She could hear the passion in his words.
‘I have been waiting for someone like you to cross my path,’ he continued, moving closer to her. ‘Someone to be a link between me and the French underground groups. To whom I can pass information. I gave you that last document to read because I am part of that assassination plot. To show you just how far I am trusting you.’
Romy rose from her seat. ‘But can I be sure I can trust you, Horst?’
‘Haven’t I just proved you can by giving you those documents? I copied them all into French for you.’
‘What if this is all a sham? Set up by Müller. To trick me into betraying myself and others.’
He passed a hand over his face, as if he could wipe her doubts away.
‘How can I be certain, Horst?’ She stood in front of him.
‘Very well. I have already given into your hands the power to have me shot. Now I will give you the power to destroy not just me, but my whole family.’ He took a long breath. ‘My mother was a Jewess. My father was a blond blue-eyed Aryan, but she was a dark-haired Jewess. Don’t look so shocked. Of course no one knows and there is no mark of Jewishness on me. But she was killed four years ago by one of Hitler’s marauding bands of Jew-baiters.’
Her hand wrapped around his.
‘Shall I tell you how they killed her, Romaine? They took her out into the street when she made the mistake of trying to help her father, a tailor, escape from the dangerous streets of Berlin. The evil bastards hauled my mother and her father out on to the street, poured petrol over them and burned them alive. I cannot let it go on.’
Romy felt sick. But at the same time relief slowed the blood in her veins. This man was not lying. His hatred of the evil around him was as real as the names and dates from the file, which were branded into Romy’s mind.
‘I’m sorry, Horst. For your mother. For your grandfather. But you must burn that folder immediately. It is too dangerous for you.’
She walked over to the metal wastepaper bin beside his desk and tossed each page from the files into it, then picked up his desk lighter and clicked it into life. When she touched it to the papers, the flames twisted and curled as if in agony.
They sat together in a nearby bar, one of those smoky intimate dens that Paris is so good at. Horst was calmer now, two brandies to the good, while Romy nursed a whisky between her fingers. Only one whisky. That was all she allowed herself and the trail of it through her gut silenced the tremors.
She talked little. Listening to Horst murmuring stories of the good times in Germany when people used to laugh and when fear was only what he felt when his father put his Lipizzaner stallion to jump fences that would break a lesser rider’s neck. She knocked back the dregs of her drink, eager to return to Martel with the information that was locked safe in her head. But first she had more questions to ask.
‘Horst, what do you know of Müller’s background?’
‘Only that he is an ex-army man, one of Heinrich Himmler’s inner circle.’
‘The Gestapo leader?’
‘That’s him. A vile piece of work if ever there was one, but close to Hitler. His power is far-reaching.’
‘Is that a warning?’
He smiled. ‘To both of us.’
‘Was Müller stationed in Paris eight years ago, do you know? Did he know my father?’
His reaction to her question was so swift, it was barely there. Most would have missed it. That fraction of a second’s pause and a minuscule freeze of the muscles of his face. Before Romy could even think about the reason for it, it was gone and he was regarding her with a careful scrutiny.
‘I honestly have no idea,’ he said easily. ‘I don’t know what Müller was up to then, because I was working in Frankfurt at the time.’
Each of Romy’s fingertips prickled, the way they do when you slip on ice. Horst was lying. She could feel her feet skidding from under her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I am a whore.
Romy was walking with Horst to the Métro station, his arm around her waist, their bodies too close.
Whore.
When they left the bar, he had kissed her. She had not stopped him. She had not fought him off with claws raking his face. She liked this German, admired his courage. To feed information to the enemy right under Müller’s hawk-like nose was a risk few would entertain. And she relished his passion for aircraft. But she did not care for his lies. Or his kisses. As they walked along the cobbled street with its arched wrought-iron street lamps and its night air smelling of the remains of someone’s bonfire, his hand caressed her hip.
