by David Gilman
Fifteen minutes later, long after the agreed meeting time, she saw Mitchell accompanied by a gendarme and turned so that he could see her. Mitchell caught her eye and smiled, and gave a brief shake of his head. He was showing her that he was under no threat and placed a companionable hand on the man’s back as they entered the café and disappeared inside.
She knew she had been on the street too long and could be in danger if the café were being watched. She needed to be certain of what to do next and quickly crossed the street to follow Mitchell. She found him and the gendarme at a table tucked away from view of the street. She asked for change at the counter, caught Mitchell’s eye and acknowledged the nod of his head that all was well. The gendarme was hunched over a drink talking effusively. There was nothing more she could do except return to the apartment and wait for him.
*
‘Drink up, Henri. One of the perks of being a policeman is that I don’t pay. So, where are you staying these days?’ said Vanves.
Mitchell feigned embarrassment. ‘Look, Jules, I’m not doing so well these days. I’m renting a room. I am searching for Suzanne and Danielle.’
‘They’re not in Paris?’
‘They went missing when we got out,’ said Mitchell, not wishing to tell the affable man about the death of his wife. If Vanves heard that she had been executed by the Germans then a line of questioning could develop that might stop any chance of Mitchell using him to get information.
Vanves lowered his glass, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Henri.’ He looked at Mitchell, the tone of his voice less conversational. ‘Or should I call you Pascal? I’m not stupid and I’m not deaf. I heard you tell my officer your name. Why are you using false papers?’
Mitchell knew it was the moment when Jules Vanves could either be the policeman he was or become the old acquaintance who might reach out a helping hand.
‘I didn’t expect you to forget, Jules. You always had a good memory for names and faces. I’m an Englishman in occupied France searching for his family. I had friends help me with the documents.’ Mitchell swallowed the drink and played his last card. He placed a hand on the gendarme’s arm and reached for his hat. ‘I have no wish to cause you embarrassment or to put you in a difficult situation. My thanks for the drink. It was good to see you again.’ Mitchell stood to leave but Vanves held his arm. His face had lost any sign of friendliness.
‘How do I know you are not an English agent?’
Mitchell laughed. ‘Me?’
The moment held and then Vanves’s face broke into a grin. ‘I’m teasing you, Henri, you are hardly the type to get involved in anything dangerous or stupid. You were always the cautious one. Come on, sit down. Let’s see what I can do to help you. You were always good to me. I will never forget that.’
Mitchell eased back down into the chair. ‘Thank you, Jules,’ he said, careful to display enough humility to flatter a weak man who had been given authority over others.
Vanves patted his arm. ‘I was always the clumsy one, was I not? Always the butt of everyone’s cruel remarks. And if there was a practical joke to be played it was on me. Oh, yes, I remember the humiliation of those days. Only you defended me. Only you treated me with any respect. Well, those bastards are treating me with respect now, aren’t they? You are a decent man, Henri. And now you need some help. We are both family men and these times are difficult.’ He finished his drink and tugged on his képi. ‘You’re coming home with me for a hot meal. And I’m sure I can find a place for you to stay. I told you – I have some influence these days.’
Mitchell stood and smiled at Vanves. He was genuinely gratefully that the man had turned a blind eye to him breaking the law, and he could be a means to an end. As they stepped out into the spring sunshine, he hoped that when he had got what he needed he would not have to kill him.
41
Stolz gazed along the Avenue Foch from his office window to where the swastika banner stirred over the Arc de Triomphe. He blew cigarette smoke skyward to the heavy drifting clouds. ‘What do we think?’ he said without turning around to Leitmann and Koenig, who waited obediently behind him.
‘There was no reason he shouldn’t have shown up,’ said Koenig. ‘Hesler’s radio message was acknowledged. And he’s sent another request to London.’
‘Could they be suspicious?’ said Leitmann.
‘Not according to Hesler,’ said Koenig.
