by S C Brown
‘Utterly,’ she replied.
‘Good, in which case, I have a plan. It’s your plan, actually.’
* * *
Clement looked impatiently out the window, studying the house across the street. Ten slow minutes passed by. Clement’s breath misted on the glass as he stared. Through the darkness, came a car with its lights off, stopping right outside the house Clement was watching. The driver and passenger, both men, got out to help a large man out of the back seat and into the house. As the men approached the door, it quickly opened and let them in. Clearly, they were expected. The street returned to silence.
‘He’s here,’ said Clement. The door behind him opened as Paul and Saxon entered the room.
‘Anyone else about?’ asked Saxon.
‘Doesn’t look like it. It shouldn’t take long to get him settled should it?’
A torch flashed briefly in one of the upstairs windows of the house opposite.
‘Ah! At last, the signal. Let’s go.’ With that, Clement opened the front door and peered in both directions down the street. ‘OK, we can go.’
Clement, Saxon and Paul crossed the road briskly, the door of the house opposite opened and closed as quickly as it had before.
Clement’s impatience evaporated. ‘Good evening, good evening one and all,’ he beamed, reaching into a pocket to retrieve his pipe and tobacco. The man who had opened the door for him smiled back weakly, Clement tapped him gently on the shoulder three times. ‘So far, so good. You’ll be fine. Now, where is he?’
‘In the back room, he’s not in a good way,’ the doorman said quietly.
‘Right,’ Clement said glumly. He lit his pipe, waved his match gently in the air and then walked through the house with Paul and Saxon following silently behind.
‘My God, Michel, is that you?’ Clement couldn’t quite believe it. Whatever or whoever this was, this was not the proud, and arrogant Michel Clement had tolerated these last few years.
‘You’ll forgive me not shaking hands, Clement.’ Michel lisped noticeably as he offered up his wrists for everyone to see. The shock was clear in Clement’s eyes.
‘Of course,’ Clement withdrew his hand and stopped smiling, embarrassed. ‘It’s good to see you.’ Clement thought it best not to finish that sentence with the word ‘alive’.
‘How long am I going to be in quarantine for?’ Michel asked. ‘Or is that down to him?’ Michel looked straight at Paul.
Paul was still shocked at the sight of Michel’s battered face and the twisted way Michel sat in his chair. ‘This is standard procedure for someone returning from interrogation,’ said Paul. ‘You know that. We need to keep you distant for a while. Just in case. We need to wait until all the raiding has stopped.’
‘They have been raiding?’
‘Oh yes. They have been making their way through all the houses we vacated the day you were arrested. We have left the Germans enough to think they are onto something without actually getting their hands on anyone or anything of any real value.’ Paul looked up towards his father.
Paul continued: ‘Not just that, I want to know what they asked you, what they did to you, all the details, I’m afraid. I need to know exactly what the Germans asked you, that could give us a clue as to their next intentions, and who asked what.’
‘Well, that is going to be easier than you think, Paul. Firstly, it was Ritter who ran the interrogations, the beatings. Didn’t really get his own hands dirty, he had some Milice called Jean do all the dirty work. As for all the questions they asked me? That’s easy too: they didn’t ask me a thing.’
Paul felt himself guffaw.
‘You don’t believe me? Paul, you have to. They didn’t ask me one thing. They didn’t need to. I had been beaten that many times that, when the electrocutions began, I just started to talk. I went through all the usual stories, just as you have told us all to. I just got to a point where I couldn’t take it any more.’
The room went very quiet.
Saxon broke the silence. ‘Tell us what happened.’
‘I was asleep in my house-’
‘-That was your mistake!’ interrupted Paul, ‘Why didn’t you just do what I told you and run instead of going straight home like that? They raided both our houses, we knew they would, we agreed as much when we left Yvette’s place.’
Michel didn’t seem to care. ‘I made a mistake. I admit it and I’ve paid for it. I thought I would be OK. I was wrong.’
The room was silent for a moment.
‘What happened to your wrists?’ asked Clement, kindly.