‘What will you do with the information I’ve given you?’ he asked, keeping his voice well below the sounds of the beer-fuelled laughter that followed them from the bar. ‘Who will you take it to?’
‘I know someone,’ she assured him. It was enough. He didn’t need more.
‘There is one more thing,’ he said and halted on the corner of a junction. Darkness lay like a warm blanket over the street but he had stopped in an amber pool of light from one of the street lamps and it turned his blond hair into gold. He was the kind of man who could shine, who brought an energy to his every thought and smile. He drew her closer, concern on his face, his smile tight around the edges this time.
‘I want you to watch out for Roland, your brother-in-law. Be careful of him, Romaine. I mean it. He is a man who—’
The car came out of nowhere. Black as a shark, sleek and long-nosed. The roar of its engine tore apart the silence. The sound seemed to bleed into the buildings themselves, and when the impact came, Romy thought it was the noise of it that knocked her off her feet. A hot rush of blood erupted in her mouth and she could feel something like rain splatter on her face. The smell of blood hit her and swept her back to lying on a Persian rug with her hands painted scarlet. With soft sticky footsteps it chased her all the way down into the darkness.
‘I saw it.’
‘It didn’t look like an accident to me.’
‘Merde! The car drove right on to the pavement.’
‘Is he alive?’
‘Looks gone to me.’
‘And her?’
The voices sounded odd. As if each word had a tiny spike in it that tapped on her eardrum, making a tinny noise. Romy tried to sit up but hands held her. The street lamps turned upside down but she blinked hard and the buildings came into focus with a halo of lights dancing around them.
‘You’ve banged your head, mademoiselle. Don’t try to move.’
She sat up. The darkness felt like tar. She turned her head, waited for her eyeballs to catch up, and found Horst. He was surrounded by people, but through their legs she could see his golden hair on the cobbles. She struggled to her feet, swaying, holding on to an arm.
‘What happened?’
‘A car came right at you two. I saw it, a big black Mercedes, it was. The bastard mounted the kerb, slammed into le monsieur and sent you flying into the wall. An ambulance is . . .’
‘Horst,’ she whimpered. ‘Horst.’
She dropped to her knees at his side. A puppet with strings cut. His limbs lay at wrong angles. His head was twisted too far over. His jaw was slack. His eyes – those energetic blue eyes – were empty. Rinsed out. Nothing in them as they stared up at her. Grief clawed at her chest and she cradled Horst’s head in her lap, stroking the blood from his cheeks. She rocked him in the dark loneliness of death.
It was starting to rain, soft warm drops that washed the blood from Horst’s skin, and Romy became aware of cars and flashing lights. An ambulance. Voices, kind but firm, as they tried to detach her from him. She bent over and kissed his forehead, wrapping her arms around his inert body one last time, then she let them take him from her.
While police attention was concentrated on the victim of the assault, and asking questions about the car from those who witnessed it, Romy backed into the night’s shadows against the wall, sliding out of sight, and before the gendarmes realised she was gone, s
he had slipped down a side street and was running with an odd lopsided stride.
Clutched in her hand was the key ring she had just stolen from Horst’s jacket pocket.
Romy’s hand was steady, her writing fast and precise. She kept the shaking locked tight inside. She stuck to the facts, nothing more. No mention of curious blue eyes or a kind smile or lips warm on hers, lips that were now bloodless and silent in a morgue. No mention of a key.
Four pairs of eyes followed every word she wrote. Diane and Jerome stood on one side of her, the two new members of their cell on the other, their impatience bristling. It was Noam, the dark-haired one with heavy stubble, whose large nose bent over her shoulder, giving grunts of approval.
‘You did well, Romaine,’ he murmured. ‘Very well.’
She wished he’d go away, wished they’d all go away. Only Léo Martel left her in peace. He stood against the door, a sheet of paper hanging from his fingers, and watched her face, not the pen in her hand.
