by David Gilman
NIGHT FLIGHT TO PARIS
David Gilman
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About Night Flight to Paris
PRIS, 1943
The swastika flies from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Soldiers clad in field grey patrol the streets. Buildings have been renamed, books banned, art stolen and people disappeared. Amongst the missing is an Allied intelligence cell.
Gone to ground? Betrayed? Dead? Britain’s Special Operations Executive need to find out. They recruit ex-Parisian and Bletchley Park codebreaker Harry Mitchell to return to the city he fled two years ago.
Mitchell knows Occupied Paris – a city at war with itself. Informers, gangsters, collaborators and Resistance factions are as ready to slit each other’s throats as they are the Germans’. The occupiers themselves are no better: the Gestapo and the Abwehr – military intelligence – are locked in their own lethal battle for dominance. Mitchell knows the risks: a return to Paris not a mission – it’s a death sentence.
But he has good reason to put his life on the line: the wife and daughter he was forced to leave behind have fallen into the hands of the Gestapo. This is Michell’s only chance to save them. But with disaster afflicting his mission from the outset, it will take all his ingenuity, all his courage, to even get into Paris… unaware that every step he takes towards the capital is a step closer to a trap well set and baited.
Contents
Welcome Page
About Night Flight to Paris
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About David Gilman
About the Master of War series
Also by David Gilman
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
For Suzy
1
Paris
February 1943
The darkness moved. The night sky, black and heavy with menace and constant drizzle, curled in on itself as the massive swastika rippled in slow motion. Languid authority ruling over silent cobbled streets below. The gusting wind threw curtains of light rain, rushing over the echoing sound of running footfalls. A desperate clattering of fear in the curfew hours.
In the blacked-out room on the third floor of a five-storey walk-up, a curtain twitched. Through the sliver of glass, an old woman peered down at the dark street in the Eighteenth Arrondissement. Dim figures raced around the corner. Across the street others dared to ease back a curtain or a shutter, dousing their house lights, fearful of being seen, not wanting to be drawn into whatever was happening to the desperate fugitives below. The curtain twitcher saw two men and two women running for their lives. The older of the women snatched at a younger girl’s arm as she almost stumbled on the wet cobbles. Ahead of them one of the men, perhaps in his forties, ran into doorway after doorway, desperate to gain access and escape from whoever was pursuing them. As he beat his fist on one door, the second man did the same to the next.
Every door was locked and no one who cowered in the dimly lit rooms was foolish enough to let the strangers in, despite their cries for help. The sound of fast-approaching studded boots told the old woman behind the curtain that the men and women were facing certain death. A dozen German soldiers turned the same corner, a couple skidding on the wet street. But then a command rang out: the soldiers stopped and raised their rifles. The old lady let the curtain fall back and retreated into her room. There was no need to witness what would happen next. She settled herself in the threadbare chair and pulled her shawl around her, bowing her head, gnarled hands covering her ears. Dreading the shattering crack of rifle fire.
Hail Mary, full of grace…
*
Despite the chilling rain, Alain Ory was sweating. Fear and desperation kept him banging on every door as they ran down the street. He begged; he cried out for help. There was no response. Soldiers appeared in the distance, spectres in the shifting rain. A voice called for those running to halt. Alain turned to the women, who had faltered. Suzanne Colbert had kicked her shoes off so she could run silently and with less risk of slipping. He had always desired her. She was similar in age to him, a courageous and beautiful woman. Now she huddled with her daughter in a doorway. In this desperate moment, he felt a surge of sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. He would have to abandon them.
He did not hear the German officer’s command to shoot. Rifle fire rang out. Suzanne and her daughter clung to each other. Alain threw himself across them, smelling the musk of her daughter’s hair and the acrid tang of urine as terror emptied her bladder. Bullets tore into the running body of their companion. The young man pirouetted silently, arms akimbo, turning almost gracefully on his toes. The illusion was shattered by the ripping of flesh and the sickening crunch of bone as he fell face first on to the cobbles. Blood seeped from beneath his body.
Alain pulled the women out of the doorway. He heard the mechanical slide of rifles being cocked, then pressed the women against the wall as another volley rang out. Bullets ripped stone fragments above where they crouched. A ricochet hit Suzanne’s leg. She stifled a cry of pain and limped behind the others as Ory turned into an alley, hurrying the younger woman with him. He pressed against the wall, dared to peer around and then stepped back into the street to drag Suzanne after them. The soldiers were running and would not fire again until one or more of them saw their targets and then stopped and aimed. One leg was twisted under Suzanne; blood flooded her hand, which squeezed the wound. Her agonized look told him everything. She wasn’t going to make it.
‘Go!’ she gasped.
He could not help her. She was pushing her identity card down the street drain. He turned and ran back into the alley.