Michel looked down at his wrists, still too painful to rub. ‘From the restrains on the chair they sat me in to beat me. You can’t see what the electrocutions did to me: you don’t want to.’
‘What did you think of Ritter? How would you rate him as a man, as a soldier?’ asked Saxon.
‘He’s neither. He’s a monster who gets someone else to do all the so-called soldiering for him. I haven’t seen the Milice Jean before but I want him dead if anyone comes across him. You know, in any other walk of life, both Ritter and Jean would have been the prisoners getting locked up. Ritter thinks that uniform of his gives him the right to what he likes to who he likes. I think he’s…’ Michel looked for the words. ‘Vicious.’
‘So what happened at the end?’
‘They told me they were checking out my story, so I wasn’t tortured for a day, maybe two. Then they came down the corridor just like they always did, but instead of taking me upstairs to the room, they took me outside to a car. When then dragged me outside, I thought they were going to shoot me. Ah yes,’ he went on, remembering, ‘someone was shot in that courtyard the first night I was there. Do you know who it was? No?’
No one knew.
‘Hm, well, they drove me back here and dumped me outside Henri’s. The rest you know.’
‘They said nothing more to you?’ asked Clement.
‘Nothing.’
‘Why do you think they let you live? Why didn’t they just kill you when they’d got all they wanted?’ asked Saxon.
‘Only foreigners can get away with asking questions like that,’ glared Michel. ‘I don’t know. At one point, for all I cared, they could have killed me but they didn’t. Maybe they wanted the village to see me like this to put people off working with you lot.’
‘They usually take hostages and shoot them to do that,’ replied Saxon.
‘They have?’ asked Michel.
‘No,’ said Clement, ‘that’s the bit that has me worried. The Germans normally would not think twice and kill 10 of us for every one of them. They do it all the time, right?’ Everyone, even Michel, nodded. ‘But not this time. This time, they raid all the places we wanted you to give away to the Germans but that’s it.’
‘Well, it won’t be because Ritter’s in a good mood that he hasn’t killed half the village,’ responded Michel darkly.
Clement thought for a while before saying, ‘Michel, you will go back into hiding for a while longer, whilst you get better. I can’t see any reason why they would want to come and pick you up again, do you?’
‘I hope not,’ said Michel with feeling.
Paul could not help himself. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us, Michel? The bit where you did a deal to buy your freedom, for instance?’
‘There was no deal. I told you. They just let me go.’
Clement nodded. ‘So, Michel, you will lay low and get better. Paul will keep an eye on the Germans to see if they’re up to anything unusual. Meanwhile, me and you, Saxon, well, let’s get planning a few things to keep the German’s mind off things for a while.’
Clement, Saxon and Paul withdrew, left the house and nipped back to the safe house opposite.
‘Do you believe him?’ asked Clement quietly.
‘Seems plausible to me. What about you, Paul, what do you think?’
‘Everything he has said checks out with what has happened out on the ground. All the addresses on the list of places to give aw
ay if caught have been raided just as we had planned.’
‘So that’s settled then, he stuck to the script and gave away all the addresses you put on the pre-prepared list.’ Clement reached into a pocket for his pipe but he could see something he recognised in Paul’s face. ‘There’s something else you want to say, isn’t there, Paul?’
‘Yes. The stash of rifles hidden in the grounds of Château de Vascoeuil?’
‘What about them, Paul?’
‘They were raided by the Germans the day before Michel was released.’
‘Yes, and?’
‘They weren’t on the list.’
* * *
Lieutenant Schmidt stood in his helmet and greatcoat in the rain, only a few paces further forward from where he had stood chatting to Brunswick the other day. Progress had been pitifully but dutifully slow.
Schmidt watched a small length of rail be carried from a rail flat to its new home as part of the Paris to Rouen line. One of the NCOs supervising the unloading walked casually up to his officer and passed him a note.
Schmidt smiled as the rain began to wash away the only word on the note: Thursday.
