The Betrayal

by Kate Furnivall

  It is unspoken between us.

  Roland is out this evening. I don’t know exactly where, he didn’t say, just a vague wave of the hand in the direction of the Champs Élysées as if the venue of choice might be Le Fouquet’s restaurant or the Lido with its jazz and its gaudy pink and blue marble swimming pool. His mood was sour. I was not certain whether it was because of my sister’s visit or because of his meetings.

  They did not go well.

  I hate those meetings, the ones with Prime Minister Daladier. And with the Minister of Labour, De Monzie. These men put a rage inside Roland that I cannot bear to look at.

  ‘They are both spineless,’ Roland had shouted. ‘Repellent and spineless. Daladier will let France blunder into a war with Germany when we should be negotiating a peace pact. Do you realise that Germany is producing twelve times as many aeroplanes as France? If we are stupid enough to go to war they will annihilate our air force in a matter of days. And our army is relying on the Maginot Line fortifications to protect our land border. Twelve years it took to build. Five hundred miles of tunnels, ramparts and gun emplacements manned by over a million troops. So what does the French Army do? It puts in an order for fifty thousand saddle horses. Not tanks. Horses! God preserve us.’

  I saw his hand drag across his face, as though trying to tear off the mask. ‘I cannot let it happen,’ he insisted. ‘We must negotiate with Hitler. We need him here to stop this country sliding into oblivion. De Monzie is never going to be able to stop the dock strikes that are about to hit us.’

  Roland sank into his chair and I poured him another whisky. I touched his cheek as I placed it in his hand.

  ‘Hitler must be laughing up his sleeve at Daladier’s posturing,’ I said.

  He closed his eyes, frowning. Deep lines scoring his forehead, as if he could see things scrolling on the back of his eyelids that I could not begin to imagine.

  ‘Thank God I have you,’ he whispered.

  I felt the words. The weight of them.

  So tonight Roland is taking out one of Daladier’s pawns and one of De Monzie’s pimps to bend their ear and to enjoy the city’s entertainments. I do not let myself think of what that will entail. I know what Paris is. There are places where women dance in nothing but chains, wielding whips and spurs to drag members of the clientele up on to platforms to do their bidding. In one club, couples perform the sex act naked as newts, in nets hung over the heads of their drunken customers. In another, animals are used. I do not ask which ones. How do I know these things? Because I am a Parisienne. I know Paris like I know the exact colour of my sister’s eyes.

  I am in the dark.

  The reason for it is that my husband’s study looks out on to Avenue Kléber, and if he happened to be passing and saw a light burning, he would demand to know why. But I do not need a light. My fingers find the key hidden under the third book on the middle shelf behind the door. Without hesitation I remove the portrait he commissioned to be painted of our daughter, the one that hangs above the empty fireplace, and with the key I open the safe. Even in the dark it is easy.

  What is not easy are the thoughts in my head.

  My fingers extract a small thin notebook. I take it into the well-lit kitchen and I copy its contents into a black book that I keep hidden at the bottom of my sewing box. As if I ever use a sewing box. When I have finished, I replace the thin notebook in the safe, lock it and leave the study.

  I open a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne and pour myself a glass, watching the bubbles rise to the surface like golden weightless lies. I take my glass and I sit on the balcony in the soft summer warmth of the evening, and as I gaze across the million lights of the city in the direction of Montmartre, I worry about my sister.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Romy unlocked the door. Léo Martel stepped inside at once, bringing with him the scent of the streets on his jacket and a bottle of whisky in his hand. Her eyes scoured his face for damage, his shirt for blood, but she could find none and the relief of it made her reach for him. She wrapped his free hand between hers, pinning it there, and for a full minute they stood like that in the dark. She felt the blackness seeping into her head, a layer of it just beneath her skull, and it was crushing the sadness within her.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I found Diane and Manu, and warned them to get out of Paris. But not Jerome.’

  ‘He might have gone into hiding.’

