Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  ‘Why are you here this late, Pascal? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Where is your husband? It’s important that I see him.’

  ‘Of course, this way, the drawing room.’ She blew out the candle and opened the door into the warmth of the room. ‘You were right, it was Pascal’s car,’ she told her husband who waited, drink in hand, his back to the open fireplace. ‘Let me take your coat,’ she said. ‘Have you eaten? Shall I make up a tray?’

  Mitchell shrugged off his overcoat, forgetting for an instant that his automatic pistol nestled in its pocket. It made no difference, he told himself; he would be able to summon help should Gaétan or Edmond – once he had been brought into the room – resist. ‘No food thank you, madame. But I would appreciate a drink.’

  ‘Of course. Olivier?’ she said, looking to her husband to do the honours.

  ‘He can pour it himself. He’s not here on a social visit. Not at this time of night.’

  Madame Gaétan was about to protest. ‘It’s all right, I’ll help myself,’ said Mitchell and poured a decent amount from the decanter into a glass. He pulled free his tie and loosened his collar. Gaétan and his wife waited. Mitchell let the cognac warm him.

  Madame Gaétan smiled apologetically. ‘ I’ll go and prepare that tray for you. I’m sure you’re hungry really,’ she said and left the room.

  Gaétan scowled. ‘What do you want? I am beginning to tire of your involvement in my circuit. You bring me inferior men and they fail at every turn. They could have brought the Gestapo down on us.’

  ‘My men are the ones who died. Where is Edmond?’

  ‘Sleeping. He barely escaped with his life after your damned fool idiot opened fire too soon. I told your man Chaval as much. Is that why you are here? To argue?’

  ‘I’m here because I suspect the attack on the warehouse failed because my men were betrayed. It’s convenient that Edmond escaped unharmed, wouldn’t you say? There were extra gendarmes inside, just as if they had been waiting for an attack.’

  ‘Don’t you damned well come into my house and accuse me,’ said Gaétan, his temper barely controlled. ‘Edmond is loyal. He risked his life along with the others. We had an opportunity to do some good and now we are at risk because one of your men was taken alive.’

  ‘Maillé won’t talk about you or your circuit at Norvé. I suspect he is already dead. He was a brave man.’

  ‘He was a hot-headed fool. There was no betrayal. It’s war, and bad luck and stupidity are travelling companions.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. I might have misunderstood everything. It’s been a hard journey to try and find Alfred Korte,’ said Mitchell, as if giving way to the more experi- enced man.

  Mitchell’s tone softened the patrician’s response. ‘And we have to see that as a priority. Is there news?’

  ‘He’s critically ill. It’s doubtful he’ll survive much longer,’ Mitchell lied.

  ‘He’s in a hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which one? My wife and I both have contacts in some of them. You should have come to us sooner and explained. We could have helped. You need to trust us more, Pascal.’

  ‘He’s safe now.’

  ‘Then you have moved him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gaétan seemed about to press Mitchell further but paused, and then changed tack. ‘I understand, colonel, that he has great value but our task is to also harass the enemy as best we can with the limited resources we have.’

  Mitchell nursed the drink, wary lest too much of it might go to his head after the long day and night without food, but he needed to at least numb his senses for what was to come. ‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but the Gestapo and security service have informants everywhere and unless we can consolidate with the other groups –’

  ‘You mean the communists?’ said Gaétan. ‘No, not them. Everything they do they do for political control.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Mitchell congenially. ‘Oh, I almost forgot…’ He dipped a hand into his trouser pocket. ‘We got to Drossier before he died. You know he was always a petty thief and when we were in Norvé he stole this.’ Mitchell placed the cigarette case on the table. ‘He begged forgiveness before he died and I promised to return it to you.’

  Gaétan picked it up and grunted, ‘So that’s where it went.’ He turned as his wife came in carrying a tray with bread, cheese and cold cuts. ‘Louise, here’s your cigarette case. Drossier stole it back in Norvé.’

