more than Frenchmen are Jews.” His voice dropped, and he leaned toward John. “Hitler prepares for an invasion. He and his generals are always three steps ahead.”

  The vehicle rocked as Henri vaulted over the side of the bed and ran into the hospital.

  “Billy—” François attempted to turn, but instead, he cringed in pain. Fresh blood oozed between his fingers.

  “Sit still. Henri will bring help.” John turned off the ignition.

  Henri hurried from the hospital entrance with two hospital workers in white. “— one is in the back, and the other is in the cab.” Henri pointed toward François as he moved to the back of the truck.

  John hurried around and opened the passenger door. He put a hand on François’s shoulder. “Sit still until they tell you otherwise.”

  “We need a stretcher,” the man in the truck bed called to the assistant by the door.

  “Make that two,” the woman beside François called out. “And we’ll need a surgeon.”

  They carried Billy in first, still unconscious, then came back for François.

  “Keep the keys to the truck,” François ground out between his teeth as the medical staff transferred him from the truck to a stretcher. “Billy won’t need it for awhile.”

  John leaned close as they lifted François. “Karl mentioned a Baroness Nescato. What do you know about her?”

  François shook his head. “I’ve never heard that name.”

  “Ça suffit, le temps presse.” The orderly held his hand up to stop John, then followed François into the hospital.

  CHAPTER 24

  Aubrielle struck a match and lit the shamash candle. She’d placed Papa’s bronzed Hanukkah candelabra on a little table, positioned to display through the front window of the living room. Outside, the sun had set, and the first stars had appeared in the clear winter sky. She blew out the match, caught the sharp scent of sulfur, then faced her audience.

  John watched from the hallway. His suit creased at the shoulder where it pressed against the wall. Arms and legs both crossed, he rested one foot on the toe of his shoe. He wore a new brown suit that accentuated the gray circles beneath his eyes. His gaze caught hers and his lips turned up ever-so-slightly on each side.

  He looks exhausted.

  She tore her attention from John and looked to Henri and Mae, seated beside her father on the couch. “For those of you who aren’t Jewish, which is everyone except Papa.” She swallowed as heat infused her face. “This candle, set apart from the rest, is called the shamash, or servant candle. Only a hanukiah has the offset shamash.”

  “A what?” Henri asked. “John called your candle holder a menorah.”

  “John’s right. A menorah is a Jewish candelabra.” Aubrielle opened the drawer on the table and withdrew another candle—a twin to the shamash taper. “But there are two types. The most common—the hanukiah—holds nine candles. It’s used to celebrate the Hanukkah festival.” She inserted the new candle into the empty socket on the far right. “The other menorah is employed in the Temple, and holds only seven candles.”

  She removed the lighted shamash candle from its raised stem and turned to her father. “I know there are prayers we should say before I light today’s candle, but I don’t remember them.”

  Her father stared at the floor, as though he hadn’t heard. His skeletal, spotted hands trembled as they rested on his knees. The bones in his face stood in sharp contrast to his dark, depressed eyes.

  “Papa, do you remember the Hanukkah prayers?”

  “Maybe we could all say the Lord’s Prayer instead,” Mae offered. She rested her hand on Lou’s shoulder but received no response.

  Aubrielle lowered her head. “No.” Blinking disappointment from her eyes, she turned toward the window, her voice just above a whisper. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

  “Blessed are—blessed…” Lou’s voice, low and rough with phlegm, splintered into silence.

  “That’s right, Papa,” Aubrielle said. “Do you remember more?”

  Lou coughed, and air wheezed through his sunken chest. A drop of moisture beaded beneath the tip of his nose, and a single tear slid down his cheek. He never looked up or said another word.

  Aubrielle held a hand to her chest as sadness tightened her throat. She turned back to the hanukiah and dashed a droplet from her eye. A breath of resignation filled her lungs as she lit the first night’s candle. Returning the shamash taper to its holder, she stared at her somber reflection in the window. “Thank you, Papa. Amen.”

  Mae put her arm around Lou’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Lou—shh.” Her sad eyes sought Aubrielle’s. “Now comes the fun part.”

  “That’s right.” Aubrielle forced a smile for her father. “Until the candles burn down, we shall eat latkes and play dreidel here in the living room.”

  “The potato bread and sour cream are in the kitchen.” Mae moved to stand.

  Aubrielle held out her hand to Mae. “Stay with Papa. I’ll get them.” She glanced at John as she passed him
in the hall. “I have the candy and dreidel in my room.”

  “I’ll bring another chair,” John offered and followed her into the kitchen. “I want to apologize for not coming to see you yesterday.”

  “There’s no need.” Aubrielle went into her room and reappeared with a brown bag. “Henri came by. He said you were tracking something down.” She set the package on a tray beside the latkes and sour cream. “Did you find it?”

  “No.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “They’ve disappeared.”

  “They?” She lifted the tray. More troubled John than mere exhaustion.

  John nodded and released a long exhale. “It’s something we need to discuss, but the explanations will take some time.” He rested both hands on the back of the kitchen chair and leaned forward. His shoulders slumped with fatigue. “For now, I’d like you to consider leaving France—with me.”

  “What?” The weight of the platter was suddenly more than she could hold. It dropped back to the table with a clang.

  “The sooner, the better,” John urged.

  “Do you need my help in there?” Mae’s voice reached into the kitchen.

  “No.” Both John and Aubrielle called out then stared at each other.

  “Do you not see how sick my father is?” Aubrielle hissed. Surprise changed her tone into an angry accusation. She pointed toward the front room, then balled her hand into a fist and rested it on her hip.

  John hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the short growth of dark hair along his cheekbone accentuated the angle of his jaw. He appeared drained as he blinked at her words and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, I see.” He didn’t respond in kind to her anger. Instead, his tone held both resignation and urgency. “And I do understand, however—”

  “There is no however. Not tonight.” She picked up the tray. “We can discuss your inappropriate invitation at a more suitable time.” With a warning glare, she carried her tray down the hall.

  “Our discussion will require privacy,” he whispered at her back just before they entered the living room.