  She wanted him to say yes. She wanted him to say, ‘Of course Jerome has gone into hiding, the man is sharp at all times.’ She wanted François and Grégory’s foreheads to be wiped clean in that oppressive storeroom above the café.

  ‘Romaine, a drink?’

  His voice was gentle. She realised that he had been talking for some time and she’d heard not a word. She was horrified to feel tears streaming down her cheeks. Thank God it was too dark for him to see. She became aware that his hand between hers was cold despite the heat in the room.

  ‘Sit down,’ she told him.

  He sat heavily on the solitary chair. The shadows blanked his face from her.

  ‘Martel, who did this?’

  ‘The enemies of the Spanish Republicans.’

  ‘Nationalists?’

  ‘Probably. They have spies everywhere.’

  She heard him open the bottle and caught the glint of a glass that he drew from his pocket. Something inside her lurched with desire for the whisky bottle. She wanted to snatch it from him.

  ‘I intended to inform the meeting tonight,’ she told him, ‘that I am in a position to do some spying for us. To dig out more information.’

  She sensed his dark shadow become very still. He waited.

  ‘I’ve met two Germans who are in a high-level delegation,’ she explained. ‘One invited me to dinner next weekend. I intend to try to discover from him what plans the Condor Legion might have to—’

  ‘No.’

  This time his voice was harsh.

  ‘Stick to flying, Romaine. It’s what you’re good at. Don’t get involved in things where you will be out of your depth. You will be in danger, so you must say no to this German. I mean it, Romaine.’

  There was the sound of liquid flowing into a glass.

  ‘Here,’ he muttered.

  Her fingers found the glass. She drank it straight down and held it out for more. He refilled it and she heard him take a swig from the bottle.

  ‘What about Grégory and François?’ she whispered. ‘Someone will have to be informed of their deaths.’

  ‘I have made arrangements. They are being taken care of.’

  ‘What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘It means what I said. They are being taken care of.’

  He rose to his feet and walked over to the window, his limp noticeably worse. He tucked himself behind the shutter, unseen from the road beneath, but a smudge of lamplight cut across his cheek. The muscles were tense.

  ‘What is it that you arranged, Martel?’ Romy moved over to him. ‘For their poor bodies to be removed overnight? For them to be buried in some godforsaken unmarked hole in a forest, where only foxes will find them. Unknown to their families. Is that it?’

  He turned. ‘Yes, Romaine. That is it. Because this is not a game. It’s not just about the thrill of piloting a plane for freedom fighters or throwing questions at a German spy whose only interest is to get you between the sheets. I tell you, this German of yours will have you locked up in some brutal hellhole before you can even say dankeschön, if he thinks for one moment that you know more than you should.’

  ‘I know that. I’m not a fool.’

  His pale face came close out of the darkness. ‘But do you know this? We are at war, Romaine. A violent and vicious war even before a shot has been fired or hostilities have been declared. The enemy is organised. They have secret basements here in Paris where you would be interrogated. They are prepared. Rubber truncheons to beat you till your kidneys rupture, water baths to drown you until your lungs burst, ele
ctrodes to fry the most intimate places of your body, hammers to break bones and pincers to remove parts of you. Screwdrivers to stab into your eyeballs and—’

  ‘Stop it!’

  He stopped. She was shaking. His hand stroked her hair.

  ‘Romaine, I want you to know. I want you to be terrified. It is the only way I can keep you safe.’

  She stared at the black figure in front of her and wondered how many other dead bodies he’d seen with a bullet in their brains.

  ‘Is that what you’d do to me too? If I died?’ she asked. ‘Throw me unseen under the cold earth for the worms to gorge on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not even telling my twin sister?’

  She heard a rumble in his broad chest. ‘A twin? You have a twin? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Martel.’

  He said softly, ‘I know you go once a month to the Arab quarter of Paris.’

  A pulse ticked inside her ear. She turned quickly and felt her way back through the darkness to the whisky bottle. She put its neck to her lips.

  ‘Don’t, Romaine.’

  She ignored him. She knocked back a large mouthful and felt it hit her gut with a punch.