  Mitchell barely managed to disguise his shock as Madame Gaétan put down the tray and took the cigarette case. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She smiled at Mitchell but held his gaze a moment too long, her eyes asking whether her secret had been revealed. She calmly placed it on the table. Mitchell stepped forward, ‘Allow me,’ he said, opening the case, leaving it ajar in front of her with the false back flapped down and the piece of folded paper still visible.

  Gaétan stepped forward and snatched it from him but for once there were no words of condemnation or accusation. Instead, he glanced at his wife’s distraught look and said quietly, ‘Enough, Pascal. This matter ends here.’

  Mitchell stepped to the chair where his overcoat had been draped and took out the .45, holding it loosely at his side. ‘It does not end here,’ he said and tapped on the window.

  ‘Only the communists,’ said Madame Gaétan. ‘We betrayed only them.’

  Chaval and Laforge came into the room with Edmond under their guns.

  ‘Sir? What’s going on?’ asked the gamekeeper.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Mitchell to Gaétan, who had opened his mouth to answer and warn his trusted man. ‘Edmond, what were your instructions the night of the warehouse raid?’

  ‘To take Maillé and Drossier there, to let them seize the warehouse while I stayed back to cover them.’

  ‘And you did that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, colonel, I tried to protect them but they were overwhelmed and I was told that if we were suddenly outnumbered then I had to escape and get word back to Monsieur Gaétan.’

  Mitchell had not taken his gaze off Gaétan. ‘But you were not given any instructions to kill Maillé or Drossier if they were caught? Before they could be tortured and reveal the Norvé circuit’s involvement with Monsieur Gaétan here at Vincennes?’

  ‘Kill our own men? No! Of course not.’

  ‘Of course not, Edmond, because what you did not know was that it made no difference whether they talked because the Germans already knew about Monsieur and Madame Gaétan’s involvement.’

  Edmond’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘Colonel, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Every time an operation was planned, an airdrop discovered, an attack failed, people you were supposed to guide in didn’t make it, you were kept safe, Edmond, because Monsieur Gaétan and his wife were informants for the Germans.’

  ‘No. Impossible.’ He looked from Gaétan to his wife but they averted their eyes.

  Mitchell handed him the cigarette case. ‘Take out that piece of paper. Read it.’

  Edmond looked at the list of names.

  ‘Do you know those people? Pierre Dupin and the others?’ said Mitchell.

  ‘Yes. They helped us a few months ago. They were going to set up a new escape line from Belgium.’

  Mitchell took back the cigarette case from him. ‘I believe that when Madame Gaétan attended social events and mingled with the Germans she passed on their names so they could be arrested. Those résistants were arrested at Gare d’Austerlitz.’

  It was obvious to Mitchell than Edmond had no idea of his employer’s treachery. The loyal gamekeeper shook his head and sank into a chair.

  ‘They were communists,’ said Madame Gaétan with quiet defiance. ‘I served with honour in the Great War, I saw what the Bolsheviks began even then. More than anyone else they had to be stopped. The British have armed communist groups across France but they must never be allowed to control France when this war ends.’

  ‘And m
y men?’ said Mitchell.

  ‘They were expendable,’ said Gaétan, who stood next to his wife and held her hand. ‘They were a necessary price to pay to convince the Germans that we were still well placed to deal with them.’

  Mitchell had held back the question that most needed to be asked. ‘And what of the wireless operator, Alain Ory? Why did you betray him?’ he asked, not knowing whether it had in fact been the Gaétans who were responsible.

  Gaétan and his wife looked genuinely surprised. ‘We did not,’ said Gaétan. ‘He worked with Peter Thompson and as you know we protected the Englishman.’

  ‘Because you could keep him hidden and use him as a bargaining chip should you have to?’ said Mitchell.

  The two accused remained silent, which was answer enough for Mitchell, but he felt a sense of relief that the people standing before him had not been the instigators of his wife’s death.

