Jean-Paul nodded. "Yes. You mean the plane will land between the wood and the lake?"
"Yes. On the night of the rescue you should arrive there at 10.40. The plane will come in at 10.45."
"Will it wait if we’re late?"
"It can only wait five minutes at the most, Jean-Paul."
The Frenchman frowned. "It’s going to be difficult. We have to time things so that we get Albert out and get to Montoir by 10.40, but we can’t be too early. We’re sure to be pursued."
"No-one said it would be easy, Jean-Paul. Do you want to call it off?"
Jean-Paul was thunderstruck. "Of course not!" His exclamation was louder than he had intended.
"Shhhh."
"Sorry." His voice was a whisper once more.
"When will the plane come?"
"As soon as possible. Listen to the BBC at 7.30 each day. The code 'the flight of the heron' means that it’s all on for that night. Got it?"
"Yes. 'The flight of the heron."
"Good. Let's go. You leave first. I'll hang on for five minutes."
Jean-Paul nodded and rose to his feet. As he turned to leave the pew, he glanced down at the bowed head of the young woman and smiled. Who would ever have thought that she was an English spy?
"While you are down there,” he muttered, "perhaps you can say a prayer for Albert and the rest of us. We’re going to need all the help we can get!"
110
Karl Dresner watched as his superior officer poured himself another cognac and settled himself comfortably in his chair. The major smiled across at the sergeant and raised his glass in salute, though he did not offer the younger man a drink.
"You know, Karl, I was not absolutely certain when we first took the assassin that he was a spy. Or even if he was connected with the Resistance at all for that matter. But the more I see of him, the more I’m convinced that we have an Englishman amongst us."
"How can you be sure, Herr Major?"
"He’s too good, Karl. He hasn’t said a word yet, not even to curse us. You should see him. He’s just one big bruise, yet he still refuses to talk." Steinhauser grinned. He obviously enjoyed the suffering of his prisoner and looked forward to seeing it continue.
"Will you be able to make him talk?"
"Oh yes, Karl. So far we’ve just been softening him up. When we get round to the really serious questioning, he’ll talk. He’ll beg to be allowed to tell us all that he knows." Steinhauser took a sip of his cognac and smiled appreciatively. "It may take as long as a week, but by then we’ll have wrung him dry. We will know who was working with him, where they store their weapons, where the weapons came from originally. We may even lay our hands on a British radio operator and his equipment. Just think how useful that could be." He leant back and closed his eyes, his feet stretched out in front of him. “Ah, Karl, this could be just the break I’ve been looking for. With Wolffe gone, they’ll need to promote someone else. Just think how much better my chances will be, if I manage to expose a secret British spy ring."
Dresner said nothing. He was well aware of his superior officer’s ambitions and hoped his plans would come to fruition; after all, if the Major moved up the hierarchical ladder he would take his sergeant with him. But Dresner was always the pessimist. If this Albert Fouqet was the leader of the Resistance group, and nothing to that effect had yet been proved, then he may not talk at all, no matter what the means of persuasion. As he watched the Major enjoying his cognac, he hoped that nothing would go wrong. Steinhauser in a temper was not a pretty sight.
111
Tony was feeling weak from lack of food. The water which he had been given over the last twenty-four hours had relieved some of his suffering, but his stomach was now cramping for lack of solid sustenance. But the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, however, did not compare with the pain in his bruised and battered body. His torso and arms were a patchwork of red, black and blue. He ached all over, although some of the stiffness was easing. During the times of most intense pain, he retreated into an idyllic dream, where he and Sarah walked through a world which knew nothing of war. He would not have been able to stand up to the brutal use he had been subjected to if it had not been for his love for her. He had not known that the love of a woman could impart such inner strength, but he resisted for her, to prove to her that his country and his love for her were far more important to him than his own life. He was determined to survive if he could, but he had no misconceptions about Major Steinhauser and what he planned to do with him. He was coming to terms with the fact that he probably would not leave the SS. H.Q. alive. He regretted that he would not see England again, his home, his family and his friends; but most of all he regretted that he would never see Sarah again. He longed to hold her in his arms once more, to know that her feelings for him were equally strong. He would close his eyes and see the glowing auburn hair, sparkling green eyes and infectious smile of the woman he loved. His heart wept with the pain of missing her, and he would whisper 'Wait for me, Sarah. I'm coming home to you, my love.'