‘Then why didn’t this Pascal turn up at the meeting?’ said Stolz, turning and grinding out the cigarette. ‘You waited long enough, did you?’
‘Yes, colonel. Our man at the café stayed late as well. Who knows why he didn’t show? He fell ill, he had an accident, he was caught up in a swoop,’ Leitmann said and shrugged. ‘We will have to wait and see if London comes back to Hesler. He’s trying to keep his transmission times limited. Do too much and we might raise their suspicions.’
‘I agree,’ said Stolz. ‘Koenig, check the area to see whether we had any patrols doing spot checks. Gendarmes as well. See if they arrested anyone named Pascal.’ Stolz nodded the two men away. He was convinced there had been no warning given that had alerted the suspected British agent and stopped him going to the café. Perhaps it was simply human frailty? These men and women who risked torture and death were under enormous pressure. Drink could dull the fear but the risk was that sooner or later an agent became dependent on it, and therefore ineffective. It would be understandable if he were lying in a drunken stupor somewhere. Where was he, this elusive man? Stolz’s informant had passed on enough information to snare him at the safe house set up by the Resistance, but that had produced nothing except a wild gun battle that amounted to little more than a man committing suicide. The round-up of suspects was yielding little in the way of results. The Milice and Brigades Spéciales were useful in punishment beatings but they had their own crimes to solve and the cat-and-mouse game between himself and Pascal was personal. Not only would Himmler reward him if he caught the agent sent to rescue the German traitor and delivered Korte for trial and execution, but there were routes out of the city that smuggled downed airmen, and every one of those who escaped would soon be back in the skies over Berlin. Mitchell knew those routes. Had been instrumental in setting them up. Had established well-placed people in the city and beyond. Mitchell was a prize to be seized.
He adjusted the two photographs on his desk. One showed an angular-faced woman with dreamy eyes smiling at the camera; the other the same woman embracing a seven-year-old boy. Both were flaxen-haired and their laughter reached him from their unwavering gaze. The thought repeated itself. The more airmen the Resistance helped escape the more would return over the skies of Berlin. Men who had destroyed vast swathes of his home city and whose bombs had erased all traces of his beloved wife and son.
*
Dominique Lesaux waited patiently. There was no need to be nervous, she always told herself. Being Heinrich Stolz’s lover was her protection. No one would harm her. Her calmness was an act of will every time she entered the Sicherheitsdienst headquarters. The fear the imposing building generated seeped downward from the fifth floor, from all the violence and pain that was inflicted on those unfortunates caught and interrogated there. Once, when she was waiting for her lover to emerge from a conference, she had heard the bellowing agony of a man being tortured. A door slammed and the agony became muted, but the terror it inflicted on her made her hands tremble as she lit a cigarette. Her access to the fourth floor was never challenged and Hauptmann Koenig always allowed her to wait in his colonel’s office. The young man was pleasant enough and was grateful for her introducing him to Béatrice Claudel, with whom he had obviously fallen deeply in love. They had agreed that he would never mention that it had been she who made the introductions. It would be unseemly for her to be seen arranging girlfriends for his commanding officer’s staff. Every time Dominique arrived at Stolz’s office when he was in a meeting, she spent time with the mild-mannered Koenig. It gave her an insight into what was going on even
though the captain was discreet and would never divulge operational matters. She sensed his disdain for violence and warmed to his passion for literature and art, which she always found slightly surprising in an accountant. They were interests he would explore fully with Béatrice once the war was won. Don’t say anything, he had once begged Dominique, but he was determined to marry Béatrice as soon as hostilities ended between their two great nations. She promised faithfully she would not mention a word and then promptly told Béatrice how smitten the young German officer was and how that was no bad thing.