‘Careful with that rail, Gunther, I don’t want to have to tell you to take this one out and re-lay it like I did the last one. Take it gently, trust me, there’s no rush.’
* * *
The kitchen smelled of lamb in red wine. Clement, Saxon and Paul sipped on the little wine that Clement had not thrown into the dish and, as was the common custom in this house, stared mesmerised into the fire.
‘They are very wary this time, the Germans that is,’ said Clement, his beard reflecting the red of the flames.
‘That’s a mild piece of understatement, Father. They have practically crept along, looking for mines and they have also been cautious when bringing new rail and tools up to the site. You did your job very well, Saxon.’
Saxon simply nodded. ‘What about sentries?’
‘No more than since our first attack, although we did spot a patrol taking a good look at where we all lay during the first attack. Maybe they think that we will be back again soon?’
‘And will we, I wonder?’ mused Clement.
Paul wasn’t sure if Clement’s mind, what with all that wine, was fully on the job. Clement continued: ‘Why not attack again? Let’s whip them up into being so determined to beat us they station a whole Division of soldiers on the railway. We could certainly ‘declare victory’ if we made them do that.’
‘Are you being sincere or sarcastic?’ asked Paul warily, ‘Bring a whole Division here? That may help the wider war effort but it would shut us down for certain. Maybe for good.’
For only the briefest of moments, Clement’s disappointed eyes left the fire.
‘I think we should ask London,’ said Saxon. ‘Let’s see what they want us to do.’
‘What should we ask London?’ asked Clement quietly.
‘Whether we attack the railway in exactly the same place and exactly the same way once again, or perhaps try a slightly different location. Close enough to make a statement but not so close to get caught in the act.’
‘What does my Security Officer think of this? Paul?’
Paul was slow and thoughtful. ‘Perhaps. I have thought of somewhere just down from where we attacked last time that would be good to hit.’
‘Saxon? What do you think?’
‘I would want to visit the site beforehand.’
‘That can be arranged. Paul?’
‘Of course, we can go tomorrow if you want.’
‘That’s settled then. That all sounds good, Saxon, all good. I think the men need a run out, don’t you Paul?’
‘It would help keep the unruly ones in check and frankly, it would take everyone’s mind off of Michel.’
‘That’s settled then.’
‘Hang on,’ said Saxon, ‘We’ll still need London’s approval for this. Also, I want to ask them for more explosives and mines. At this rate, I’m going to need it. We are due to send a report back tomorrow night, we can ask all the questions and make our demands then.’
‘Good,’ said Clement, reaching for the bottle. ‘Not a word to Michel or any of his guards. More wine, anyone?’
Chapter Eight
As regular as clockwork, the laundry truck, having filled up with the day’s sheets and shirts, departed through the side gate of the Hotel Majestic. The truck trundled down the street and onwards to its next stop, the nearby military police station. No one noticed the van had a different driver this evening but then again, no one cared. The driver got out, unlocked the tailgate of the truck and stood ready to receive a laundry sack.
Silently, Eve slipped down from the truck and into the back of a van parked next to it. Ursula, Eve’s one-time jailer, shut the van door behind Eve, got in and drove off, leaving the laundry van behind.
Ursula took over an hour to drive what was no more than a couple of miles as the crow flies, turning continually, speeding up, slowing, parking up to see if anyone was trailing her. All the usual tricks. The only car following them was the car Berner had arranged to tail them for protection.
The van eventually pulled into another police station, where in the shadows, a queasy Eve got into the passenger seat of an unmarked car. In silence, she was driven north through the city. Ursula brought the car to a halt. Eve got out and walked to the station entrance and disappeared down the stairs. She passed through the policemen checking ID cards without a hitch, boarded a train and headed back into central Paris. Eve felt relieved to be out of captivity but it took three more journeys, a short double-back on a bus, and plenty of time studying reflections in large windows before she could be certain that she had not been followed.
She relaxed only when she was safely through Lotti’s front door.
