by David Gilman
Mitchell sat on a park bench two hundred metres from where Marcel Tatier shared a bench with a young-looking man in sports jacket and slacks. Mitchell could not make out the man’s features but the child smiled affably as he licked an ice cream and spoke to the man, who, one leg crossed over the other, folded his newspaper and took out a notebook. There was no indication of any threat being made. The man reached into his folded overcoat pocket and handed whatever it was to the boy. From where Mitchell sat it looked like a slab of chocolate. The child took it, sniffed it, and laughed when the stranger spoke to him. The man ruffled the boy’s hair.
Mitchell tugged his hat further down on his face, folded his overcoat over his arm and walked down the path that would take him within fifty paces of the man and boy. Beyond them, where the women watched their children playing, Ginny sat facing the sun wearing a pair of sunglasses as she gossiped with one of the mothers, even though her attention was on the other park bench. As Mitchell drew closer he almost faltered. The man next to the boy pushed a strand of hair back from his face, lifting it briefly towards the sun’s rays. It was the same man who had questioned him and Thompson before they had gone into the hospital to rescue Alfred Korte. The Gestapo agent bent his head and wrote in a black notebook with a gold pen.
Mitchell’s mouth grew dry. He lengthened his stride, part of him fearful that Ginny might also recognize the Gestapo officer and that her reaction might be too obvious should the man look her way. Mitchell made a surreptitious gesture for her to follow him and when they got to the park gates they sought out Jean Bernard who had remained out of sight of his nephew.
‘How far to your sister’s apartment?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Twenty minutes. What’s happened?’
‘Your nephew is meeting a Gestapo agent and we need to find out why.’
Jean Bernard looked stunned. He nodded. ‘Follow me.’
*
Madame Tatier was in the bedroom folding young Marcel’s clothes when she heard the front door open and close. Juliet was ushering in Jean Bernard and two strangers. The plainclothes man looked at her and she felt the pit of her stomach lurch. French police? Gestapo? She involuntarily put a hand on the base of her throat. It was only when Juliet smiled and embraced the stranger that she released her caught breath.
Bernard ushered her through to the sitting room. ‘Marie, this man is a friend who helped us reach Paris. He and the young woman with him can be trusted completely. It’s best that I don’t tell you their names. Come along and sit down – we need to talk before Marcel comes home.’ He glanced at Juliet. ‘Is Simone back from school yet?’
‘No, she has extra lessons today. What’s happened?’
Mitchell and Ginny sat opposite as Jean Bernard took his sister’s hand in his own.
‘We have to know what’s going on. You must be absolutely honest with us because we believe that you and Marcel are in danger.’
His sister looked from one to the other, suddenly feeling as if she were on trial. If there was any suspicion that she had been collaborating she knew things could turn unpleasant for her. She blustered. ‘Why would we be in danger? Don’t be foolish, Jean. You bring your friends into my house uninvited and they sit there looking sternly at me as if I am a thief in the night. Do you have no respect for me?’ She went to stand up, but Jean Bernard gripped her arm.
‘Marie, listen to me. Marcel has been getting contraband chocolate from someone. We have just seen him in the park eating an ice cream and talking to a Gestapo agent.’
Marie Tatier recoiled in shock. She struggled to find words for a moment but then the tears came. She lifted her apron to her face. ‘May God forgive me, may God forgive me, Blessed Mary, Mother of God, forgive me,’ she whispered.
‘Madame Tatier, you must tell us everything,’ said Mitchell.
She wiped her tears and nodded. She held her brother’s arm tightly. ‘I was told not to say anything otherwise they would send me to the camps and Marcel to an orphanage. I had helped someone in the Resistance. I could not risk telling you, Jean, or you, Juliet – I thought the less you knew the better. Had I told you that in the past I had stored food here for résistants then you might have thought poorly of me. You being a doctor, and you, Juliet, how could I tell a stranger in my home of my past involvement? I thought it all over. No one had asked for my help in months. But then this man came. Said he knew I could be trusted. The next thing there was a raid. I tried to help him escape. He was caught. After that the police and Gestapo said I was to report anyone suspicious. Or else.’ The flood of explanation seemed to drain her. She sighed. ‘I had no idea they were using Marcel to spy on me. On us.’
