Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  Afterwards, they lay entwined in the sheets, the thin blankets crumpled, the warmth of their bodies defeating the chill of the unheated room. They drifted into sleep, awakening in darkness and reaching for each other again. This time their movements were slowed by their desire to make the pleasure last. The chink of light through the curtains lit her upturned face as he caressed and kissed it. Mitchell thought of his wife, and searched within himself for any sense of regret or guilt, whatever the elusive emotion was, but could not find it. Recently, the intensity of his work at Bletchley Park had subjugated any wish for sexual encounters, and the women at Bletchley were segregated in their own work huts and liaisons were forbidden on grounds of security anyway. Besides, he had not been attracted to anyone. That, and the love he felt for his wife, had extinguished desire. Now that love for Suzanne had been eased aside. Perhaps, he thought, this had been a cathartic act. And yet the image of her death refused to leave him. Fear would continue to drive him until he found his daughter and then he would turn his back on what he had been compelled to do and pursue a different life.

  In the darkness of the hotel room doubt taunted him as he listened to Juliet’s contented breathing as she slept. Juliet and Simone were an even greater responsibility now. What if his feelings threatened to get in the way of everything that still needed to be done? He could not afford to lose focus. Lives depended on him seeing the operation through and being sufficiently detached to make quick decisions. He began to regret his feelings. They imposed an additional burden. His mind was taking a grip on his heart. He would need to dedicate all his time and energy to what still needed to be done.

  Choose, insisted the provocateur in his mind.

  *

  Mitchell returned Juliet to the apartment as soon as curfew was lifted with the promise that he would arrange everyone’s safe departure from the city. They kissed before the apartment door was opened and exchanged a whispered desire that the other would stay safe. He was due to get the new identity cards but his blackmail against Vanves would not last for long. Sooner or later the corrupt gendarme would be compromised and the moment that happened Vanves would tell the authorities everything. Mitchell had a plan to stop him panicking, but first he had to arrange for Alfred Korte to be flown out. He had left instructions with Ginny to arrange a night flight from the north-east of Paris where there was flat farmland and no industrial complexes. There was a good moon for the next few nights and if the cloud base lifted then Korte would soon be in England. Mitchell had alerted Chaval to ready the men without telling Gaétan. The patrician’s involvement was going to be limited from now on. To establish the Gideon circuit in Paris meant Mitchell had to exercise complete control. Gaétan and his men controlled the south at Norvé and they would filter supplies and any other personnel from their area into Paris. It would strengthen the British and French agents’ infiltration when the time came to seize back France.

  It was an hour’s walk from the Fifth to the Ninth Arrondissement and by the time he reached the Pont Neuf across the Seine he felt more confident. He was within touching distance of achieving everything that had been asked of him. He even harboured an irrational notion that he would find a way to get Danielle out of La Santé. He knew it defied logic and although he acknowledged the improbability of it something, a gut instinct, told him it could be done. With such uncritical hope in his heart he climbed the stairs, knocked gently on his apartment door and let himself in. Ginny greeted him with a generous smile as she tapped out her morning transmission. Her pistol lay next to her Morse key. He peeled off his coat.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said, but she ignored him – she was concentrating on receiving a message – so he rummaged in the kitchen cupboard and found bread and cheese. By the time he had boiled some water she had pulled down the aerial from beneath the open skylight and packed the wireless away.

  ‘Not tonight. The next couple of nights are possible. They have identified a field near Messy. It will take us about an hour and a bit to get there by car. If we pick up Chaval and the others, then what? Two hours all in all? Anyway, they’ll confirm on the next transmission.’

  He poured hot water on to what passed as coffee grounds as she looked out of the window. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Harry!’

  Two Citroën Traction Avants had swung across the road blocking each end of the building. It happened so fast that by the time four plainclothes men had piled out of the cars, slamming the doors behind them, the street had been cordoned off by gendarmes wielding sub-machine guns.