* * *
Lieutenant Schmidt watched his men set off to board a truck and return to Rouen with a wide, sardonic grin across his face. Schmidt peered up into the trees, certain that if he looked hard enough he would see the French Resistance getting ready to blow up his railway again, or maybe even Colonel Brunswick hard on their tail. But no, Schmidt could see nothing in the dusk and, turning up his collar against the incessant drizzle, he followed his men back to barracks. He was going to have a beer or two tonight, he decided. After all, it was likely he would be back tomorrow, or maybe even the day after, to repair another blown up railway line.
It just so happened that one of Paul’s men was watching as Schmidt walked off. With no German patrols in the area, everything looked good for another attack. It was time to tell Clement.
* * *
It used to be simpler: Saxon would walk across the track, sit patiently whilst Xavier, Clement’s personal signaller, rhythmically tapped out the message before returning to the kitchen and the customary glass of wine. Yet since Michel’s release and the killing of Mrs Morneau, Paul had tightened radio security procedures. Paul made life secure but inconvenient: all messages had to go via specified signalers and it was Xavier’s turn to send the next message.
Having moved via a safe house before curfew, Saxon knocked gently against Xavier’s back door. Xavier’s short, dainty old wife let him in and hurried Saxon through the low-ceilinged cottage, up a narrow ladder and into the loft, where he picked up a wooden splinter on the way. The loft, harshly lit by only one very bright bulb, was squat and confined. Close to the hatch sat Xavier, waiting with his headphones on. Saxon, without a word, passed his message to Xavier, who looked down through half-moon spectacles at the message.
‘But this is too long,’ said Xavier handing it back to Saxon. ‘Nothing longer that 7 minutes is the rule. You know that. What do you think I am?’
Saxon smiled, pleading. ‘Paul said you would say that. We all think you can get that out in time.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Xavier sounded far from convinced.
‘Sorry, this has to go tonight, it’s important. I won’t tell you why.’
Xavier shifted uneasily, pur
sing his lips as he checked his watch. Xavier was making a decision. Saxon glanced at his own watch and then regarded Xavier with a long, steady gaze.
Xavier relented and, like a priest preparing Eucharist, began his pre-transmission ritual. Saxon breathed out, silently counting down the seconds.
At the appointed time, Saxon nodded, Xavier switched on his set and, squinting at Saxon’s sheet of paper, began to tap out the message as fast as he could.
* * *
Not that far away, parked outside the headquarters of 184th Supply Battalion, a line began to flicker across the screen of Corporal Steinseck’s cathode ray tube.
‘I have it! Goddammit I have it! He’s close! Fetch Brunswick! Bearing … 214, no, 211 degrees. He’s loud and he’s clear! Go and get Brunswick!’
Brunswick had already heard Steinseck’s excited outburst from outside and leapt the steps into the detector van in one leap. ‘Where?’
‘Just southwest, I have him on 211 degrees, he’s on strength 9 and he’s tapping at a steady rate. Like a professional.’ Steinseck sniggered. ‘The cheeky bastard might as well be next door.’
Brunswick leapt down to the ground, through the open door of 184 Regiment’s headquarters, and grabbed the telephone handset.
The caller on the other end answered immediately. ‘We’ve got him, Brunswick! Have you?’
‘Yes, yes, 211 degrees, strength 9.’ Brunswick, normally cool and suave, could not contain his excitement either.
The voice at the other end laughed, impressed. ‘I have him on 328 degrees, strength 8, maybe 9.’
Brunswick put the phone straight down and dialled another number.
‘Hallo? Busch?’
‘Hallo? Brunswick?’
‘Yes?’
‘You knew! You bastard, you knew! You must have known - he’s just where you said he would be!’
‘Cut the crap. Where is he?’
Busch got the hint. ‘094 degrees, strength 8.’
Brunswick slammed the phone back down and, turning to the nearest desk, plotted three lines on a map, each starting from the known location of each of his radio detection vans. The lines converged over a pencil mark that Brunswick had put on his map three days ago. Brunswick puffed out his cheeks. It seemed Berner’s contact in Berlin had been right all along.