Bernard embraced his sister. ‘You had nothing to fear from me.’
Juliet bent and lifted Marie’s hand and kissed it. ‘Marie. We had a Resistance group in our village. Both Jean and I were involved.’ She laughed. ‘We all kept our secrets safe fearing we might endanger you and Marcel. And likewise, you sought to protect us.’
‘We must get away from here,’ said Jean Bernard.
‘No. Not yet,’ Mitchell told them. ‘You must carry on as normal until I can find a better place. Say nothing to Marcel when he comes home, or Simone.’ He looked at each of them. ‘It is vitally important that nothing is seen to be different.’ He checked his watch. ‘And we must be gone before the children come home. Marcel would be obliged to tell the Gestapo that there were people here. And then it will be too late to try and cover up. Is everyone clear?’
Marie Tatier, Bernard and Juliet all nodded their agreement.
‘Good. Now, Madame Tatier, I emphasize again that you have nothing to fear providing you carry on as normal. I’ll be in touch through Jean. Did you know the résistant you helped?’
‘No. He was a wireless operator. Said he was on the run. They shot him but he was still alive when they took him away.’
Mitchell recalled the Gestapo agent using a gold pen. ‘Do you know his name?’
‘Yes. Alain Ory.’
45
Mitchell and Ginny left Jean Bernard with his sister and Juliet so that Marie might be comforted and to ensure that she did not panic and do anything foolish. It was vital now that she didn’t arouse Gestapo suspicion. They caught a trolleybus that took them a few streets from the apartment. Neither said anything about the discovery that Alain Ory had been captured, perhaps killed, and that the Germans had been masquerading as him. They knew that the Germans’ insistence on meeting the man known as Pascal meant that the Germans were aware that another British agent had been sent to Paris. The question was how they had known. Neither Mitchell or Ginny could know whether London had inadvertently told the wireless operator masquerading as Alain Ory, or the traitor in the Resistance had betrayed him.
‘Whoever the operator is, he’s good if he’s fooling London,’ said Ginny when they were back in the apartment.
‘And London is being bloody stupid because they have not asked for a duress code. Damned idiots will get a lot of people killed.’
‘I can warn them,’ said Ginny.
‘No. We daren’t risk it in case they’re picking up your transmissions or intercepting London’s. We might be able to use this to our advantage and feed the Germans some false information. Turn it back on them. I want to get Korte out as soon as possible when there’s enough moon.’
Ginny handed him a cup. ‘Not quite the real thing but it’s the best I can do.’
Mitchell took the cup. It made little difference that it was toasted barley mixed with chicory; he would have preferred a cup of tea. ‘This will be perfect,’ he told her.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
He sipped the ersatz coffee and looked over the rim of the cup. ‘That’s always helpful at times like these,’ he told her, smiling.
‘Let’s go back a few steps. Before you were sent here.’ She pulled her legs beneath her on the sofa and cradled the cup. ‘Alain Ory worked with the man we knew as Ferrand and he was trying to find
Alfred Korte and get him back to England.’
‘So the Nazis still think Korte is in hiding.’
‘I suppose. We can’t know that. Perhaps them knowing about you means they are hoping to entrap you in order to get to him.’
‘Or it’s a random act to shut down another British agent,’ said Mitchell, trying to guess where the girl’s logic was taking her.
‘Colonel Beaumont told me about your wife.’ She paused, waiting to see if she were going too far by pulling back any veil that Mitchell might have drawn over his wife’s death. Mitchell remained silent, watching her, letting his own thoughts follow hers.
‘Your wife and daughter were with Alain Ory the same night that one of the résistants was shot and Ory escaped. That was when your wife and daughter were taken. So, doesn’t it follow that your wife might have been part of the operation to get Korte out?’
‘Yes. That might be the case. All I know is she was helping Ory. There was no mention of her being involved with any other agent. Don’t forget there are résistants working in their own small groups, or as individuals.’
‘But she was using her maiden name. The Germans made the connection before they… sorry.’
‘They made the connection and someone sent London the photographs of her being executed,’ said Mitchell.