When she’d burst into the basement apartment, he had held her in his arms. He had kissed her eyelids as if he could erase whatever it was they had seen, he’d bathed her cuts and bruises and wrapped a strip torn from his shirt around a gash on her leg, while all the time she told him what had happened with Horst.
‘No more, Romy.’ He spoke softly but there was no softness in the knot he was tying on the bandage. ‘No more of this. I can’t bear it.’
She’d buried her fingers in his thick hair to show she was never going to let go, but she didn’t tell him about the key to that unnamed building where she’d burned the file. He might have thrown it in the Seine.
Now Noam leaned forward and picked up the sheet of paper. ‘Is it finished?’
She nodded.
He started to read aloud.
‘The Kreisau Circle (German: Kreisauer Kreis) is the name given by the Nazi Gestapo to a group of German dissidents in opposition to the Nazi regime. It is centred on the estate of Helmuth James Graf von Moltke at Kreisau in Silesia. The main members are Moltke himself, Peter Yorck von Wartenburg and Adam von Trott zu Solz. Most are from the traditional German aristocracy, but the circle also includes two Jesuit priests, two Lutheran pastors, liberals, landowners, trade-union leaders and diplomats.
‘The Kreisau Circle is in contact with other resistance groups within the Third Reich and is keen to contact dissident groups outside Germany to exchange information. Their plan is to oust Hitler’s government and establish a new one in Germany.
‘Horst Baumeister, who was Jewish, was a member of this circle, and he wanted to establish contact with our cell through me. The document states explicitly that there is a plot within the upper ranks of the German army to assassinate Hitler before he marches the country into a war that will tear Europe apart.’
Jerome gave Romy a clap on the back that landed on one of her bruises. ‘Fine work, mon amie.’
Diane kissed the top of Romy’s head, too choked to speak.
Noam grinned. ‘You have an address for these German dissidents?’
Romy took the paper from him and wrote down a telephone number in Germany.
‘You have an excellent memory, mademoiselle.’
An excellent memory. But not excellent enough to remember who stalked her father’s study the day of his death.
Martel stepped away from the door and held out his hand. ‘The paper, please, Noam.’
For a moment it seemed that the new member might not comply, but with a sideways look at Romy that made her skin crawl, he handed it over. In Martel’s other hand lay the sheet of paper Romy had filled earlier with the enemy’s plans and defensive tactics in Spain in response to the Republican’s surprise attack at the Ebro River.
It contained a list of commanders and which army divisions were being drawn for support from all over the country, a panic reaction that the Republican forces could work to disrupt. But more important was the information Romy had written down in horror – that despite his general’s advice to take up a defensive position, General Franco had decided to recover the lost ground at any cost. Any cost. The Republican army must prepare itself for a ferocious counterattack backed by German and Italian air strikes. This was the turning point.
Martel addressed Henri, the other new recruit, a radio operator. ‘Henri, you have work to do.’
‘If Franco’s Nationalist forces break through or split General Modesto’s troops in two,’ Martel continued grimly, ‘the backbone of the Republican army will be broken.’
A chill settled in the room. Each one understood the importance of conveying this information to those in command in Spain. Romy rose from her chair, but Noam reached out and his long wiry fingers gripped her shoulder.
‘Romaine,’ he said, ‘thousands of young men in Spain will thank you for this. We all thank you.’
‘I don’t want thanks. What I want to know is what bastard killed Horst Baumeister?’
Noam pushed her chair away, his eyes cold. ‘I will deal with it,’ he said.
‘No,’ Martel said, ‘leave that to me.’ He had a way of controlling any conversation with these people when he chose. He walked to the door and jerked it open. ‘Thank you all for coming so late at night. You know where we stand now. Each of us has work to do.’
They said their goodbyes, each one nodding respect to Romy, a kiss from Diane. Noam was the last to leave, lingering until all but Martel had departed.