Koenig had left the office door open and attended to phone calls as she waited for her lover’s footfall along the corridor. His desk was clear, adorned only by family photographs, along with a large blotter and a Mont Blanc fountain pen laid neatly alongside. A flourish of that pen and lives would be changed and many ended. Koenig’s voice droned on an on, discussing and correcting procedural issues. How Béatrice put up with the well-intentioned but ultimately boring young officer, she had no idea. Béatrice did what was necessary to survive, she reminded herself. The fact that she herself slept with the most dangerous man in Paris was a necessity that brought its own dangers. How she would be treated when the Germans lost the war – and of that inevitability, she was convinced – she did not know, but that uncertain future would not deter her from what she, and the likes of Béatrice Claudel, did now.
She heard Stolz’s voice in the corridor and the scrape of Koenig pushing back his chair to stand to attention. She sat quickly, crossed one leg over the other and straightened her dress. She heard Koenig tell Stolz of her arrival and he strode into the room.
‘Dominique, what are you doing here?’ he said, bending to kiss her cheek.
She sighed with feigned boredom. ‘I was shopping but couldn’t decide on anything so I thought I would come and persuade you to take me out to dinner.’
He settled behind his desk, hands flat, eyes checking that nothing had been touched. Satisfied, he smiled. ‘And I told you that today was a busy one, that I am in and out of meetings all day and that I would not be home until late.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘Did you forget?’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose I did. How stupid of me. Heinrich, I am so bored, you can understand that, can’t you? I have seen so little of you these past few days.’ She pouted. ‘Please?’
‘I will have my driver take you home. Have a bath and then I’ll get him to pick you up at about nine and we’ll eat.’
‘You are an angel. Am I being difficult?’
‘No. You are being beautiful. But now I really must get on with my work.’
‘Of course.’
He ushered her to the door.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I forgot. I have lost my lighter. That was another reason I came to your office. I thought I might have left it here last time.’
‘No, you couldn’t have. Think about it, Dominique. You haven’t been here for a week, and I saw you use it not two days ago.’
‘At home?’
‘Yes.’
‘The gold one you gave me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Well, then, I don’t know where it could be.’
‘It will turn up. Now, please, darling, I must get on.’
Her smile soothed his impatience, then her lips brushed his. She stepped into the outer office where a sallow-faced man sat waiting with a folded overcoat and hat on the seat next to him.
‘Goodbye, captain,’ she said.
‘Mademoiselle,’ Koenig acknowledged; then once she had stepped past him he stood in the doorway of Stolz’s office. ‘Colonel, Inspector Berthold from the Préfecture at Saint-Audière is here.’
‘About time. Send him in,’ Dominique heard Stolz answer.
42
It was a modest house that Vanves let them into, calling out that he had brought a guest home for supper. It was a step up from the small apartment that Mitchell remembered him living in. Mitchell was greeted by Vanves’s wife. There had also been a change in the plain-looking woman he remembered. She had always seemed nervous and shy, owing no doubt to her husband’s lack of status within the academic community, but now her hair was permed, she wore a blush of rouge on her cheeks and the apron she quickly removed on his arrival revealed a well-cut dress of good material. At a time when most Parisiennes had to make do, it was a sign that Vanves was doing well for himself and his family. Denise Vanves was more confident now and was delighted that someone she had not seen for a couple of years was back in Paris. Vanves had stripped off his tunic and put on a sports jacket, warning her, in front of Mitchell, that their old friend – acquaintances were how Mitchell would have classified Jules and Denise Vanves from his teaching days – needed help to find his wife and child, but that his presence should not be revealed to anyone. With a sympathetic expression at Mitchell’s dilemma, she assured her husband and the Englishman that she would be careful not to.
The evening passed amicably and Mitchell found himself relaxing in the warmth of the family home. Vanves’s son had been no more than seven years old when Mitchell had last seen him, a child withdrawn from a father who bickered and bemoaned his lot; now the laughter that father and son shared was an expression of love that was hard to deny. Collaboration had proven itself to be beneficial in more ways than a full larder and a spacious apartment. The evening meal finished, the boy was sent off to do his homework and, once Denise refused Mitchell’s offer to clear the table, Jules Vanves settled his guest in the living room and poured them both a brandy. ‘Relax a moment. I must see to the boy. He has exams coming up.’
