by David Gilman
It was a complication that Mitchell did not need. Frank Burton was arranging tickets for Jean Bernard’s family, Juliet and Simone to travel. Contacts had been made with the feeder lines and the members of the Resistance in the south to get them across the Pyrenees and into Spain. Now he had the added worry of the RDF vans that Roccu had noticed. How much longer could Ginny’s luck hold? He needed to move her out of the apartment and he planned to take over where Jean Bernard and the others were staying. In the meantime, they were hours away from her making her scheduled transmission so that silent time meant the vans would have nothing to detect. Briefly leaving Chaval he went and fetched her, feeling more confident about her safety if she were with him, and the three of them set off for Vincennes.
They waited two hours for a train. Electricity was intermittent and the crowds jostled to get aboard the overcrowded carriages. Twice the train ground to a halt and the suffocating press of bodies in the carriages caused ill temper among the passengers. He cursed himself for not using the Peugeot to get to Gaétan’s house but the car’s value lay more in getting Alfred Korte to the landing zone. Once the train finally reached the route along the Seine random security checks of those disembarking at the stations choked the platforms and slowed the train’s departure. Finally, as it rolled eastwards there were delays due to problems on the line. Ironically, thought Mitchell, it might have been because of the damage he and his men had caused to the yards and railway lines.
By the time they reached the gates of Gaétan’s house a journey that should have taken an hour on a good day had taken four times as long. Laforge stepped out of one of the outbuildings.
‘Pascal, they’ve gone already. There was no way I was getting involved. Maybe I should have but the whole thing is crazy.’
‘You were right not to, Reynard. Where’s Gaétan?’
‘In the house. His wife’s just parked the car. She was in town.’
Mitchell saw the car at the side of the house. Edmond was not in sight but the Citroën’s engine was clicking as it cooled. ‘Wait outside. Keep watch. Chaval? You too. God knows how dangerous this situation is.’
Madame Gaétan looked distressed when they knocked on the door.
‘My husband is in the drawing room,’ she said, but she showed scant pleasure in seeing Mitchell and his companions. ‘I have had a disagreement with him and he has told me he does not wish to be disturbed.’
‘Madame, I don’t give a damn. Your husband has placed my men in danger. Show me where he is.’
She fought the conflict she obviously felt, and then relented. ‘I wish we were not involved,’ she said, ushering them further into the house. ‘I am sorry, colonel, but there are times I wish the English had never sent you. It was enough that we helped the previous agent and accommodated supply drops in Norvé, but for us, being here in Paris at the same time as you trying to establish a circuit is too dangerous for us all. It is causing great strain for my husband.’
‘But you go into the city, madame. You get permits for petrol, you secure food for the orphanages. You are respected,’ said Ginny. ‘There are members of Parisian society who still have enough money and contacts to help you in your charity work. Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Everyone knows what I do and if the Germans think for one moment that I am involved with the Resistance not only will I be sent to Ravensbrück but hundreds of children will suffer. Everything will be closed down, and perhaps my husband will be shot.’
Ginny placed a comforting arm on Madame Gaétan’s arm. ‘Madame, we are not here to cause you harm. Everyone who wishes to see the Nazis defeated runs the risk you fear.’
‘In here?’ said Mitchell as they stood outside tall double-panel doors. He did not wait for an answer but pushed through into a bright room with ancestral pictures on the walls and classical-style furnishings showing years of wear. The patrician was standing over the fireplace, one hand leaning on the marble mantel, the other placing a log on to the fire in the grate. He turned to face them defiantly.
‘You do not command me, Colonel Garon. Do not force your way into my home and start making demands. I am tired of it. I know what is necessary and what needs to be done. Louise, I told you I did not wish to be disturbed. For God’s sake, woman, do as I say.’
Mitchell stood close to him. ‘My men. Where are they? Where is Maillé? Where is Drossier?’
Gaétan seemed unperturbed by Mitchell’s strident questions. ‘Colonel, you bring peasants to fight in a city. Maillé is an oaf, but he will fight if the rewards are great enough. Forget patriotism; people like him only understand profit and what benefits them personally. He is good for one thing and one thing only and that is killing Germans.’
‘These men under my command,’ said Mitchell.