The guard often heard him muttering under his breath, but could not make out the words. If he had, he would have wondered at the force of love which kept his prisoner’s mind from the pain and humiliation he had already suffered, and the brutality that was yet to come.
When the door opened to admit Steinhauser and his two companions once more, Tony had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His mouth was dry with fear of the anticipated pain, but he let none of his feelings show. He stood silently and watched, as a heavy chair was carried in and placed in the centre of the floor beneath the naked light bulb.
"Sit down."
Tony complied silently. He sat still and tense as first his hands were tied to the arms of the chair, and then his ankles to the legs. The ropes were tight and bit deeply into his flesh so that the blood flow to his extremities was restricted. But Tony paid it little attention, his mind focussing instead on what was coming next. Why was he tied? What did Steinhauser plan to do to him? One of the guards stepped forward and ripped open the prisoner’s shirt to expose his bruised and battered torso. Tony shivered, whether as a reaction to the cold air of the cell or to his fear even he did not know. Steinhauser lit a cigar and smoked for a moment. His evil eyes took in the battered appearance of his victim.
"Shall we continue with our interrogation?" His voice and his gaze were as icy as the air in the cell.
"I still have nothing to say to you."
Steinhauser stepped closer until he stood before the chair with its bound occupant, drawing on the cigar until its tip glowed red. Taking it from his mouth he exhaled a stream of smoke into the air so that it swirled around the naked light bulb in a blue haze. Holding the glowing tip of the cigar close to Tony’s eyes, he smiled his evil smile.
"Are you sure about that?"
He lowered the cigar and pressed it against Tony’s shoulder. The flesh blistered and steamed. Tony bit his lips to stop himself from crying out.
"What is your name?"
"Albert Fouqet."
The cigar was lowered once again. Tony watched, unable to take his eyes from the glowing tip which approached his flesh. As the burning cigar touched his skin, his eyes screwed tightly closed in agony.
"Your name?"
Tony’s voice was filled with pain. He forced the words through gritted teeth. "Albert Fouqet."
Steinhauser’s brow creased in anger as he pressed the tip of the cigar against Tony’s chest again. Once. Twice. Three times. Tony was rigid with pain, his back arched and his limbs straining against the restraining bonds. But he still did not cry out. When Steinhauser stepped back, Tony’s head lowered onto his chest and his breathing came in painful gasps.
"Name?"
"Albert Fouqet."
"Who were you working with?"
"I work alone."
"Are you in touch with England?"
"No."
Steinhauser stepped forward again, puffing on the cigar until the end glowed redly onc
e more. Tony closed his eyes in anticipation of the pain. When it came, he clenched his teeth tightly together so that the muscles in his jaw and neck stood out like corded ropes. He lost count of the number of times he felt the touch of the burning cigar before the questioning began again.
"Did you sabotage the docks?"
"No."
"Where did you get your weapon?"
"I found it." Tony looked defiantly into the eyes of the SS major, who spluttered in anger.
"You bastard! You think you’re strong, but you can’t stand against me! Sooner or later you will answer my questions!"
He stepped forward again, the cigar held out in front of him, but this time he pressed it against the extra sensitive skin of the Englishman’s nipple. He laughed when his action was rewarded with a scream of agony.
“See, 'Monsieur Fouqet’,” his voice was full of derision, “I still have many ways to inflict pain on you. Indeed I have barely scraped the surface of ways to make you suffer. Now will you answer my questions?"