  ‘Don’t get drunk, Romaine.’ His tone was angry.

  ‘You don’t get to have a say over that, boss.’ She tipped her head back. The whisky gilded her lips.

  ‘I do if you’re flying tomorrow.’

  Slowly she eased the bottle away from her lips. ‘Flying?’

  ‘That’s right. The bastard aviation officials who pulled the rug from under my company today have been persuaded to put it back where it belongs. You’ll be flying the Gipsy Moth.’

  ‘To Spain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will I be carrying this time?’

  ‘Me. You’ll be carrying me.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Romy was nervous. Nervous as hell. As if she were on her first solo. Chest tight. Fingers clumsy. Her teeth nipping chunks out of the inside of her cheek. She was performing her pre-take-off checks.

  Trim. A lever on the left side of the cockpit, to work the elevators, set into the middle position for take-off.

  Throttle friction nut. Tight.

  Fuel mixture. Rich.

  Magnetos. Both working, up and on.

  Fuel. On and sufficient.

  Gauges. Set. Oil pressure 45 psi. Altimeter set.

  Harness and hatches. Secured.

  Controls. Full and free movement.

  It was ridiculous to be nervous, she told herself. She could fly the little biplane with her eyes closed, but never before had she taken to the air with the figure of Léo Martel looming in the front passenger cockpit. He was not just a pilot, he was a top stunt pilot. One who could fly a plane upside down through the Arc de Triomphe. It made her feel vulnerable in a way she never did in an aircraft; vulnerable and absurdly insecure.

  It had been a struggle for him to climb up on the wing and clamber into the front cockpit, but Romy had more sense than to offer a helping hand. It was almost dawn in Paris. The day was nothing more than a ribbon of gold on the horizon but the breeze already had the greasy smell of the tannery to the south of the airfield. Martel’s grey eyes were as dark as the night sky in the west and, as she flicked the switches, she wondered what was going on in his head. This was his first flight since his accident.

  Was he frightened?

  More to the point, did he trust her?

  Romy could not imagine Léo Martel frightened. But sitting again in the tight squeeze of a cockpit, his knees jammed against the additional petrol tanks, was it all coming back to him? In violent flashbacks?

  The way Karim came to her. Her past was made up of mistakes. Of violence. Of lies. She could not outfly them, however hard she tried.

  She started to taxi. On the ground, the pilot of a Gipsy Moth was blind, the forward-view was appalling. The Moth’s long nose obscured whatever lay ahead, so she had to taxi in a zigzag fashion, looking along the length of the fuselage to ensure that the area ahead was clear. With the control column in her right hand, she used her left for the throttle. This was it. This was what she lived for.

  She lined up into the wind, using a quick burst of power to help blow the tail around. Smoothly now, smooth as silk, she advanced the throttle. In that moment she forgot Martel’s flying helmet in front of her, she forgot the bloody third eye in Grégory’s pale forehead, she forgot the fear that she had forced into a dark corner at the back of her skull. All she could feel was the joy of this moment. Adrenaline was charging through her veins, more seductive than fifty open bottles of whisky, lined up and waiting for her.

  The tachometer accelerated to 1800 rpm and automatically her feet did their job, keeping the aircraft on line with the rudder pedals. Careful now. Tiny adjustments to counteract swing or yaw. In her ears sounded the de Havilland engine’s healthy roar as it claimed its territory. Romy smiled. It was impossible not to. Her whole body was in the grip of vibration when the engine and the airframe shook themselves like excited dogs as the wheels gathered pace over the grass, eager for her to ease the stick forward at 30 kph which would raise the tail.

  The wind was in her face, buffeting against her cheeks, snatching at her helmet, but suddenly the world changed. The bumping of the airframe ceased. The Gipsy Moth took to the air, accelerating towards its climb speed of 90 kph. It struggled, weighted down by the full tanks and the weight of Martel up front, but once in the air Romy’s mind seemed to turn itself inside out. Every thought in her brain spilled out on to the ground below, leaving it untrammelled by the past.