‘Romaine,’ Noam said, ‘who is to say that the car that killed your German tonight wasn’t meant for you? I have reason to believe your brother-in-law is heavily involved with the Germans and—’
‘What reason?’
‘Enough!’ Martel said. ‘Get out, Noam. She’s had enough.’
Without a further word, Noam walked out. Martel locked the door and leaned his forehead against the wooden panel, pressing hard, his breathing uneven. He didn’t move. Romy went to him and from behind she wrapped her arms around him, her hand resting over his heart.
‘What is it, Léo?’
She rested her cheek between his shoulder blades and could feel the quakes within. It was like watching a cliff crack open.
‘Léo, my love.’ She kissed his back.
He turned to face her, his eyes naked.
‘Léo, what is it?’
His arms encircled her. ‘It’s you.’
She buried her face in his neck and inhaled the scent of his skin. ‘I know, my love. I know.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FLORENCE
I am wearing black. I hate it, but it is respectful on a Sunday. I like to be respectful, though black brings my father’s funeral crashing into my mind. I fear I will be sick over Chloé’s book on aviation. We are sitting side by side on the sofa reading it together and she tells me she wants to learn to fly like Tante Romy and Amelia Earhart, the American aviatrix. Gently I point out that Amelia Earhart went missing last year while trying to circumnavigate the globe.
‘In a Lockheed Electra,’ Chloé pipes up.
I don’t want her to know such things. I put the book aside.
She frowns, her pretty face puckering, and says solemnly, ‘I am needed by France. To make the country a bigger place for women.’
I stare at her. My daughter is six. Six. She may have my blue eyes but there is something in my daughter that is not in me. A sense of responsibility. It has come from my sister, I know it, and part of me admires it, but a part of me wants to tear it out of her because it will only lead to sorrow. You can never fulfil that responsibility the way you feel you should, so you are always disappointed in yourself. I’ve seen it in politicians, in diplomats, even in doctors and priests. The burden is too heavy. How dare Romaine lay it on my young daughter’s bird-like shoulders?
‘Romaine.’ I snap out her name. ‘What are you trying to prove?’
Chloé looks up at me with the soft amused smile that isn’t mine either. ‘Maman, she’s not here yet.’
I glance at the clock. ‘She will be soon.�
�
Chloé fidgets, she fiddles with her long silky plait, with the lace cuffs of her white blouse, with the buttons of her black patent-leather shoes. She is always like this before Romaine arrives, unable to contain her impatience. I try not to show that it hurts every Sunday, her eagerness to be away from me.
I dust my hand down her peach-smooth cheek. ‘Tell me, chérie, what is it you love most about your Aunt Romaine?’
She does a slow thoughtful blink of her wide-spaced eyes and then smiles. Her smiles always dazzle me. But this one’s not for me. It is for my sister.
‘She shows me things that are interesting,’ she says.
‘Like what?’
‘Like the inside of engines. And the lamination of propellers.’
I bite my tongue.
‘And she teaches me things.’
‘Such as?’
‘The names of the stars.’ She puts a finger to the side of her clear young forehead to help her think. Just as Romaine does. ‘How to tie good knots.’ She laughs, delighted with herself. ‘And how to swim. But I am not supposed to tell you that.’
My cheeks burn.
‘And Tante Romy is brave,’ she adds. ‘She flies.’
The doorbell rings at that moment and Chloé bounces off the sofa, racing for the door to the apartment. I remain where I am. The image of my daughter in water, held only by my sister’s unstable hands, swirls through my mind like black ink.
Romaine enters the room with Chloé frisking at her side, takes one look at me and comes forward, arms outstretched. I am stunned. At the change in her. She is wearing mourning, as I am, her horrible black sack of a dress belted tight at her tiny waist, but her eyes are lit up, more golden than amber. As though something is on fire inside her. She folds me in her arms, our heads pressed together, curls entwined.
‘Are you all right?’ she murmurs in my ear.
The Betrayal Page 21