Sweat stood out on Tony’s brow despite the chill of the room. His body shook as he fought to control the pain, but as he looked at his tormentor, his eyes were still defiant. The SS major embodied all that he hated about this war. The blue-eyed, fair haired man had been indoctrinated with the myth that he, and other Aryans like him, were the superior race, destined to rule the world. Tony knew that if the Germans did win, they would treat all of the people they subjugated in the same manner as they treated the French, and all resistance would be met with treatment similar to that which was being meted out to him. He knew that no matter what the consequences to himself, he would do nothing to help the hated Germans in their conquest. He would give his life to protect Jean-Paul and his family, and the rest of their group. As the waves of pain washed over him, he saw the whole conflict in black and white, good versus evil. Knowing what would happen to him would not influence what he said next.
"No. I will not answer your question. Not now. Not ever."
With a cry of frustrated rage, Steinhauser stepped forward and forced the red cigar tip into Tony’s navel. He ground it round and round until the burning tobacco was extinguished. The screams of his victim rang in his ears. Stepping back, he threw away the cigar butt, and signalled one of the soldiers who accompanied him to step forward.
"The nails."
With an evil grin the soldier knelt on the floor and removed Tony’s shoes and socks, not an easy task with his ankles still bound tightly to the legs of the chair. The other soldier stepped behind Tony, holding onto the back of the chair as though to brace it against some violent movement. Tony’s heart beat wildly with fear. Standing directly in front of him, Steinhauser removed a match from the box in his hand. He gave it to the soldier, who knelt at Tony’s feet.
"Begin."
The soldier gripped Tony tightly by the right ankle, and forced the match down beneath the nail of the big toe. Tony fought and screamed, unaware of Steinhauser’s malevolent gaze, but he could do nothing to prevent the excruciating pain as the thin piece of wood was forced down to the root of his nail. He took in huge gulps of air as the soldier released his ankle, and the pain gradually began to subside. Blood poured from the shattered nail and torn flesh. As the curtain of red pain began to recede, he thought that no more painful form of torture could be devised. But he was wrong. He opened his eyes to see Steinhauser gloating above him; slowly he withdrew another match and struck it against the box so that it burst into brilliant flame. As he began to crouch down in front of him, Tony suddenly, with a flash of terrible insight, knew what he was going to do. He struggled and fought, his body bucking and straining at its tethers. But it was useless. His torturer held the flame to the end of the match which had been thrust under Tony’s nail. The sulphurous end burst into life. As the flame consumed the wood, Tony screamed and writhed in agony. Never in his wildest nightmares had he imagined such pain.
"No! My God! No!" he cried, his back arching in agony, but unable to move further because of the restraining bonds. "In God’s name, stop!”
But the fiery pain did not stop, not until the flame was so far under his nail that it lacked the oxygen to burn, and the wood was too soaked with Tony’s blood for the fire to take hold. So the flame died, but the smouldering stub of the match was still embedded in the lower portion of the nail continuing the agony.
When the pain had receded enough for him to control it, Tony opened his eyes and frowned at the triumphant smile on Steinhauser’s face.
"So, Monsieur Fouqet cries out in English when he is in pain!" He laughed.
Tony blanched. Had he? Had he really cried out in English? The agony had been so all-encompassing that he knew that it was possible. He bowed his head in shame and defeat, but then straightened once more. So, he had cried out in English, but he had told Steinhauser nothing else, he could still resist.
"So...you know that...I’m English but that...won’t help...you." His voice was little more than a whisper, his words disjointed by pain.
"Tell me about the group you worked with."
"No."
Steinhauser slowly took another match from the box, conscious that Tony could not take his eyes from it, his eyes filled with pain and fear. He handed the match to the soldier. He took hold of Tony’s left ankle, and began to force the thin piece of wood down beneath the nail of the big toe. Tony took his lower lip between his teeth, drawing blood as he tried to suppress his cries, but the pain was too great and he screamed once more. Once the match was in place, Steinhauser waited for the pain to recede a little. He watched as the blood from the broken toe pooled on the floor. Then he lit another match and held the yellow flame close in front of Tony’s eyes.
