It’s too late to finish the next leg into Italy, and the tricky descent off Mont Cenis is the one place I don’t want to be caught out in the open.
She closed her eyes and visualized the route: After descending the peak, the trail led across the crest of a long cornice. Following the exact line was absolutely critical—and good visibility was essential. Too far to the left and she could fall off the cornice. Too far to the right and she could end up below the crest, and it would take hours to climb out. And getting caught in a whiteout? It would be impossible.
When she opened her eyes again, the men were all standing exactly where they had been, waiting.
It’s obvious those two on skis are not equipped to spend a night on the mountain. Maybe I should go up to the summit and ski down the uppermost pitch before night and the storm sets in. I can camp there and wait until tomorrow before crossing the cornice.
She looked up at the darkening sky and the summit in the distance. That’s probably the only place I’ll be safe tonight.
Resigned, Claudine walked down the alley, slipped out of town, and reached the top of Mont Cenis with the help of several lifts. The storm was setting in and deep shadows were beginning to appear. By the time she had skied down the pitch to the east, above the crest of the cornice, visibility was limited to less than twenty feet. She soon found herself in a real whiteout.
The one good thing is that the lifts will have closed already, and I should be safe here… if not from the weather, at least from the agents.
She skied a short way to the base of two large rocks and unloaded her pack. Then she used one ski to dig a hole large enough for her, her gear, and room to stretch out. Lining it with her tarp, she placed her skis across the hole and pulled the remaining portion of the tarp over them, creating a makeshift roof with a small opening to see through. She squinted through it but couldn’t make out much of anything.
If I do see someone, they’ll already be within ten feet of me, she thought with some despair, nestling down into the hole. Then it will be too late.
Totally protected from the wind, Claudine wrestled with the clothing from her rucksack, putting it all on, and placed her small sterno on top of the emptied bag. She lit it, made a cup of coffee, sat back, and surveyed her belongings.
Here I am, on top of a mountain, caught in a blizzard, but I have a gourmet dinner of salami, cheese, and French bread, followed by the great Swiss dessert—a chocolate bar. What could be greater?
Not long after, satiated, warm, and tired, Claudine waited for sleep to come. No matter how hard she tried to turn off her brain, though, she couldn’t stop thinking about her immediate situation and the fates of her friends.
Clearly, we aren’t spies. We aren’t criminals, at least not in the classical sense. And we aren’t soldiers of war. If we aren’t any of those things, what are we and why are we being chased?
We are the enemies of fascism.
She thought about the vastness of that word, the lengths to which the agents would go to find her and the resources they had at their disposal.
There are already men in Lanslebourg looking for me. Most likely, there are men waiting for me in Sestriere, and by tomorrow, there will be men searching for me all along the way. I could become trapped up here.
That’s when the true terror of the situation began to sink in. She was wide-awake, and she was scared. What would Jacques do? He’d get a good night’s sleep, then, the next day, search for a solution with a well-rested brain. Finally, she drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, Claudine awakened to clear weather and a six-inch layer of snow covering the roof of her hastily built shelter. The storm had erased any signs of her presence.
She stretched out and was about to make some coffee when she heard voices. Her heart racing, she peered through the small opening and saw the same two men who had skied after her. They were standing within a couple hundred feet of her makeshift igloo, studying a map and discussing their options.
She strained to hear their words.
“From the look of the snow, she hasn’t passed here, at least not this morning. She has to still be in Lanslebourg or tried to ski on to Sestriere yesterday, which means she arrived there by now or is holed up somewhere en route.”
Seemingly satisfied, the men adjusted their goggles and bent to tighten their boots and adjust their bindings before starting their trek across the dangerous cornice.
Still carefully hidden, Claudine took a deep breath in an effort to calm down.
There’s nothing I can do until they are well out of sight, and even then, they may find a hiding place ahead and wait for me to ski into them. So, if I can’t go forward and I can’t stay here, what am I going to do? Jacques would find a third choice, but what other choices do I have?
Settling back into her small shelter, she extracted her father’s old map from her pack and began to study it for some other way off the mountain. Her finger traced a possible path. What is this, the Mont Cenis tunnel? It looked to be eight miles long, connecting Bardonecchia, Italy, to Modane, France.
She felt a glimmer of hope and her mind began racing.
To reach Bardonecchia, I would have to climb back up that steep pitch and ski eastward into Italy. From there, I could pass through the tunnel back into France.
But what good would that do me? I’d have to start this journey all over again. Wait a minute… They’re looking for a single woman skiing toward the Riviera, not a young female hitchhiking through Provence.
She would call Denise and explain the change in plans tomorrow. For now, she was sure that the last thing in the world the German agents would expect was for her to ski away from the Riviera route.
This is exactly what Jacques would have done.
Realizing that the climb up the pitch was going to be difficult enough, she decided to lighten the load. Dumping most of her food, one water bottle, her extra clothing, and the tarp into the hole, she carefully covered it up. Next, she shouldered her lightened rucksack, placed her skis on one shoulder, holding her poles in the other hand, and began her climb back up to the summit of Mont Cenis.
