by James R Benn
“Yes, it would be far too dangerous for our families if our real names became known. Colonel Rol took his from a dear friend who was killed in Spain,” Gallois said.
“Rol fought there?” I asked, sending a glance Kaz’s way.
“Yes. Many of the FTP leaders did,” Gallois said. “I think that is one reason they have fought so fiercely against the Germans. The Spanish Civil War hardened them.”
“It was a war with many atrocities,” Kaz said.
“As is this one,” Gallois answered.
“Do you know an FTP leader named Lucien Fassier?” I asked, slowing to take a sharp curve. “He worked with a youth group.”
“French Youth Action,” Kaz added, when Gallois shook his head. “His Resistance name is Faucon.”
“Ah, yes. Lucien Faucon. Very effective leader. He was sent to La Rochelle and then to Brittany to organize FTP youth groups. Has something happened?”
“We just met him at General Patton’s headquarters,” I said, avoiding the murders and the reason for the meeting. Gallois had a head of steam up and I didn’t think the whole deception campaign would sit well with him, especially with his comrades rebelling against the Krauts in the very city the Allied High Command wanted to avoid. “He fought in Spain as well.”
“Yes. There his nom de guerre was Harrier. A type of hawk,” Gallois said.
“Another bird of prey, like the falcon,” Kaz said.
“Harrier and then Faucon,” I said. “I wonder why he changed it?”
“To confuse the boche, perhaps,” Gallois said, leaning forward and grasping the back of my seat. “Our police certainly kept dossiers on those who crossed the border to fight in Spain. Too many such files found their way into the hands of the Gestapo.”
“He does seem to favor birds who hunt their prey and attack quickly,” Kaz said.
“Lucien had a reputation in Spain,” Gallois said.
“For what?” Kaz asked.
“For doing what he was ordered to do. Some of us think the Party went too far in Spain, fighting amongst ourselves and our allies instead of against Franco and his fascists,” Gallois said. “There were Russians everywhere, members of the NKVD.” The Russian secret police.
“Are you saying he did their dirty work?” I asked.
“There was much of that, yes. Lucien Harrier was a fervent believer. He hated the anarchists as much as he did the fascists.”
“But the anarchists fought against Franco,” I said.
“Yes, well, the NKVD saw them as a threat,” Gallois said, the admission of guilt and evil evident in the near-whisper nearly blown away on the breeze as we sped down the road.
“He was an enforcer,” Kaz said. “An executioner. Which was why he didn’t use his old nom de guerre?”
“It was a terrible war,” Gallois said, avoiding the question and answering it at the same time. We rode in silence for a few miles, the darkening sky matching the mood.
“We have also met Raymond Louvet of Corps Franc Nord. He was a policeman who hunted those going over to Spain,” Kaz said, turning back in his seat as he talked to Gallois.
“Yes, I know Louvet,” he said, snapping out of whatever reverie had quieted him. “A good man. He did his duty then and does so now, even if he supports de Gaulle and his people in London.”
“What do your people think of de Gaulle?” I asked.
“He gives fine speeches on the radio. From London,” Gallois said. “But the war is here. The FTP fights, and many of us die. I fear de Gaulle expects to be anointed once he sets foot in a free Paris.”
“What about Louvet?” Kaz asked. “He seemed very anti-Communist. Do you trust him?”
“I do,” Gallois said. “Louvet may not favor the politics of the FTP, but we fight shoulder to shoulder with him. I respect that.”
“Marcel Jarnac?” I asked. “He and Louvet seemed to get along well, although there was some tension between them.”
“Jarnac is on the Front national executive committee,” Gallois said. “Another veteran of Spain. He and Louvet were on opposite sides back then, but there is no hatred between them. We know that Louvet had to follow orders, and that France backed the non-intervention treaty. Every man did what he had to do. And women too. Jarnac lost his wife in Spain. But tell me, where did you meet all these people?”
“Our boss is responsible for liaison with Resistance groups,” I said. “All in a day’s work.” I could hardly tell him we’d met them all within the last twenty-four hours as part of a major con job we were pulling on the Resistance.
It was dark when we pulled into Third Army HQ and found Colonel Harding waiting for us. We handed Gallois over to the Intelligence honchos who came streaming out of the château and surrounded the Frenchman. He took time to thank us and shake our hands before heading off. He gave me a look as he grasped mine, and I was afraid he’d felt the tremor against his own palm. But he said nothing, the look vanishing in the excitement of the moment.
I wished him luck, thinking about those high explosives in the hands of German engineers in the City of Light.
It was the Parisians who’d need the luck.
Chapter Thirteen
“Sorry to bring you boys all the way back here,” Colonel Harding said, as we sat down to hot chow in the mess tent. All of us except Jules, who’d gone off to see if there was any news of Marie-Claire. The late-night grub was corned-beef hash topped with a fried egg, and it tasted like a rich man’s meal at the Ritz.
“Gallois is that important?” I asked, pausing with a forkful of hash at my lips.
“Important, dangerous, it all depends,” Harding said.
“If the uprising in Paris continues, it could be a disaster,” Kaz said.
“In more ways than one,” Harding said. “Right now, de Gaulle is against the uprising, and he’s trying to halt it any way he can.”
“Whyszat?” Big Mike said, chewing on a fistful of bread.
“Because if the uprising succeeds, the FTP will be in control,” Kaz said. “Communists.”