"Now will you talk?"
Fighting his fear Tony shook his head. He closed his eyes as Steinhauser bent down and lit the match. The burning agony began again, and Tony began to scream.
"No! No! Sarah! Oh my God! Sarah!"
As the name of his beloved echoed in his ears, he slipped into merciful unconsciousness.
Tony gradually became aware of the hard stone floor beneath his right shoulder. He tried to move, and groaned as his body was engulfed in pain. Opening his eyes, he saw that the guard had left the room. Apparently he was no longer under constant supervision. They no longer needed to keep him awake for twenty-four hours a day now that Steinhauser had decided to use pain rather than deprivation as a means of making him talk. Tony had no idea how long he had been lying on the cold stone floor. It could have been hours or even days. He struggled to sit up, each movement caused his burned torso to bend and sent waves of excruciating pain coursing through him. But it was nothing compared with the agony which emanated from his feet. His head spun. He closed his eyes in an attempt to retain a hold on consciousness and to fight the pain. When he opened his eyes, he looked fearfully down at his abused body. His shirt still hung open, and though he was cold he was glad that the guards had not buttoned it. The thought of the material touching his tortured flesh sent shivers down his spine. He surveyed the damage which had been inflicted upon him. His body was swollen and bruised, showing every colour that could conceivably be imagined. The patchwork was only relieved by the whitened bubbles of burnt and blistered flesh where Steinhauser had pressed his cigar. Tony was finding it painful to breathe, and though he could detect no damage to his ribs with his eyes, the pain told him that some of the bones must be cracked or broken. He hoped there were no more serious internal injuries.
Tony kept his gaze on his upper body for a moment wanting, yet fearing, to look at his feet. Finally summoning the courage, he took a deep breath and let his eyes travel down his legs to his bare feet. When the full horror of what he saw finally registered on his brain, he felt sick and turned away. Violent shivers shook his body, and a look of revulsion passed over his face. His two big toes were swollen to more than twice their normal size, the nails broken, the flesh torn and bleeding, the skin blackened and blistered where it had been burned. He could still s
ee the charred remnants of the matches embedded deep in his flesh.
Tony looked across at the bucket in the corner of the room which he had been using as a toilet, and he wondered how he was ever going to manage to make his way over to it. He tried to struggle to his feet, but waves of nausea washed over him. There was no way he would be able to stand. He contemplated crawling, but the thought of his damaged toes catching on the stone floor filled him with fear. Eventually he shuffled over to the bucket on his backside. He used his hands to propel himself along, trying to drag his feet by the heels and hoping to jar the damaged toes as little as possible. Movement was slow and painful, but he finally managed to reach the bucket and relieve his discomfort, though he could not find the energy to drag himself more than a few feet away from the stinking receptacle before he collapsed on the floor. When he awoke again it was to find a guard standing over him. He helped Tony to sit up and held a tin mug of water to his lips. Tony drank thankfully, aware of a look of pity in the soldier’s eyes. When he had finished drinking, the German shook his head sadly.
"Why don’t tell him what he wants to know?"
"I can't."
The soldier inclined his head towards Tony’s feet. “Don’t think that this is the end of it. You have eight more toes, and then ten fingers. If you still have not talked by then, which I doubt, he will begin to torture other parts of your body even more sensitive than your nails."
"I can tell him nothing."
The German shrugged. "Then you’ll be responsible for your own suffering."
As his captor rose and left the room, Tony buried his head in his hands. He did not know how much more pain and humiliation he could stand, and he was afraid that he would soon betray his friends. Tears filled his eyes as he contemplated the hopelessness of his situation, but he determined to be strong and to hold out for as long as he possibly could. He called forth an image of Sarah, and knew that it was their love which helped him to stay strong. Without the memories of her or the hope of returning to her some day, he knew that he would not survive.
Heronfield Page 57