Gaétan raised a hand to silence him. ‘And you were not here. We succeeded in destroying the train and I determined it was time to strike again. Vigour is what is needed and the courage to undertake acts that hurt the enemy.’
The old man paced back and forth, his resentment rising to the surface. Mitchell blocked him.
‘I was sent here on a mission and I am close to succeeding in it. I am then to establish an operational unit in the city and co-ordinate operations with all the smaller groups who lie scattered across the countryside, and that includes you and your men at Norvé. If you do not wish to be part of this then I shall tell London to exclude you. Where have you sent Maillé and Drossier?’
Gaétan slammed his palm against the table. ‘Why should I tell you? You have been seen with Jules Vanves, a known collaborator. A Frenchman prepared to help arrest his fellow countrymen.’
‘I know who he is. He is little more than a clerk, and yes, he’s part of the mass collaboration, but right now he is serving a purpose. He has information I want. There was no need to have me followed.’
Flecks of spittle formed in the corner of Gaétan’s lips. ‘I remind you that the Norvé circuit has lost men over the years since we started helping the British. It is we who have carried the burden. Maillé is little more than a resource that I needed. And he and the other petty thief that you brought here, they serve my purpose. I was and still am a confidant and compatriot of de Gaulle himself, so do not presume to come to my country and dictate terms and conditions of how I conduct myself. My man Edmond leads them.’
The argument was unlikely to be resolved in a civil manner now Gaétan’s resentment towards the British had been made so nakedly apparent.
‘You have allowed your own sense of importance to distort your judgement,’ said Mitchell. ‘If Maillé or Drossier are caught the Gestapo will torture them until they can fit the pieces together of the journey from the south, of the stolen fuel, of your involvement.’
Gaétan seemed to have calmed but his barbed words were clearly meant to inflict whatever damage he could. ‘At any time, day or night, we can all be arrested and we will all yield under pain. This is a French war. Go home, colonel. Send us the guns and the ammunition we need. That is all we require.’
Ginny Lindhurst stepped forward before Mitchell could answer. ‘You are wrong, Monsieur Gaétan. This is not only a French war. Churchill offered the French nation a “Grand Union” to share all of our resources and create one government to help defeat the Nazis. But your Marshall Pétain distrusted us so much that he said this would make France a British dominion and that he would rather be in a Nazi province. Well, you’ve got that now!’
Ginny’s outburst stunned everyone in the room into silence.
After a moment, Madame Gaétan spoke up. ‘Tell them where you have sent the men.’
‘Be quiet, Louise,’ ordered Gaétan.
‘It makes no difference,’ she said gently, imploring him. ‘Tell him or I will.’
Gaétan looked at her. Finally, he nodded. ‘Very well. There are several warehouses near the Rue Daguerre. It’s where the Germans store food supplies before shipping them to their troops at the front. Seizing at least some of it would keep many familie
s from starvation. We wish not only to hurt the enemy but to aid our people.’
‘Call it off!’ said Mitchell. ‘That food is too precious a commodity. The place will be heavily guarded.’
‘No, it is a soft target guarded only by gendarmes.’ Gaétan looked from one to the other. He shook his head. ‘Anyway, it is too late.’
58
Mitchell had racked his brains trying to place Rue Daguerre’s location. It was in the Fourteenth Arrondissement, a few streets south of the Fifth. To get there from Vincennes by train would take too long. They would have to travel back into the city, change trains and then go south of the river, and with the slow progress on the rail system it would be impossible to reach the men before the attack took place. They were already going to need a miracle to get past German checkpoints in the city and reach the warehouses in time. If they were lucky it would take at least an hour and a half. Probably even longer. Gaétan told Mitchell that if the raid was successful then Edmond would take the stolen lorry and the food to an abandoned school a few blocks south of the warehouses.
‘Give me your car keys,’ said Mitchell to Madame Gaétan.
‘You get stopped you compromise us,’ insisted Gaétan.
‘Then you say it’s stolen,’ said Mitchell. ‘If things have gone badly for the men then we might need it to bring them back here. Whatever the outcome, one of us will bring the car back.’
Madame Gaétan barely hesitated in handing over the car keys despite her husband’s protestations.
*
Ginny sat in front with Mitchell driving. Chaval and Laforge hid their weapons beneath their feet. Mitchell had determined that if the worst came to the worst then they would fight their way clear of any German patrol. They wended their way through the mostly empty streets, aware how conspicuous the car was. It was dark when Mitchell pulled into the schoolyard. There was no sign of the lorry or the men.