  Briefly she looked in the cockpit and checked that the oil pressure was still 45 psi and then she throttled back a fraction to save her engine cylinder heads from getting hot.

  She was flying.

  They refuelled at Limoges on the edge of the Massif Central. The heat was intense. The ground shimmered as though underwater while they filled the tank positioned between the Moth’s upper wings. After five hours in the cockpit their limbs were cramped and jumpy, so they took a walk around the perimeter of the airfield to shake out the knots.

  ‘Why do you need to go to Spain, Martel?’

  ‘I told you. For a meeting.’

  ‘It must be a very important meeting to drag you this far south.’

  ‘It is.’

  They had paused to rest his leg. They both pretended it was to light up a couple of her filthy black cheroots and watch a red kite swoop from the rich cobalt blue sky on to some poor unsuspecting prey. Martel leaned against a tree. Without his flying jacket on, Romy noticed he was wearing a grey suit. There was a serious elegance about it that spoke of good taste, something she had never associated with him before.

  ‘Boss, I have a right to know why we’re here.’

  ‘The more you know, the more danger you are in.’

  ‘If I’m going to get a bullet in the brain or a Spanish blade between my ribs, I want to know exactly who is pulling the trigger or gripping the knife. I don’t want to be caught unprepared like Grégory and François.’

  But he didn’t listen. His mouth softened into a smile. ‘You fly well,’ he said.

  ‘Of course I do. But that’s not the point right now.’

  ‘Tell me why you go to the Arab quarter at the beginning of every month.’

  ‘That’s none of your damn business.’ She turned her face away from his scrutiny. ‘How dare you follow me.’

  ‘I didn’t. I like cooking with Arab spices, so I go regularly to the market in the Barbès-Rochechouart quarter. I’ve seen you there.’

  How could she have been so blind?

  She ground her cheroot into the earth under her flying boot and continued on their circuit of the airfield perimeter. Martel fell into step beside her.

  ‘Are you enjoying the flight?’ she asked outright, because he had made no mention of it.

  He took a long time to answer. ‘Yes, I am, thank you
. But it’s a little dull.’

  Dull?

  How could flying ever be dull?

  She had flown with meticulous care so that he would have nothing to criticise. Maybe too meticulous. Too careful. Taking no risks. This was his first flight since the accident and he was disappointed? She felt that she had let him down

  She tucked her arm through his. ‘You may regret that comment.’

  The Gipsy Moth stooped from the sky. Fast as the red kite.

  Engine screaming. Wings shaking. Struts threatening to rip from their sockets. The wind howled through the bracing wires and sought to tear the skin from Romy’s cheeks. Adrenaline powered through her veins as the earth hurtled towards her and death opened its arms.

  She whooped. Yelled with excitement. Fought for breath and kept her eyes on the glint of metal directly below, a double thread of molten silver that sliced through the honey-toned landscape.

  Was this it? This time? Would she fly herself right into the waiting arms of death? A hundred times before, she had been tempted.

  Just when the blackness reached out to her, at the last possible second she hauled back on the control stick. The weight of her whole body was still driving towards the ground and she heard the joints of the Gipsy Moth screech at her, when her fingers flicked switches, reset ailerons. Her feet wrestled with the rudder bar and her hands with the stick.

  The nose lifted. Only metres from the silver railway lines the Gipsy got her way and slipped into straight and level flight with a sigh. The ground was so close Romy could almost run her fingers over the wooden sleepers like piano keys. A train lay ahead, its smoke belching out. With her heart thundering in her chest, Romy increased speed. The back end of the carriage drew closer as she easily overhauled it. She could have landed on its roof, she was so low. A touch on the rudder. Too little and she would slip into a turn, too much and she would feel the plane skidding outwards.

  She sank lower still and the breath of the Gipsy’s propeller ripped at the grass as she passed. She was racing alongside the train but the plane’s speed was faster. Romy waved. She saw startled faces at open windows, mouths laughing, hands waving as she laid her life out in front of them. The plane leaped ahead to overtake the engine and scare the wits out of the red-faced engine driver.