The terrain was steep and the snow was deep. It was tough climbing. To make it easier for herself, she forced her mind to concentrate on one step at a time.
Sweat-soaked and exhausted, Claudine finally allowed herself the luxury of stopping when she reached the summit. Kneeling down in the snow, she ate her last chocolate bar, drank some water, and put on her skis, careful not to take too long and let her legs cramp up.
The storm had left everything covered with inches of fresh, dry powder. Under normal circumstances, these were exactly the conditions Claudine would have gone to any length to experience. Now, though, she simply looked downward, hoping to hit the bottom shortly.
Her graceful descent left her about five miles short of Bardonecchia. To avoid exposure, she steered clear of the direct route, deciding, instead, to ski cross-country up and down the sloping terrain that led to the small Italian village. As she approached the first hill, she stopped to attach the fur-lined skins to her skis before starting the laborious trek up the first of what would be three gradual slopes.
It was late afternoon when Claudine arrived on the outskirts of the village. She was too exhausted to think about being discovered or to take any satisfaction in having escaped their trap for the time being.
Tonight, I’m going to treat myself to a warm shower, a good dinner, and a soft bed. Tomorrow, I’ll worry about the rest of the trip. I’m certain the new day will bring an entirely new set of problems to face.
Chapter 25
TROUBLE IN LONDON
Jacques stared out the windows of the Pan Am Clipper at the clouds over the North Atlantic. Worried thoughts tumbled through his mind, one after the other. Was Claudine somewhere safe by now? How much did the Germans know? Did he do the right thing, leaving Tony, Mike, and Cecelia? What about Ian? Jacques was, in some ways, more concerned for Ian than for Claudine. Claudine had an inne
r strength and a quick intelligence that would serve her well in dicey situations. But Ian was the least pragmatic and the most methodical and habitual of the six of them. Jacques just hoped he could warn him in time. Is this the way it’s going to be? Are we going to live the rest of our lives with some faceless posse constantly pursuing us? As soon as Jacques disembarked, he found a pay phone and called Ian, who answered after the first ring.
“Jacques, I’m so glad it’s you! Something’s going on… That man whom I hired to do the duplications, Duncan Melvin, seems to have gone missing. I don’t know who may have been after him but… what if they’re coming for me?” Ian gushed in a voice on the edge of hysteria.
“First of all, you’re going to have to calm down,” Jacques said. “The Germans already know about us, or at least suspect enough to make them come after us. That’s why I’ve come—to get you out of here. You are no longer safe in London. You must leave your apartment immediately. Take nothing with you. I want you to go to a movie. Appear as casual as you can, like you’re just going on a whim. Then go to the French Club.” Jacques gave him Maggie’s private phone number, then looked at his watch. “I’ll meet you there in three hours. I’ve got to straighten something out with Sir Desmond first, but I’ll be at the club to meet you. You got all that?”
“Right. A movie, then the French Club in three hours.”
To Jacques, Ian’s voice still sounded shaky. “Ian, are you sure you can remember what I’ve told you?”
“I wrote it down. I’ll keep the note in my pocket.”
“Okay, buddy. Let’s see some of that famous British stiff upper lip, okay?”
______
As his cab pulled away from the curb, Ian turned to look back at his flat. His heart began hammering at his ribs: two big men in overcoats were charging up the steps. Unable to take his eyes from the rear window, he instructed the cabbie to turn every few blocks. Only when he was finally convinced that no one was following them did he give the driver the name of the movie theater he’d selected.
______
The two men had no trouble picking the lock and entering Ian’s flat. A quick search of the apartment turned up nothing. The bed was made, the dishes were all washed and stacked neatly in the cabinets, and a book had been left open near a large sofa chair. Ian’s toothbrush was in its holder, his hairbrush was next to the sink, and his razor was in the medicine cabinet. Nothing seemed missing or out of order. Everything indicated that the owner would be returning.
Just as they were ready to leave, one of the men noticed the note pad next to the telephone. “Hang on.”
He picked up the pad and peered carefully at it. The paper was blank, but there were a series of depressions across the page. He picked up the pencil lying next to the pad and ran the side of its sharpened end against the indentation. “Looks like a phone number.”
He picked up Ian’s phone, called the number, and, on the third ring, heard someone answer, “French Club.”
______
Jacques wasted no time getting to Sir Desmond’s office. Upon arrival, he was immediately shown into the chairman’s office.
“Jacques, I can’t tell you how distressed we were to receive your cable warning us about unauthorized auditors,” Sir Desmond said, shaking Jacques’ hand but otherwise forgoing his usual pleasantries. “We checked our records, and sure enough, they revealed that someone had been here around the time those gold bearer bonds from Mr. Meyer’s, ah, client were cashed.”
He suspects something.
“I’m sorry, Sir Desmond. That’s exactly what happened to us at Stone City. Someone is searching for evidence of large deposits to try to find out the identity of the bonds’ owners. Mr. Stone, Mr. Lee, Mr. Meyer, and myself are all quite upset at this, but no further disturbances have been made.”