  Edmond pointed accusingly. ‘You sent one of our best men from Norvé to secure a safe house for Colonel Garon. He was taken by the Gestapo. Did you betray him as well?’

  ‘He was sacrificed because I was trying to give the Germans Garon. It was unfortunate, Edmond, but sometimes distasteful decisions need to be made.’

  Edmond leapt suddenly towards Gaétan, but Mitchell stepped between them and levelled the automatic at him. ‘No! They deserve to be punished, but not by you.’

  Chaval stepped behind him and tugged the shocked Edmond back into his seat. ‘You bastards,’ said Edmond to the two people he had steadfastly served for so many years. He spat on the floor at their feet.

  Olivier Gaétan ignored his gamekeeper and poured himself and his wife a drink. He had regained his composure and faced his accuser calmly. ‘We are loyal to de Gaulle and when he formed the exiled government in England I was his confidant. You will not cause us any harm, colonel. Do you believe for one moment that he does not understand what it means for a commander in the field to make difficult and unpleasant decisions? Général de Gaulle is the man we follow and to whom we owe our allegiance. It is not to anyone else. It is we French who will save France’s honour. We will not hand her over to Stalin and his disciples. We have de Gaulle’s protection. He will determine our fate.’

  Mitchell tucked the pistol into his waistband. ‘Yes, he will. When I discovered what was in the cigarette case I contacted London asking them what they wished me to do. They told me de Gaulle wants you in England. There’s a Lysander coming in for you tonight. Pack a small case.’ He turned to Chaval and Laforge. ‘Take them to their rooms. Do not speak to them. Make sure they do not hide any weapons, and then we’ll take them to the landing zone.’

  Olivier and Louise Gaétan exchanged glances; each appeared comforted that their fate would be determined by the man they served. Gaétan embraced his wife and kissed her cheek. Neither showed any sign of remorse. As they were escorted from the room Mitchell poured Edmond a drink, who nodded his appreciation.

  ‘I wish I had known. The man he sent to Paris and betrayed was a good friend of mine.’

  Mitchell had found a sheet of writing paper in a bureau drawer and was writing something. ‘Edmond, you have to return to Norvé and run the circuit. Can you do that?’ he asked as he folded the paper into his pocket.

  The gamekeeper looked surprised and then understood that the suggestion made sense. ‘Yes. I can do that.’

  ‘Madame Bonnier and her daughter, Simone. They have gone back there. To help the Resistance. They’re expecting Gaétan and his wife. I would take it as a personal favour if you would help them. Do what you can for them. She’s a brave and capable woman.’

  ‘It will be an honour to do that, colonel. I have good men down there and we’ll help the British however we can.’

  Mitchell placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Go first thing tomorrow. Take their car.’ He extended his hand to Edmond, who stood and shook it. ‘If anything happens to me I am going to instruct Chaval and Laforge to return to Norvé and work with you. Treat them well and treat them as equals. Goodbye, Edmond. And good luck.’

  *

  They drove Gaétan and his wife to where the Lysander had picked up Alfred Korte a few hours earlier. They were ushered from the car on to the field without haste, each with their small suitcase.

  ‘Will there be room for the two of us in the plane?’ said Madame Gaétan, turning up the fur collar on her coat, perhaps, thought Mitchell, because of the pre-dawn chill or a shiver of fear at what might await them in England. The moon was low in the sky surrounded by a tinged ring of light.

  ‘Yes, there’s room,’ said Mitchell. ‘You’ll have to put your suitcases under your feet.’

  Louise Gaétan lifted her husband’s hand to her lips as they stared at the moon. ‘Do you know, darling, I shall be glad to be out of this. I think that we shall be exonerated because what we did, we did for the love of France and the hope of –’

  Mitchell shot her in the back of the head and then, as Gaétan turned in shock, shot her husband in the temple.

  He gazed down at the sprawled bodies and took out the folded paper from his pocket. He placed it on their bodies and secured it with a palm-sized stone. The moon’s glow was bright enough to see what had been written in a bold hand: Traitors to France.