‘Save her!’ cried the terrified girl.
He gripped her arms and tried
to push her further into the darkness. ‘No. We leave her!’
The girl wept, ‘I can’t. She’s my mother,’ and pulled back from him.
‘Christ, you fool. Danielle, come on!’
She shook her head and tried to run past him back into the street. He pressed her shoulders against the wall, but she threw him off, her terror more powerful than his strength. For the briefest instant he cupped her distraught face in his hands. ‘I can’t help you. Good luck.’ He turned and ran into the void as she spun around and stumbled to her mother.
‘Danielle. No. For God’s sake!’ Suzanne begged, raising a hand to stop her.
No sooner had Danielle knelt next to her wounded mother than headlights flooded the street and the soldiers dragged her away, screaming. Tyres skidded to a halt, doors opened, and she was bundled into the back of one of the cars. It quickly reversed and turned. The headlamps of the second car, parked off to one side, threw long fingers of light across the wounded woman and the soldiers, standing with rifles now slung, smoking cigarettes as their officer spoke to one of the men in the car. Soldiers toed the man’s dead body as others stood over Suzanne. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the light and saw her daughter’s face pressed against the back window as the car sped away. A German officer barked something and two of his men leant down and grabbed her arms; then they dragged her across the cobbles to the waiting car. Suzanne cried out as her wounded leg scraped on the uneven surface. The pain made her vomit. They cursed and one of them hit her on the back of the head with his fist. Stunned, she smelt the warm comfort of the car’s leather seats and was flooded with fleeting images, memories of better days. A lover who became her husband; a leather sofa and the excitement of their first sexual encounter. Love and warmth. All that had long since fled. Now only cold dread remained.
2
SS-Standartenführer Heinrich Stolz of the Sicherheitsdienst pulled up in his car outside the Préfecture de Police, opposite the Hôtel-Dieu, Paris’s first hospital, built in the Middle Ages. Stolz’s destination offered no such succour. His tailored uniform was decorated with the Knight’s Cross, Iron Cross and Infantry Assault medals among his campaign ribbons. He had served in the SS Infantry and earned a reputation for single-minded determination and courage on the battlefield. He was no stranger to fighting a vicious enemy, whether they wore a uniform or struck covertly as terrorists.
Oberst Ulrich Bauer, the Abwehr colonel in charge of military counterintelligence in Paris, waited for him on the steps of the Préfecture. The two men were of equivalent rank. They greeted each other and turned into the drab building. Bauer had twenty years on Stolz, who was thirty-six years old and one of the tall, fair-haired Aryan gods Bauer quietly despised. Stolz had been chosen by Himmler himself, and SS-Brigadeführer Karl Oberg, to control Paris with the SS, the security service and Gestapo under his command. All of which gave the Sicherheitsdienst officer a direct line to Berlin. He was the most feared man in Paris.
‘Two weeks ago four Luftwaffe officers were killed by a grenade attack in a local café. You have made no progress in determining who was responsible,’ said Stolz.
‘It was not an organized attack by the Resistance.’
‘Terrorists... call them what they are, colonel,’ Stolz corrected him as they strode through the colourless corridors.
‘It was a lone assassin. We’re certain of it.’
‘And I’m certain it’s because the English sent agents here to train the killers,’ said Stolz. ‘The fifth floor?’
Bauer nodded, suppressing a groan, and fell in step beside Stolz. The SD officer always used the stairs and took them briskly. He was fitter than Bauer and the army colonel knew it was a simple ploy by Stolz to put him at a disadvantage.
Stolz glanced at the older professional soldier. Bauer’s breath had quickened yet he seemed determined to keep up with the pace, even if it killed him. At least that showed a level of determination, Stolz decided generously. Bauer’s face was flushed by the time they reached the commissaire’s office. Stolz placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder before they entered.
‘You should get yourself in shape, Bauer. A couple of sets of tennis aren’t enough and you never know when we might have to run for our lives.’
Bauer felt a sudden stab of uncertainty, a pain that was not from his exertions on the stairs. Was that a veiled threat? German Army officers had been executed on the Führer’s orders for failing in their duty.
Stolz smiled. ‘It’s a joke, Bauer. A joke. We mustn’t lose our sense of humour.’
The army colonel nodded grimly. Humour was not an attribute the Sicherheitsdienst, the state intelligence service for the SS and Nazi Party and its sister agency the Gestapo, was known for. They stepped into Commissaire Fernand David’s office and the man walked briskly around his desk to greet them.
