Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  Stolz opened one of the folded pages, and then another. The seriousness of the charges became apparent. He could no longer sustain his aggressive attitude. ‘Koenig gave the girl these? With my forged signature?’ Stolz tossed the document away as if it were contaminated. ‘Impossible. I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Bauer.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your loyalty to your men is admirable, and I believe to be well founded. He is a good man.’ Bauer let the inconclusive response sow its uncertainty in Stolz’s mind.

  ‘You’re not making sense.’ And then Stolz’s face clouded. ‘My God. You’re accusing me. You’re trying to bring me down.’

  ‘That does depend on how you respond to the additional evidence that I have.’

  Stolz was an experienced SS officer. He knew how an accusation like this could mean you found yourself against a wall in front of a firing squad. ‘Evidence?’ he said quietly, resisting the urge to loosen his tunic collar.

  ‘Yes,’ Bauer continued at a languid pace, inflicting as damaging a wound as he could. ‘Koenig’s lover was introduced to him by Mademoiselle Dominique Lesaux, the lady with whom you have an ongoing relationship.’ He reached into his pocket and placed a gold cigarette lighter on the desk.

  Stolz stared at it.

  ‘As you will know the inscription reads: “To Dominique, with affection, Heinrich.” We found the lighter during our search of Béatrice Claudel’s apartment where Mademoiselle Lesaux had obviously lost it.’

  Bauer watched as Stolz swallowed hard. Perspiration beaded his brow. He did not reach for the cigarette lighter. He knew he was a heartbeat away from the firing squad.

  Bauer unbuttoned his tunic breast pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. He opened it carefully and slid it across the desk to rest next to the gold lighter. ‘The French have more access to these matters than we give them credit for. She worked for an aristocratic family in Bordeaux who escaped to Switzerland at the outbreak of war. That is how she came up with the cover story which gave her access to Parisian society. The family abandoned her. That is a copy of a birth certificate; I have the original with all the supporting documents that show Dominique Lesaux was born of Jewish parents in Marseille. She changed her name and had secured false documents by the time she got to Paris.’

  The death blow.

  Stolz pushed his chair back, a feeble attempt to distance himself from the evidence. Bauer watched his victim squirm.

  But the SS man’s survival instincts pulled him back from the inevitable. ‘What do you want?’

  Bauer shrugged. ‘Everything.’

  Stolz stared at the intelligence officer, who showed no sign of emotion, no hint of his triumph. ‘What is everything?’

  ‘Hauptmann Koenig said that you were close to trapping the wireless operator. The woman. Everything is your complete co-operation in giving her to me. Everything is the Abwehr interrogating her. I want Alfred Korte. If your people find him, I want him. Anything to do with the English agent comes under my control. You can pursue your war against the Resistance but everything else comes to me. And if you withhold any information then my evidence will be used against you.’

  Stolz knew his career and life could be crushed as surely as his stubbed-out cigarette. ‘And what of Hauptman Koenig?’

  Bauer’s code of conduct had been instilled in him long ago by Admiral Canaris, who decreed that his intelligence officers should always work with good conscience. His staff were never asked to act against their principles. There was never to be any accusation that the Abwehr were murderers. That sobriquet would lie with the SS, the SD and the Gestapo, not the Abwehr.

  ‘He is innocent,’ said Bauer. He reflected for a moment on Stolz’s question, realizing that for this once he was going against his and Canaris’s doctrine. The ends justified the means. ‘Someone has to be held responsible,’ he said regretfully. ‘He will be sacrificed.’

  64

  Mitchell had embraced Juliet before he had taken them within sight of the Gare de Lyon across the river. Three-quarters of the way across they stopped and gazed down at the Seine. She held Simone close under one arm as if they were looking at the progress of a barge passing below.

  ‘I can’t run and hide, Pascal. I’m only going as far as Clermont-Ferrand, then Simone and I are going back to Norvé. I want to help my country. France needs us all. Too many good people have died trying to save her.’