Ginny drained the cup. ‘Alfred Korte is important to them. But if they put two and two together after they caught your wife and it wasn’t the Resistance who got the photos out, then what if it was the Gestapo or the SD who sent the pictures? Perhaps it’s you they are after and everyone you know, or knew, in the city who were involved in getting people out. Those feeder lines across France that you helped set up with people here are still being used to help escapees.’
She reached forward and took his empty cup and saucer. ‘You’d be a feather in their cap if they snared you. And a lot of people would die.’
*
Mitchell waited until early evening and then made his way towards Jules Vanves’s house. Once again he concealed himself at his vantage point and as darkness fell observed the police sergeant make his way down the street in uniform with his satchel. It took three hours for Vanves to do his rounds and, by curfew, he had the streets to himself. Mitchell followed him home and as he turned the corner Mitchell stepped out and blocked his path.
‘Henri!’ Vanves stepped back. Mitchell grabbed him and bundled him into the half-lit passageway next to the house. Vanves was a glorified clerk and no combatant and Mitchell’s training had become second nature. Vanves’s shock at being so roughly handled allowed only a few stuttering protests.
‘Be quiet, Jules. I cannot trust you with my life if I don’t know what you’re up to.’
‘You accuse me? You’re here with false identity papers.’
‘And that is why I have to be sure about you,’ said Mitchell. ‘You’re blackmailing those who have been denounced.’
Vanves’s mouth gaped but then realization dawned. ‘You looked inside my case.’
‘Yes. I had no choice. I have placed my life in your hands. Did you think I would just walk into the Préfecture?’
‘I’ve promised that I will help you,’ said Vanves in a conciliatory manner. ‘I can explain everything. I steal these letters from the station when they come in. There are hundreds every day. I take only a handful relating to my district before they are processed. Then I warn the families. By the time I return the letters and they are passed on for investigation the families have fled. I save lives. Who better than a gendarme walking the streets after curfew? I do it for others. And no one has any money. You can see that, can’t you?’
‘Open the satchel, Jules.’
Even in the dark there was just enough light to see the fear on Vanves’s face. ‘Henri…’
‘Open it or I’ll take it from you.’
Vanves undid the straps and pulled open the flap. ‘It’s nothing, Henri. Nothing at all. Donations from grateful families.’
Mitchell pulled out items of jewellery. The street light’s dull glow caught their sparkle. ‘And then you sell these to black marketeers. I saw how much food you had at home, and your wife dresses well these days.’
Vanves crumpled. ‘I have to look after my family. We all do what we must. I don’t hurt these people.’
‘You’re a collaborator, Jules, there’s no hiding that. The day’s coming when you’ll have to face your fellow citizens.’
‘And with the money I get, I’ll be far away with a new identity.’
‘Which you can procure easily, of course.’
Vanves did up the satchel’s straps. ‘What are you going to do? What is it you want from me?’
‘I want to help you, Jules. I want to protect you. I know there are men who might take the risk and start killing collaborators. I want identification documents for a family. You can get them from people who have died in hospital.’
‘Who in God’s name are you working for?’ said Vanves. ‘Are you Resistance? Was I wrong about you?’
‘I’m nobody. I just need your help. But I know people of violence and I will turn to them if you refuse to help me. I need an apartment big enough for four or five.’
‘I can do that. But I can’t do much else. It is dangerous.’
‘You’ll do what I ask, Jules. The alternative places you, along with your son and wife, in extreme danger.’
‘My God. Don’t hurt my family. I beg you. They are everything to me.’
‘I promise you I will protect them. No harm will come to you or your family from the people I know. I need documents. Two women, two children and a man. I’ll give you their ages and description and get photographs and you will find suitable identity cards and ration tickets. Agreed?’
Vanves knew he had no choice. There was no way of knowing whether the man who threatened him was bluffing. To refuse was too great a gamble. ‘Very well,’ he said in barely a whisper.
‘And if I am picked up or found shot on a street corner, then the people I know will come for you and your family because they will think I’ve been betrayed by you.’
‘I can’t be held responsible if you are picked up! How could I know if that happened?’
‘You check the daily arrest log. And then you get me out.’
‘You were my friend, Henri. Why are you doing this to me?’
‘Because you have gone across to the other side, and I am the only one who can protect you. You work for me now, Jules.’