Mitchell waited until the boy’s bedroom door closed behind Vanves. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen told him Denise was occupied. He moved quickly to the hall and opened Vanves’s satchel. It was full of envelopes, slit open. Mitchell quickly pulled free the notepaper from one. He could hear Vanves explaining a point of history with his son. The rice-thin paper in his fingers revealed a scrawled hand. My neighbour has an apartment full of quality furniture and paintings and they never go to church on Sunday, they’re obviously wealthy Jews. Mitchell teased free another letter. I work with a man who is a communist... They were letters of denunciation. The bedroom-door handle turned; the door opened. Vanves’s back was turned, telling his son he had another hour before the light was to be switched off and he must go to bed. Vanves stepped back into the hall and glanced towards the living room where Mitchell sat waiting, appreciatively sniffing the brandy in his glass. He looked up as Vanves walked in from the hall.
‘It’s been a long time since I tasted such good brandy, Jules,’ Mitchell said calmly, despite his racing pulse.
Vanves, suspecting nothing, sat opposite him. ‘I am aware, Henri, that you must think poorly of me. Being a policeman in these times.’
Mitchell kept his thoughts to himself. ‘You have provided safety and security for your family, Jules. It is understandable. Look how desperate my own life has become. We must do what we must.’
‘You’re right. I nearly got it badly wrong. During the round-ups of the Jews last year some of my fellow officers warned the families, which gave them time to escape. Those officers were betrayed by some of the very people they tried to help. Some who were caught tried to save their own lives by telling the Germans the names of these officers. It made no difference, they were shipped off anyway, but the policemen were shot by the Germans. I learnt my lesson: to keep my mouth shut and to do what was necessary.’
‘Then, as I said before, Jules, I do not wish to put you or your family in danger by helping me.’
Vanves dismissed his comment with a wave of his hand. ‘No, no. All I’m going to do is check the files on you. The Germans keep excellent records of everyone they suspect, arrest, torture, execute or send to the camps. That creates a great deal of paperwork. For several months now they have been storing old files in police stations. The fact that I am going to be looking through them will draw no suspicion at all. And once I am back at work tomorrow I will see if I can f
ind you some better accommodation.’ He savoured the brandy and extended a cigarette box to Mitchell.
‘I quit,’ he said.
‘Take some anyway. They are always good to trade. And, dare I say it, Henri, you don’t look flush with money. Am I right? Eh?’
Mitchell looked sufficiently sheepish and nodded.
‘I thought not. Help yourself.’
Mitchell reached out, gathered the cigarettes into his hand and carefully tucked them into his breast pocket.
Vanves lit a cigarette and exhaled. ‘I hope you will understand that I cannot offer to accommodate you here. I might have some influence but everyone is watched. All it would take is a letter of denunciation from any of my neighbours and I could be investigated for harbouring someone who is not a member of my family. I apologize, but I will see what I can do over the next couple of days to find you somewhere.’ He raised the glass to his lips and peered across at Mitchell. ‘But these friends who help you with your papers, I hope they are not dangerous people.’
It was a clumsy attempt to gain information, Mitchell decided. ‘They are not. In fact, they are not even in Paris. They’re way out in Fontainebleau,’ he lied. ‘So no connection here at all. I have a room in the Twelfth Arrondissement. There is nothing untoward, Jules.’
‘That’s off my patch. All right, leave it to me. I will do everything I can to help.’ He swallowed the last of the brandy. ‘Now, I still have work to do tonight so let’s meet at the Préfecture day after tomorrow. Say, ten in the morning? Come to the desk and ask for me. I’ll see what I can find out.’ He extended his hand. Mitchell shook it.