  He had barely hidden his despair. ‘Too many people have risked everything to get you those travel documents. You cannot go back there. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Madame Gaétan and I warmed to each other. She’ll find me work. I have discussed it with Simone. There’s a village school for her. That’s our decision.’ She took a step closer to him. ‘And you will be close, here in Paris. It’s what I want.’ She had smiled, kissed her fingers and placed them on his lips, giving him no time to argue before she turned and walked away from him. He had lingered on the bridge watching them make their way towards freedom.

  Now, as he stared out of his apartment’s window watching for anything unusual in the street below, he imagined how far the train would have already travelled. A part of him travelled with them. With Juliet. He could not deny that he missed her, yet he could not deny either that this sense of loss conflicted with the guilt he felt when he thought of his wife. He pushed the conflict aside. All that was important now was to complete his mission and find a means of rescuing Danielle. His instinct as a father insisted she was still alive.

  Ginny transmitted to London and then waited as a response came through. She worked quickly and diligently, copying down the groups of letters to be decoded. Mitchell felt some assurance that there had been no suspicious activity in the street. He knew the Germans used foot patrols of plainclothes men. They were usually easily identifiable as they looked fatter than anyone else, not because they were better fed than the starving Parisians, but rather because underneath their raincoats they wore a radio detection device strapped to their chest that allowed them to pinpoint transmissions from a radio within a shorter radius than the detection vans. Gestapo and German security services lay across Paris like a vast net and it was no wonder that they had succeeded in arresting so many of the people that Mitchell had once known working in the Resistance. It was likely that the résistants arrested at the Gare d’Austerlitz had been taken because of idle gossip or an unguarded comment. This suffocating atmosphere increased the pressure on those trying to aid the Allied cause. He looked at the stained cloth he was using to clean Drossier’s blood from the stolen cigarette case and immediately saw the dying man in his mind’s eye. He opened the case. Blood had seeped between the clasp and tainted some of the cigarettes but there were still enough worth saving. He laid them out carefully on the window seat and renewed his attempt to remove the last of the marks from the case before returning it to Gaétan.

  ‘Tonight,’ said Ginny as she deciphered the message. ‘Moon’s good and the Lysander will be on the ground at 2100.’

  Mitchell’s attention switched between the street and cigarette case. ‘Good, that gives us a couple of hours before curfew. I need to get the car and fetch Korte out of the hospital.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ll finish what food we have, snatch a couple of hours’ sleep and then we’ll get the others ready for the landing zone. When I leave to collect Korte, make your way to the other apartment. Use a bus rather than the Métro – safer that way. I’ll come back here and double-check we have left nothing incriminating and then close the place up.’ He gave the brave girl an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll be glad to get him out of here.’

  ‘Yes, me too.’

  The tip of his finger caught a rough edge of metal inside the cigarette case, behind the elastic band that held the cigarettes in place. He probed with his fingernail, feeling it catch, and then pulling more firmly he found himself prising open the back of the cigarette case. A false back, with a thin piece of paper folded inside it.
He opened it out. A half-dozen names were written out in tiny letters. His stomach tightened as he looked up wide-eyed at Ginny, who faltered as she tucked away her code pads.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘I know who the traitor is.’

  *

  By late afternoon Mitchell had picked up the Peugeot and driven around the back of Roccu’s bar where Chaval and Laforge were waiting. He gave Laforge the German uniform to wear, to act as the driver. That, together with the false army plates, might see them through any casual observation by German patrols.

  ‘Fuck it,’ Laforge cursed. ‘If I’m going to die I don’t want to die wearing my enemy’s uniform.’

  Chaval placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t be a prick. You’re the only one it fits. I’ll make you a deal. You get killed, I’ll strip it off you.’ The big man grinned. Laforge shook his head in despair and surrender and pulled on the hated grey uniform as Chaval relayed to Mitchell what Edmond had told him when he had returned to Gaétan’s house at Vincennes following the failed attack on the warehouse.

  ‘The gamekeeper wasn’t wounded but he said he’d tried to cover Maillé and Drossier. He said Maillé shot a gendarme and then all hell broke loose and they were quickly overwhelmed.’