David was head of the Brigades Spéciales, a specialist police unit used for tracking down internal enemies and escaped prisoners. Knowing Stolz was enthusiastic about breaking Resistance cells, David had dedicated a number of officers to tracking suspected résistants; all of his men worked in pairs, using a variety of undercover disguises: they would even wear the Star of David to lessen any suspicion from a suspect they were following. Many of the Resistance cells were communist-led and -inspired, and frequently in disagreement with nationalist cells; their infighting often made one betray the other. Fernand David had a particular hatred for communists and a reputation for torturing male prisoners by crushing their testicles with pliers, even though their resulting confessions were usually worthless. The commissaire tortured for the pleasure of it.
After the usual formalities, David ushered Stolz and Bauer to a wall where photographs of suspected Resistance fighters were pinned in an intricate pattern of names, addresses and known associates. Flowcharts linked Paris districts with suspects, their relatives and friends. ‘We have been following this one group for some weeks, colonel. We arrested fifty-seven young Jews two weeks ago. They will be deported on charges of murder and terrorist activity.’ Many of the commissaire’s men were anti-Semitic and played a key role in rooting out Jews hidden by sympathizers in the city, which served the Germans well. ‘After some persuasion at the hands of my men, we learnt that a résistant cell had been aiding them to smuggle out other Jews. We tracked four of the Resistance to an apartment above a bakery in Rue Stanislas Meunier in Quartier Saint-Fargeau, in the Twentieth Arrondissement. We alerted your local area commander and he caught them…’ he tapped the wall map. ‘… here. Eighteenth Arrondissement. One man dead, one escaped and two women captured. There were more arrests in other areas. Twelve more suspects in addition to the two women. The Gestapo have them now.’
Stolz glanced at Bauer, sensing the Abwehr colonel’s discomfort. The commissaire’s department had tracked down the cell that had been rounded up by the Germans the previous night. It was a feather in the Special Brigades’ cap, but it also stung that they were enjoying more success than the occupying force. Yet, if they could be offered even more support and resources their success would also reflect well on Stolz’s security service. ‘Is there any information on the man who escaped?’
‘Very little, colonel.’ David picked up a sheet of paper. ‘We suspect his name is Alain Ory, 1.6 metres tall, medium build, fair complexion. He has brown hair and, when he escaped, he was wearing a light brown wide-brimmed hat, slightly raised at the back, a grey overcoat with brown longitudinal stripes, grey trousers, black shoes. My men have circulated his description to the Feldgendarmerie and your agents.’
‘Thank you, commissaire. Please commend your men on my behalf.’
Commissaire David nodded his thanks. Stolz tapped some of the photographs. ‘These men are still at large. When I took command here they were known to military intelligence. In one way or another, they are linked to the terrorists.’ He did not turn to look at the perspiring Bauer, but there was no doubt to whom his comments were directed. ‘Your task was to find them. You have not.’
Commissaire David remained silent and brushed an invisible fleck of fluff from his double-breasted suit. The German Army’s military intelligence command in Paris and the Occupied Zone vied with Stolz’s Sicherheitsdienst to be the most successful in the intelligence war, and with the Gestapo reporting directly to Stolz, there was little doubt who was winning that particular contest. The SS had long held the belief that Admiral Canaris, the head of Abwehr, was not as loyal to the Führer as they were.
‘Then you’ve done your best,’ said Stolz.
‘Of course,’ Bauer replied.
‘In which case, the Gestapo and the state intelligence service are assuming overall responsibility from the Abwehr for this area.’
Bauer stepped back as if he had been struck. To be relieved of intelligence responsibility in front of the Frenchman was an insult. ‘But I’m a professional soldier! Counterintelligence is my department.’
‘We have a more... robust way of dealing with these people,’ said Stolz. ‘Now, let’s see what the latest round-up of suspects has brought us.’
3
In La Santé prison the stench of stale urine and the chill of the dank cellars used to torture prisoners frightened Hauptmann Martin Koenig. The young captain rarely descended into the hell of these cells: his skills were put to better use analysing reports and compiling data. More than a thousand prisoners were crammed into cells no larger than 3.5 metres by 1.75 metres, six prisoners to a cell and two straw mattresses between them. He walked purposefully along the dimly lit corridor determined not to be thought timid by the guards. He passed closed rooms, the heavy door of one barely muffling groans, heading towards an open door, when a sudden cry, the voice of a woman in agony, made him falter. The silence that followed prompted him to pick up his pace again; the sooner his errand was over the better. He stopped in the doorway of the open interrogation cell. What he saw made him grimace, but he managed to suppress visible shock. A woman was bound to a metal chair, dressed only in her petticoat. An ugly bullet wound festered in her leg, one eye was closed from a beating and blood had run from her bruised nose down her neck and bosom. Her interrogators had slashed the soles of her feet with razor blades and the young officer knew they would have forced her to walk in a trough of salt. Her head was slumped and he could see it was the pain that had made her pass out. The brief absolution of oblivion.