  ‘Gestapo!’ she said, scrambling for her pistol. Mitchell jammed a chair beneath the front-door handle but by then there were already footsteps pounding up the stairs. There was no escape. Mitchell and Ginny stood ready, arms extended, automatic pistols levelled. Capture was not an option. Voices bellowed, echoing up the stairwell. The sound of wood splintering and then the crashing of the door below. Shouts, cries of alarm. The noise of a struggle. The fight moved further beneath them and then a gunshot shattered the air. Ginny flinched, a vivid image of the man in the apartment below being accosted and then arrested filling her mind. The voices diminished as they dragged the man downstairs. Mitchell edged to the window, saw their neighbour being pushed into one of the cars, blood streaming from a leg wound. The car doors slammed, the cars sped off and the gendarmes dispersed. It had happened so fast that they were dumbstruck. Mitchell’s hand trembled. He clenched his fist and calmed his breathing. He tucked the .45 into his waistband and pulled on his coat.

  ‘I’m going to try and find out what happened.’

  She nodded and pulled the chair away from the door, but as he stepped into the corridor he heard the lock being turned and the chair being scraped back beneath the handle.

  Mitchell went quickly down the stairs past a carpenter, who had obviously been despatched by the police, hammering wooden slats across the broken door. By the time the Englishman reached the street everything had returned to normal. People were going about their business as he pushed through the bar door. The place was empty except for the Corsican who stood behind the bar pouring himself a cognac. When Mitchell stepped inside he took down another glass.

  ‘Every time those bastards mount a raid or make an arrest it’s bad for business. I had a dozen customers in here before they roared up.’ He handed Mitchell the glass.

  ‘I thought they were coming for me,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Me too. I couldn’t have warned you.’ He clinked their glasses. ‘Health.’

  They drank and Roccu recharged their drinks.

  ‘Enough for me, I haven’t eaten for hours,’ said Mitchell.

  Roccu reached below the counter and pulled out a plate of half-eaten eggs and sausage. ‘Mine was interrupted. Finish it. It’s real sausage. I know a butcher who likes his drink too much.’

  Mitchell didn’t argue and savoured the taste of real meat, shovelling in the eggs as soon as he’d chewed and swallowed the sausage.

  ‘Slow down. You’ll give yourself a heart attack,’ Roccu said. ‘I spoke to one of the gendarmes I know. He said the bloke they went for was pimping over in the Eleventh. He also did a bit of burglary on the side. Stupid bastard stepped on someone’s toes, someone who was probably getting a kickback. That’s him cooked.’

  ‘Not the Gestapo, then?’

  Roccu shook his head. ‘As good as. Brigades Spéciales. If he lives he’ll be in a lot of pain pretty soon. They’ll find his stash and maybe then treat his wound.’

  Mitchell ran a finger around the rim of the plate, scooping up the last of the egg yolk. He sat back on the bar stool and belched. ‘Thanks, Roccu.’

  ‘Shall we close the bar and get pissed?’

  ‘I’d like nothing more. But I have things to do.’

  ‘You going to stay up there in the apartment?’

  ‘Probably a damned sight safer now.’ He pulled out some banknotes, but the Corsican’s fist closed over his hand.

  ‘Don’t insult me, my friend. Anything I h
ave is yours.’

  ‘You’re not in my debt, Roccu. You have taken enough risks.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Now, go on, get out of here and watch yourself. And keep an eye on my window. If I need you I’ll make the signal.’

  Mitchell shook his hand and turned away. Simple acts of kindness and gratitude softened the ever-present danger. Paris felt more like the home he remembered.

  55

  It was that strange kind of half-light between day and evening when Mitchell made his way across the city and stood in plain sight of the German Army headquarters. Barely anyone gave him a second look; those that did ignored him, for his clothing meant he could easily be mistaken for a plainclothes Gestapo or SD officer. Who else would be climbing into a Peugeot with army registration plates? Mitchell turned the ignition, let the engine idle for a while and then eased the car across the near-deserted street. The petrol tank showed it was nearly full – they had filled it from the stolen and now hidden petrol. It was time to visit Gerard Vincent and park the car closer to home so they could get Alfred Korte from the hospital to the landing zone.