  66

  When Rudi Leitmann and Maillé had died at SD headquarters and Standartenführer Heinrich Stolz had agreed to Bauer’s demands, Stolz had immediately ordered the Gestapo to arrest Dominique.

  She was sitting at her dressing table when she heard tyres crunching on the gravel approach. She saw the car pull up and three plainclothes agents spill out, and the pulse in her neck quickened. No one on Stolz’s staff would arrive in such a manner were he at home, so they must have come for her. She had time to pull on a skirt and sweater before the house servant answered their insistent banging on the front door and let them in. Their raised voices and pounding footfalls gave her little chance of escape. She swung open the glass doors on to the small balcony and was halfway out of the room when the first of the men grabbed her. He hauled her back inside and slapped her hard.

  ‘Jew bitch!’ he snarled. The blow flung her across the room; her head spun and she tasted blood. The second man strode towards her without a word and kicked her in the stomach. She doubled up and vomited. The Gestapo agent who had slapped her grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her to her feet. Her blurred vision showed her the third man, who seemed to know exactly where to go in Stolz’s wardrobe to find a fresh tunic. She could make no connection between that action and what was happening to her, and her mind swirled in terror. A part of her wished they would kill her there and then but she knew a more terrifying fate awaited. Somehow her charade had been discovered and Stolz, betrayed, would inflict the worst punishment on her. They dragged her outside and with a final vicious punch to her neck threw her half-conscious on to the back seat of the car. As she slipped into the comfort of darkness she heard one of the men instruct the other to drive to La Santé Prison.

  By the time the man that Stolz and the Abwehr colonel sought was being driven across Paris to be flown to freedom, Dominique Lesaux, bloodied and still barely conscious, had been thrown on to the floor of a rat-infested cell that held half a dozen other women. As the guard slammed closed the door one of the prisoners bent down to help her rest her back against the wall. She filled a metal cup from the water bucket and eased the stale liquid between Dominique’s swollen lips, and then gently patted the cool water on to her face. Dominique’s eyes focused on the tear-stained face of her friend Béatrice Claudel.

  ‘My God, Béatrice, you as well?’

  Béatrice nodded, fighting back her emotions. ‘They’re putting us on the train for the camps. Dominique… they took Martin… they shot him.’

  Dominique kissed her friend’s hand as they clung to each other.

  *

  As Standartenführer Stolz’s agent returned to Avenue Foch and stepped across the dark stains on the pavement where Leitmann and Maillé had fallen, Leutnan
t Hesler had been waiting impatiently in the corridor outside Stolz’s office for some time. Staff of various ranks came and went and it was obvious that since the killing of Leitmann and the terrorist’s suicide something was happening beyond the narrow confines of the radio officer’s work. Rumours ebbed and flowed through the building as typists and clerks exchanged gossip but one thing was certain: Leutnant Hesler’s friend Hauptmann Koenig had been involved and the one rumour that had the ring of truth was that he had been executed. Hesler wanted to speak to Stolz but he was afraid. Would his friendship with Koenig now reflect badly on him? Two Gestapo men pushed past him, one carrying a fresh tunic for the colonel. When Stolz emerged with an Abwehr colonel Hesler took the risk and stepped out boldly in front of the two serious-faced men.

  ‘Sir, apologies. I have information.’

  ‘This is Leutnant Hesler, our radio genius. He’s tracking down our… your agent,’ said Stolz, correcting himself. ‘Go on, Hesler.’

  ‘Well, sir, I have been narrowing the area where I believe this woman is operating. She made a scheduled transmission as expected. It was longer than usual. I have narrowed it down to one block on Rue de Loret, Ninth Arrondissement.’

  ‘I told you, Hesler, you report to me when you have pinpointed her, not when you know the general locale. If there’s nothing more, I will brief you later as from now on you will also be passing information to Oberst Bauer.’

  Hesler’s uncertainty at the change in command caused him to hesitate and continue blocking Stolz and Bauer’s passage.