  Mitchell listened closely. The story tallied with what the dying Drossier had told him and had been confirmed by Maillé. ‘A traitor could easily keep himself out of danger once the shooting started,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I thought as well,’ said Chaval. ‘Gaétan was pissed off. He blamed Maillé for the failed mission. I think you have a big problem with Gaétan. He still feels left out. We refused to tell him where we were going with you.’

  ‘You weren’t followed?’ said Mitchell.

  Chaval shook his head. ‘He’d have used Edmond but I made sure we were in the clear. Gamekeepers don’t always keep up with poachers.’

  Mitchell sat in the passenger seat and directed Laforge to take them out to the hospital at Neuilly using as many side streets as he could remember. Had it been blindingly obvious that Gaétan had been the traitor or could it still be the secretive Edmond, a man who seemed to be able to move at night with such ease? Gaétan had secured many a supply drop and brought in Peter Thompson safely. He had got Thompson into Paris to find Korte before the weight of German secret police agents and French collaboration forces made the nervous man’s mission untenable. Gaétan spent months in the city every year and it had been proven that Edmond, despite being a countryman, knew his way around the city. Mitchell became more uncertain. By the time he pulled up close to the hospital he was still undecided. Was it Gaétan or Edmond who had been passing on the information?

  They waited as arranged several streets away from the hospital. An ambulance arrived and Alfred Korte was quickly transferred into the car. With five hours left to get to the landing zone, Mitchell had Laforge drive slowly using back streets again to escape the city. It was a tortuous route but one that gave him options should trouble arise. He carried a Sten gun beneath his overcoat and Chaval sat with Korte in the back, ready to shoot their way clear should they be challenged. The sun set behind them in a haze as they drove north-east and found the derelict barn that would give them shelter until the Lysander arrived. The weathered boarding had once been creosoted but winter winds, blowing unhindered across the sparse open land, had cracked and twisted the timbers. On the far horizon, a splintered line of bare trees stood as a skeletal guard of honour for the men who had died in long-forgotten battles centuries before, spilling their blood on to this ancient landscape.

  Laforge stripped off the German uniform and stood guard with Chaval in the ruined outbuilding that gave a clear view of the surrounding featureless countryside. Korte still looked unwell but his spirit was undiminished.

  He sat quietly in the front passenger seat and then finally spoke. ‘I am frail, colonel, and I might die before I am of any use to British Intelligence. Your War Office have been waiting some months to hear what I know.’

  ‘I am certain you will be fine, professor. And I’m no colonel. I’m a teacher.’

  ‘You are a lecturer. Dr Burton told me. Your modesty is only exceeded by your courage. But let us not delude ourselves. Is it not a fact that sometimes these brave pilots who come from England are shot down by German fighter planes?’

  ‘Yes, it can happen. They are excellent pilots who fly low and sometimes their luck runs out. There are no guarantees for any of us, but you have come this far and within a couple of hours you will have hot food and a decent bed.’

  ‘You are correct, I have come a long way and so far I have been fortunate. Some of those who have helped me have been less so, and that I regret. That others have died to protect me grieves me.’

  Mitchell kept his eyes scanning the far fields, seeing where to place the car and use its headlights to help guide in the Lysander. ‘We all have our duty to do and you have taken more risks than most.’

  ‘Perhaps. There are others like me who deplore what has happened to my country, the evil that has befallen it. I have many friends – churchmen, scientists and ordinary citizens – who spoke out and who died for their indiscretion and beliefs. It would be a tragedy if I did not reach England.’ The elderly scientist took out a small brass tube capped with a rubber stopper. He thumbed the stopper and unfurled a piece of paper, rolling it out between finger and thumb. ‘Can you see this?’

  Mitchell took it from him and used what light there was to gaze at a horizontal lines of letters that would make no sense to a casual observer.

  ‘It’s code,’ said Mitchell.

  ‘I had many hours lying in the safety of the hospital and I thought that if I did not survive then the information that I have must.’

  ‘So you changed your mind and committed it to paper.’