‘Check the buildings,’ Mitchell told the others.
A quick search confirmed that Maillé, Drossier and Edmond had not reached the lay-up. Mitchell reversed the car into a space between two buildings. It was out of sight of the road. ‘We’ll take a roundabout route towards the warehouses,’ he told them. He pointed at Chaval and Laforge. ‘You have the sub-machine guns. Stay behind Thérèse and me. If we’re challenged we’ll run for it. Cover us if any shooting starts.’ Chaval and Laforge looked nervous at the prospect of taking on army patrols on foot, but they nodded their assent and followed Mitchell as he led them towards the warehouses. They travelled individually, staggering their approach on both sides of the street as Mitchell skirted right and then left to try and avoid crossing any main thoroughfares. As they approached the crossroads that gave access to the warehouses they saw that there was a substantial army presence.
‘If there are soldiers here with those gendarmes then the alarm has been raised,’ said Ginny as she joined Mitchell at the corner and peered around at the activity on the street. Mobile lights had been brought in and a generator kicked into life. Vehicle headlights were on and arc lamps swung in criss-cross patterns down the broad boulevard ahead. A German dog unit tumbled out of a van. Further down the street NCOs barked orders to waiting search parties. Two German officers studied a street map spread across the bonnet of their car. A stationary German ambulance was parked behind the staggered line of soldiers. Stretchers bore dead or wounded men.
‘Those are gendarmes on the stretchers,’ said Mitchell. ‘The fight’s already over.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ginny, we have to find out what’s happened. Take Laforge, go left, see if there’s a way around these blocked roads. If Maillé and Drossier are still with Edmond then he will have got them into the back streets. Let’s see if we can get them out. Give it thirty minutes and then make your way back to the car.’ As Ginny went back to Laforge on the other side of the street, Mitchell beckoned Chaval to him and pointed to where he was going. The party split up and tried to encircle the Germans, using the dim glow of the street lights to ease them into nearby darkness.
‘Those alleyways ahead are so narrow they wouldn’t get a vehicle down them. That’s where I’d head if I needed to escape,’ said Chaval.
‘Me too,’ said Mitchell and ran forward, crouching. As the alley crossed another, shadows flickered and danced in the distance where the lane met a bigger street. A lorry burnt. Had the flaming lorry not caught their attention they would have run into the German dog patrol that emerged from one of the passageways ahead. Mitchell and Chaval pressed back against the wall and then followed the sniffer dogs and their handlers at a safe distance. The dogs suddenly barked and pawed at a door but their handlers cursed them and yanked them away. By the time Mitchell and Chaval reached the doorway they had moved on. The door was firmly closed but even Mitchell could taste the smell of offal – it was a butcher’s. As they stepped past the door opened a crack.
‘Here,’ whispered a voice.
It halted the two men mid-stride. The crack in the door showed a woman’s beckoning hand. They stepped inside behind the blacked-out windows and when the door closed behind them the wick on an oil lamp was raised. The light revealed an older woman wearing a grubby apron and bloodstained sawdust on the floor. Without another word the woman stepped through a plastic curtain that separated the shop from a stone-flagged cold room. Parts of a horse carcass hung on meat hooks. She pointed down at a badly wounded Drossier, who lay half propped against the wall. A bedsheet had been ripped and its pieces used to try and staunch the blood, but they were all soaked and Drossier’s trousers and jacket were dark with gore. Mitchell went down on one knee, and laid a gentle hand on the badly wounded man. He gestured for the woman to bring the lamp closer. When she did so Mitchell could see how profusely Drossier’s wounds bled. It seemed incredible that he was still alive. Drossier’s eyes opened at Mitchell’s touch. Blood trickled through his teeth.
‘Pascal. Thank God. Thank God… We fucked up.’
‘Don’t talk, Camille. We’ll get you out of here.’ Chaval bent on one knee and eased another piece of the sheet into what looked to be one of Drossier’s worst wounds.
Drossier smiled weakly and managed to place his bloodied hand on Chaval’s. ‘Hey… Chaval… you were right… should’ve listened…’
‘Where’s Maillé and Edmond?’ Mitchell asked gently.