  Twenty minutes later he turned into Rue Martel and then soon after Rue Bertier. The tight corner that led to the workshops behind Gerard Vincent’s apartment block was a narrow fit for the Peugeot. He identified the garage doors, climbed out, leaving the engine running but the car’s lights off, swung open the doors, was relieved to see the cavernous space and then reversed the car inside. The narrow entrance would either be a blessing or a curse. If suspicions were raised, or he was betrayed, then the narrow side-street opening would be blocked as easily as a cork in a bottle. On the other hand, he reasoned as he made his way to Vincent’s apartment, if there was to be a gunfight he could easily jam the car in the street and make a run for it over the rooftops.

  Gerard Vincent’s apartment was lit by candles. ‘You’ve got the money?’ he said, stepping aside from the door to let Mitchell inside.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mitchell. ‘No electricity?’

  ‘It comes and goes.’ He gestured Mitchell to the table in the centre of the room. ‘You found the garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? Plenty of room to store contraband. I have other places like it. All right, let’s conclude our business.’

  Mitchell noticed Vincent held a pistol at his side. ‘Are you planning to use that?’

  Vincent seemed to have forgotten it was even in his hand. ‘Oh, no.’ He placed it on the table. ‘Can’t be too careful. Hey, you need a gun? I can sell you this one. I have others.’

  ‘I have my own,’ said Mitchell looking him in the eyes, making sure that the black marketeer got his meaning. ‘You can’t be too careful.’

  Vincent’s shadowed face split into a grin. ‘I like you, Pascal Garon.’ He reached for a parcel wrapped in brown paper and bound with string. ‘Don’t get stopped with this. German Army, your size, as close as I could get, forage cap as well but you didn’t ask for boots.’

  ‘I don’t need them.’

  Vincent shrugged. ‘As you like.’

  Mitchell handed over a roll of banknotes. ‘You can count it but I’m not going to cheat you when you have my car in your lock-up, am I?’

  Vincent curled his fist around the wad of money. He smelt it and pretended to be weighing it in his hand. ‘Seems to be all there.’ He grinned, shoved the roll into a briefcase on a nearby chair and then quickly poured a measure of Armagnac into two shot glasses and toasted Mitchell. ‘I’m not the only one who likes you,’ he said, watching Mitchell’s reaction. ‘I had a visitor.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Mitchell, keeping the sudden alarm from his voice.

  ‘You remember Berthold? The Milice inspector from Saint-Audière? He knocked on my door. Gave me a right turn, I can tell you. Thought he was here for business, but he wasn’t. I shoved a bottle of cognac his way and some caviar but he damned near threw them back at me. He’s looking for you.’

  ‘Why would he come all the way to Paris and knock on your door to look for me?’

  Vincent lit another cigarette from the stub. ‘You tell me. You must be someone important, Pascal. I must have underestimated you.’

  ‘That’s always a dangerous thing to do in your line of business, I’d have thought.’

  There was a hint of menace in Mitchell’s tone and Vincent was sharp enough to pick it up. ‘He wanted a description of you. He couldn’t remember what you looked like.’

  ‘And you told him.’

  ‘Of course I did. He threatened to report me to the authorities and then some other bastard would benefit from all my hard work. Yes, I told him, right down to your shoe size.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘I guessed that part.’

  Mitchell’s thoughts quickly focused on the information. If Berthold was in Paris he would have been sent for and that order would have come from the SD. Stolz. Standartenführer Heinrich Stolz, the man who had to be responsible for controlling – among everything else – the wireless operation now that Alain Ory was most likely dead.

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right, thank you for telling me.’

  ‘Hey, Pascal, I’m a low life, I sell to the bastards, but I’m not on their side. I have a healthy sense of self-preservation. I couldn’t lie to him because he would have realized I’d given him a false description. I made no mention of you coming here. None. I swear on that.’ Vincent poured another drink and pushed it towards Mitchell who took it, glad of the warmth the alcohol gave him. ‘Watch yourself, Pascal.’