“Yes, well,” Sir Desmond said, turning around to pace the well-worn carpet on his office floor. “We decided to do some investigation on our own, which revealed that the IFIC had been hired by the Schmidt family solicitors right here in London.” He stopped and faced Jacques. “You may not know this, but the English branch of the Schmidts is related to some of Germany’s top industrial families.”
Before Jacques could speak, Sir Desmond approached him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “This situation with the bonds could turn very ugly indeed for all of us involved.”
______
Jacques left Sir Desmond’s office as soon as he possibly could, more and more concerned about the implications. He arrived at the French Club and hurried inside. In his haste, he failed to notice two large men standing across the street.
Maggie came toward him, smiling, but saw the look on his face. “What’s the matter, love?”
“Maggie, I need an enormous favor. For reasons I can’t explain, some very unsavory characters are after Ian and maybe me. We need the use of a safe house for a couple of weeks until things cool off. Do you know anyone who could help us?”
Maggie spun on her heel and went into her private office to make a call. Jacques could see her but couldn’t hear what she was saying. At one point, she set the phone down, reentered the bar, walked toward the front, and looked out the window. Then, returning to her office, she finished the call.
Minutes later, she exited the room and walked over to Jacques. Before she could tell him anything, her private phone rang and she went back into her office, this time leaving the door open. She picked up the receiver and quickly motioned Jacques inside. “It’s Ian,” she mouthed at Jacques, silently. “Come ahead, love,” she said into the phone. “Jacques is already here waiting. I’ll have someone meet you.”
______
Ian had just turned the corner and started up Maiden Lane toward the club when a man approached him.
Holding up his hands to stop Ian, he said, “There are two men waiting across the street from the club’s front entrance. Maggie believes they may be waiting for you. She asked me to escort you up the alley to the rear door.”
Ian nodded and followed the man.
Maggie and Jacques were waiting just inside the opened back door of the club, watching as Ian and his escort made their way down the alley.
Suddenly, two men emerged from behind a large garbage container. The first man shot Ian’s escort and the second one pushed Ian through the back door of a grocery lorry that was parked nearby. The lorry squealed out of the alley even before the rear panel had been properly closed. It turned right, covered the short block that led to the Strand, and disappeared into heavy traffic.
Jacques wasn’t sure if Maggie had screamed. He was too shocked by what he had just seen to realize much. All he knew was that she had pulled him back into the club and locked the door. In a matter of seconds, his close friend had vanished.
Chapter 26
A WAR WITHIN A WAR
Maggie had wide contacts with the London cells of the French resistance, and it wasn’t difficult to persuade a few of them to look after Jacques. They moved him to a safe house, and at least one of them was practically at his elbow twenty-four hours a day.
On the afternoon of Jacques’ second day in hiding, the leader of the cell approached him. “We’ve seen some fellows roaming the neighborhood lately, asking questions. We need to make you disappear.”
“I thought I already did,” Jacques said.
“No, mon ami, I mean permanently disappear. Just sit tight, and we’ll let you know the next move.”
The next morning, the headline in the London Times read:
BOMB DESTROYS SOHO NIGHT
CLUB—PROMINENT FRENCH
BANK HEIR FEARED DEAD
Jacques put down the paper and looked at his new French friend.
“Alain, isn’t this a rather grim way to protect me?”
“It’s not as grim as you think.” Alain smiled. “The term ‘feared dead’ has a different meaning to our governments and friends than it does to your enemies—at least, we hope so. Those who need to know realize that you are still very much aliv
e and under our protection.”
“That’s all well and good, but what about my family and friends?”
“I admit that this news is a bit harsh, but think about it. You wouldn’t be able to communicate with them anyway, for your own safety and theirs. This is the best way to make sure that no one tries to contact you.”
Jacques considered this for a moment. “And without Samson after me, I suppose I’ll be able to rest in peace.”
“That’s the idea.”
A few days later, Jacques was given the go-ahead to arrange his escape to the United States. When his French protectors were able to provide a secure overseas phone line, he knew what call he would have to make.
The five of us aren’t going to be able to do this alone. We’re going to need some assistance from higher up.
A voice on the other end answered, “Chairman Malone’s office. How can I help you?”
______
Two days later, Jacques was traveling as an unlisted passenger on an outbound U.S. Army cargo plane. Roger Malone had arranged everything, even getting in touch with Mike to tell him the truth about his friend’s whereabouts.
There was a lot of time to think on the flight to Washington, especially since sleep was out of the question. Jacques thought about Ian and how he’d hold up under questioning. Certainly not as well as Cecelia. Samson may know everything by now—which means the Germans do, too.
Unable to figure out any solution to the situation they had gotten themselves into, Jacques was growing frustrated. He was not accustomed to being unable to think his way through any issue. In fact, although he’d never admit it to others, he had always believed that by focusing all his mental energy on a problem, he could generally bore through the barriers and find a solution.
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I see a way through this minefield? Perhaps I’m too close to it this time.
Picturing Ian being pushed into the back of Samson’s truck, Jacques thought, This is the kind of exchange we’re caught up in—human bodies for bars of gold. We have allies and enemies, victims and victors. There is certainly no doubt that what we’ve ignited is a war within a war.
The Sentinels: Fortunes of War Page 17