Drossier’s head went from side to side. ‘Maillé… stupid bastard. He opened fire… There were too many. Christ, they were everywhere… We killed some… The police… took Maillé… He was wounded… Gendarmes took him…’
‘To the Préfecture?’ said Chaval quietly to Drossier, who nodded agreement.
‘And Edmond?’ Mitchell asked.
Drossier looked puzzled for a moment. He blinked a few times. ‘Dunno… He was firing but… he must have got away.’
Doubts about Gaétan’s trusted gamekeeper crept into Mitchell’s mind. Whatever had gone wrong with this attack the lone survivor – if he had indeed survived – would have the answers. But those questions would need to wait. Drossier was trying to reach for something from his inside pocket but he had little strength left. Mitchell eased his hand across the man’s chest wounds and felt something firm in the pocket between his fingers. Drossier nodded as Mitchell withdrew a cigarette case.
‘Stole it when we were at Norvé,’ he said in barely a whisper. He looked at Chaval. ‘Remember? When I was in Gaétan’s car… lifted it then…’ It took some effort but he gripped Mitchell’s hand. ‘Clean it up… give it back to the old man… Sorry, Pascal…’ He smiled. ‘Once a thief always a…’
His voice trailed away.
Mitchell checked his pulse. There was none. His bloodied hand closed Drossier’s eyes.
‘He’s dead?’ asked the woman.
Mitchell and Chaval got to their feet. ‘Yes,’ said Mitchell. ‘Thank you for helping him.’
She nodded. ‘You have to take his body. I can do nothing more.’
Mitchell turned to Chaval. ‘Take his identity
card. We’ll leave him in one of the alleys.’
Mitchell helped to lift the dead man on to the poacher’s shoulders.
The woman took a sack of sawdust and began to sprinkle handfuls on to the thick bloodstains. ‘There’s a back door,’ she said.
59
Once they had left Drossier’s body in a nearby alley, Mitchell and Chaval retreated to the schoolyard and the concealed car. Mitchell worked the lever on the school’s water pump and washed the blood from his hands.
‘Drossier’s dead. Maillé’s been taken to the Préfecture.’
‘The police have him? Not the Germans?’ said Ginny.
Mitchell shook his head. ‘This could ruin everything if he talks.’
‘And he will,’ said Laforge. ‘He’s a hard-nosed bastard but sooner or later…’
‘I know,’ said Mitchell, desperately trying to think through the odds of getting to him before the interrogation began. ‘But if everything gets blown so too does the safety of Jean Bernard and the Bonniers. My police contact knows where they are and is getting new identity cards for them.’
‘Then we’re all fucked,’ spat Laforge. ‘Would’ve been better if he’d died.’
‘I’m going to the Préfecture,’ said Mitchell.
‘What?’ said Chaval. ‘You’ll walk into a hornet’s nest.’
‘I have to get to Maillé and see how badly hurt he is. I can’t lose those documents. If he talks, then my man will go to ground and turn me in.’
They fell silent.
Ginny looked Mitchell straight in the eye. ‘If you get into the cells, kill him.’
*
Mitchell parked the car a couple of streets away from the Pont Saint-Michel with instructions that once he was across the bridge Chaval was to drive the car north across the river. Mitchell’s plan was simple but, he hoped, would prove effective. He had surrendered his weapon to Chaval. If he got into the building he would certainly be searched, particularly after the thwarted raid. He walked alone across to the Île de la Cité and the Préfecture. The twin towers of Notre-Dame loomed into the evening sky as he quickened his pace, aware that it was barely a couple of hours before curfew. Armed gendarmes stood at the entrance to the police station; one of them pulled him over. ‘Sergent Jules Vanves is expecting me,’ Mitchell said confidently. The officer frisked him and curtly nodded him through. Despite the hour and because of what had happened at the warehouses there was sufficient activity in the main entrance hall to make Mitchell feel overwhelmed. And trapped. A couple of dozen people sat huddled on the side benches. They didn’t look as though they were criminals or suspects. Just ordinary people trying to live their lives. The Préfecture’s various departments handled the bureaucracy that drove the ordinary citizen mad with frustration. Some slept; probably, Mitchell thought, because they had been kept waiting for hours. At least he would not stand out among all the huddled men and women. He removed his hat and approached the desk sergeant, who was writing in a ledger.