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about you, my friend. If you get lifted they’ll hurt you and you’ll tell them I helped you.’ He grinned to soften the reality of his pragmatism.

  *

  When Mitchell left, Vincent blew out some of the candles so that there was only a dull glow in the room. He eased aside the blackout curtains and watched the street below. It seemed to him that Pascal Garon’s sense of self-preservation was as healthy as his own, but also that Inspector Paul Berthold was intent on capturing him – so intent, Vincent had reasoned that the milicien scum would stake out his apartment and do it himself. He couldn’t bring in gendarmes, miliciens or anyone else; they’d stick out like rats scurrying across a wall. Berthold was trying to impress someone above – why else would a provincial cop dig him out and put the screws on him? The blue-painted glass on the street lamps of Paris cast the dimmest of lights on to the streets, casting virtually no shadow. Intended to aid the blackout, they let those who needed the night to keep their secrets move more freely. He watched Mitchell crossing the deserted street, stepping between each cone of light, and then waiting, watching, listening. Christ, Vincent thought to himself, who was this man? He was damned near as feral as himself. Then, when Mitchell moved off, another form in a darkened alley shifted. Vincent grunted with satisfaction. He had been correct. Berthold was following Mitchell.

  *

  Paul Berthold had stood uncomplaining opposite the building these past nights. A policeman’s instinct was his stock-in-trade and he had dealt with enough criminals to know when they were burying the truth. Gerard Vincent had caved in quickly when questioned; he wanted Berthold out of his door and his life. Saving his own skin was one thing but what else wasn’t he telling? He’d been too rushed, too confident and willing to describe Pascal Garon in such detail that Berthold had remembered him clearly. If Vincent was in the business of illicit trade then it seemed a strong possibility that a relationship had been sparked back in that cell in Saint-Audière. If the SD and Gestapo were interested in Garon and they believed he was in Paris then that told him Garon might well turn to someone who could supply anything he needed. And what benefit would there be for Berthold in going back to Stolz and giving him a description? he had asked himself. None. He would be back on a slow train to deal with petty criminals and poachers. But if he found the elusive man and brought him to the SD, then he would have done someth
ing the security service had not. He would find promotion and status in the city. Standing outside for hours during these chilled damp nights was a small price to pay. And then his reward stepped across the street.

  He followed at a distance. The man in front of him used street corners and shop doorways to check he wasn’t being followed. Who was he? Berthold wondered. He certainly wasn’t the insurance salesman he had pretended to be when questioned in Saint-Audière and he doubted now whether Juliet Bonnier was his lover. Could he be a rogue policeman? A résistant perhaps? No, he decided, a résistant did not have these skills. Garon knew what he was doing. Patience was on Berthold’s side, that and a greater ability at following than the man in front could know. Berthold focused on every step that Garon took and anticipated where and when he would backtrack or cross the street. The sudden scrape of nailed boots striking the cobbles in unison came from a side street. A six-man German foot patrol turned a corner, marching in step, the steady rhythm almost hypnotic, the soldiers staring dully ahead, thinking whatever thoughts a foot soldier thinks when tasked with such monotonous duty. Their appearance was brief and they turned away into another street but it was enough for Berthold to gain ground on the unsuspecting man who stepped out of the shadows, his back to him. Berthold approached so quickly and silently that when he pushed his service pistol next to Garon’s face the shock was so immediate that he heard his victim inhale. Garon’s hands raised immediately, the parcel dropping at his feet. Berthold kicked it away.

  ‘Do not turn around. Keep your hands high. Lean against the wall. Lean!’ He pushed Mitchell against the wall, kicked his ankles apart and quickly and expertly searched him with his free hand. He tugged out the automatic and shoved into his own coat pocket.

  ‘Insurance salesman, eh? Well, Monsieur Garon, I doubt you have a policy to cover you for arrest and interrogation.’

  Mitchell recognized the rasping voice. ‘Inspector. You’re a long way from home,’ he said, muscles tense, waiting for an opportunity to risk fighting the milicien.