  Korte nodded. ‘If you hear that we did not land in England and that I am dead then you must send this by courier to London through the people you know in Spain. That is the last resort.’

  Mitchell gazed at the jumbled letters. ‘It will take time to decipher.’

  ‘Your friend Dr Burton said you were a mathematician. It will not be difficult once you know the key and if by chance the list falls into German hands I have also included some high-ranking Nazi party members to cause some excitement and to prove that it is fake in their eyes. Although it would be a wonderful irony if they thought Hermann Goering was against Hitler.’ Mitchell saw the old man smile. ‘The day will come when those names that are genuine will rise up and seize power. All they will need is the word from your Allied command.’

  Mitchell kept his eyes on the jumbled letters. He could not yet see how the code had been set.

  ‘It will come to you,’ said Korte. He passed Mitchell the rubber stopper. ‘Keep it safe, my friend. Remember, the truth will set us free. Now, forgive me if I close my eyes for an hour or so before I undertake the journey.’

  *

  As the veiled moon’s glow bathed the land Mitchell rolled the piece of paper back into its container and tucked it away in the bottom of his inside pocket, feeling the assurance of its hard shell against his ribs. He nudged the scientist awake.

  ‘It’s time.’

  With Chaval leading the way across the field using a dimmed torchlight, Mitchell eased the car forward. Once in position, he reversed the car and pointed it towards the landing zone. The torchlight showed the green illuminated dial on his watch. The breeze touching their faces would herald the noise of an approaching engine but there was still no sound of a low-flying aircraft. It would be risky to illuminate the LZ too soon. Then Chaval turned and called quietly.

  ‘I hear something.’

  ‘All right. Take up your positions.’ He helped Korte from the car and walked him twenty paces into the field. ‘When I put the headlights on, point this upwards,’ he said, handing him a torch.

  ‘I understand,’ said Korte.

  The low growl in the sky became more distinct but was still some distance away
. It was time to guide the pilot down. Mitchell flashed the headlights and then left them on. Korte pointed his torch as did Laforge and Chaval further downfield. There was no sign of the aircraft despite the heavens being clear other than a gossamer sheen of very high cloud. It diffused the moonlight but was still bright enough to show the ground to the pilot. The men strained their eyes but the pilot was already below the line of the distant trees and the welcome party were almost caught unawares as he expertly throttled back the aircraft’s engines. It was down and taxiing, spinning around, its backdraught ripping Korte’s hat from his head. The pilot gave a thumbs-up as Mitchell escorted Korte to the side ladder and helped him up. Laforge ran forward with the old man’s hat and handed it to Mitchell, who shoved it down into the cockpit. The old man smiled and said something. Mitchell bent closer and Korte cupped his mouth to Mitchell’s ear. Giving thanks. The cockpit Perspex closed; Mitchell clambered down and waved the pilot away, returning the thumbs up.

  The dark-painted aircraft waggled its tail like a strutting cock pheasant and loomed off into the night.

  Moments later silence settled.

  The lights were dimmed. The men gazed across the landscape. There was no sign of danger. The remote field had not drawn any attention.

  ‘It’s done,’ said Laforge.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Mitchell. ‘We have to unmask the traitor.’

  65

  Mitchell cut the Peugeot’s lights and killed the engine, letting the car freewheel silently into Gaétan’s yard. There was only a sliver of dull light barely visible through the join in the downstairs curtains, but there was still sufficient moonlight to see the shape of the building and the shadows it cast. Mitchell and the two men stepped out into the yard, leaving the car doors open. Mitchell quietly instructed Chaval and Laforge to seek out Edmond in his sleeping quarters and to bring him into the house when he called. Mitchell tugged the lever set in the doorframe and heard the gentle ring of the bell. He stepped back from the front door and glanced towards the downstairs room. The curtain twitched and he knew whoever was in the room had checked to see who was calling so close to curfew. Moments later the door opened into a near-dark entrance porch. Madame Gaétan shielded a candle and beckoned him inside. As she turned to pull aside the blackout curtain in the porch Mitchell closed the door but did not turn the key in the lock.