46
Mitchell finished shaving in the kitchen sink. He heard the communal toilet at the end of the landing flush with protesting pipes and listened as the footsteps approached, then another door opened and closed. Everything needed to be normal. Any change in the day-to-day routine of those in the building could herald danger.
‘Madame Pivain in number seven. As regular as clockwork,’ he said, wiping away the last of the shaving cream. ‘Anything?’ he asked, turning to where Ginny sat hunched, decoding a message from her transmission. She tore off the sheet and handed it to him.
‘This is going to kill a lot of people if they go through with it. They’re asking if we can do anything.’
Mitchell scanned the message. Intercepted German wireless traffic showed that the Germans were going to move some machinery from a factory in Paris by rail at night to an unknown destination in Germany. Expatriate French scientists had identified the factory as one whose retooling machines manufactured rifled barrels for self-propelled guns. The RAF intended to bomb the factory and La Chapelle marshalling yards before the essential equipment was relocated.
Ginny waited as Mitchell absorbed the message. ‘They’ll kill hundreds of civilians,’ she said.
He nodded. He imagined his friends at Bletchley Park decoding the German wireless traffic and the information being passed along the line. They would have thought nothing more of it and gone on to the next intercept. How different it was when you were under the bombs. His thoughts raced. Trying to sabotage the train as it passed with
a full head of steam across the multiple tracks at La Chapelle would be difficult. If the train could be halted beyond the city limits that would give the RAF a clearer target. And if that could be achieved then any attempt by the Germans to send out cranes and salvage engines from their sheds at La Chapelle had to be stopped.
The freight yards were thirty feet below street level and patrolled by the Railway Police, who would spot any saboteurs clambering down the wall ladders carrying explosives. He checked his watch. ‘We need to make an unscheduled transmission,’ he said.
They both knew the danger longer unscheduled transmissions presented with the German RDF vans sweeping the city. ‘All right,’ she said without hesitation.
As she set up her wireless and aerial again, Mitchell wrote out a message. ‘We can find a place to stop the train once it’s on the outskirts and then the RAF can catch it in the open.’
‘At night?’
‘Dawn if we can; if not we’ll light the damned thing somehow. I’ll make the message vague enough for any Germans doing a wireless sweep but London will know exactly what I mean.’ He wrote a final sentence, tore off the sheet from the pad and handed it to her. She encoded it, settled the headphones and began to transmit. Mitchell pulled on his coat. ‘I’m going to phone Gaétan and organize the men. Get off that key as soon as you can; the message is already too long.’ He closed the door behind him and left Ginny tapping.
*
Mitchell spent the afternoon east of the city. He had to decide urgently where exactly to halt the train. Having lived in Paris and and reconnoitred escape routes for those fleeing the Occupation, he knew where he could blow the tracks and isolate the train carrying the retooling machines. The risk was that the German war machine was sufficiently well organized to send out lifting cranes and track-laying locomotives should the explosives cause only temporary damage. To stop that from happening he needed to cripple the marshalling yards that harboured the heavy-duty equipment. He followed the perimeter wire of the yards. There were only a few Railway Police patrolling because the area was so vast and lacked cover, so that anyone working in the yards would easily identify an intruder. A small, run-down café, weathered beyond its years by the coal smoke and soot from the shunting engines, backed on to the wire. The side door looked easy enough to pick and clambering on to the roof would give a way over the wire. It would be at night but that did not lessen the risk. For all he knew there might be searchlights that swept across the marshalling yards. Would the Germans risk breaking the blackout? It was a gamble and he knew he had to have a plan. A few hundred yards from the perimeter wire a huge building loomed; from where he stood it looked as big as an aircraft hangar. Its doors were open and he could see soldiers and French railway workers inside attending to several large steam locomotives, one of which was attached to a lifting-crane tender. In front of the railway sheds a turntable, big enough to accommodate any of those locomotives, swung its tracked bridge to line up with an engine in the shed. Mitchell bought a cup of ersatz coffee and watched as the turntable slowly spun the engine around so that it could roll off on to its chosen track. The engine spun its wheels and moved slowly across the yard as the signalman threw a lever, changing its direction. A French railway worker stood far beyond its intended line of travel swinging a red glass lantern, guiding the train towards some freight carriages. By the time Mitchell had drunk the bitter liquid and the locomotive had been coupled to its cargo, he knew what he had to do.