“Exactly,” Harding agreed. “They want a seat at the table when a new government is formed. The policy of the Allies is to install a military government until things stabilize. Of course, de Gaulle is against both of those approaches and insists he alone is the head of state.”
“If I get this right, Ike and de Gaulle don’t want an uprising,” I said. “So, the people actually fighting the Nazis are the ones out of line.”
“When you mix politics and strategy, there’s no telling where things will end up,” Harding said.
“Then there is the matter of French honor,” Kaz said. “Both the Resistance fighters in Paris and de Gaulle are eager to reclaim it by liberating their capital. It is their holy grail.”
“The situation is fluid,” Harding said, nodding to Jules who joined us, his plate laden with hash. “And very critical.”
“Which is why you pulled us off the search to bring Gallois here?” I said.
“Yes. I needed him brought here quickly and quietly. You understand the need for secrecy, Jules?” Harding asked, as the young man dug into his food.
“Oui, Colonel. I have kept many secrets, and the name you mentioned, I have already forgotten,” Jules said, smiling as he chewed. He’d obviously had no news of Marie-Claire.
“Good. Now that you’ve delivered Gallois, I need you back on the search. We have to find Fassier, and you are the only ones who have even gotten close,” Harding said, giving a quick glance at Jules to remind us of the charade.
“Colonel, we need some sleep,” I said, not happy with the notion of driving in the dark all night.
“You’ll get it. There’s a truck loaded with sleeping rolls. You can grab some shuteye on the way to Rambouillet. I have drivers for your jeeps, and you ought to be there before dawn.”
“Isn’t tha
t in German hands?” Kaz asked.
“Reports are they’ve pulled out. There’s been a few FFI patrols through the town and everything’s quiet. Now finish up and get a move on.”
Jules was the only one excited by the news. It was a great adventure for him, tooling around with Big Mike and eating army chow. Kaz looked bushed, his complexion pale in the dim lantern light. He popped a pill and rubbed his eyes. I was worried about that headache of his. I kept my thoughts to myself and my right hand in my lap.
We finished the meal quickly, and Jules sped off to check one more time for news of Marie-Claire. Harding motioned for us to remain as the kid left.
“I have a gut feeling things might change quickly,” he said.
“You mean if Gallois is successful?” Kaz asked.
“Yes. If he gets Patton on his side, there’s no telling what SHAEF may do,” Harding said in a low whisper. “I can’t say I like the idea of leaving the Paris Resistance in the lurch, and I suspect others may feel the same, even if it doesn’t make strategic sense.”
“What’s that mean for us?” I said.
“There’s a message ready to be sent out to SOE agents in Paris in case we decide to support the uprising. The Resistance has been begging for weapons drops near Paris for weeks now, and the SOE has held off. But if this turns into a real battle, they’re ready to go,” Harding said. “I’ll radio you the same message if it happens. That means stop Fassier at all costs.”
“Because with Gallois in play, there’s an actual chance Leclerc’s French troops will be the ones to fight their way into Paris,” I said. Harding nodded, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Jesus, Sam,” Big Mike said. “We never figured on this.”
“That’s the problem with deception,” Harding said, slamming his palm on the table. “It has to be real enough to be believable.”
“What is the message?” Kaz asked, his eyelids heavy with fatigue.
“Two lines from a poem,” Harding said. “You know Rimbaud, of course?” There was no pretending that question had been addressed to me or Big Mike.
“Not quite to my taste, but yes, I know his work,” Kaz said. “Arthur Rimbaud, a poet of the last century. Fiery, died young.”
“The moonlight when the hell struck twelve. The devil’s in the tower right now,” Harding said, adding almost apologetically, “it’s from something called ‘Hellish Night.’”
“Sounds it,” Big Mike said.
“When you hear the first line, it means it’s likely we will move hard on Paris. The second line is the confirmation,” Harding said.
“So, we stop Fassier when you send the second line,” Big Mike said.
“No. When hell strikes twelve, you stop him. Dead in his tracks,” Harding said.
Kaz laughed. It was so unexpected, we all looked at him, wondering why he found that amusing.
“No,” Kaz said, laughing even more as he took in the looks we gave him. “No, I don’t find that funny at all. I just recalled another line from Rimbaud. Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.” He laughed some more, but it wasn’t the kind of laughter you wanted to join in with. Frantic, almost crazed. I looked away.
“Hell, Sam, why didn’t you pick a nice poem? Like one by that guy who writes about the woods and stone walls? Normal stuff,” Big Mike said. “Robert Frost, that’s the guy.”
“We’re in France,” Harding said. “It seemed like a good idea to pick a French poet.”
“A poet who died young,” Kaz said, and laughed some more. This time I joined in, even though the joke might end up being on us.
“Colonel,” I said, as we walked to the vehicle park. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re chasing the wrong guy.”
“He ran,” Harding said. “No one else did.”
“Things just aren’t adding up,” I said, and told him about Lucien’s father, Yves. “Estranged or not, if your old man was about to be executed, wouldn’t you try to intervene, especially if it turned out you were both on the same side?”
“It’s the losing side,” Harding said. “Maybe he didn’t think it would do any good.”
“But he could have said his farewells and he didn’t. He was a stone’s throw away from the jail, and he just left town. That tells me he still held a helluva grudge against his father. Or he was there for some other reason and didn’t give a good goddamn about his jailbird père.”
“You and your father are close, aren’t you, Boyle?”
“Sure,” I said. “The whole family is.”
“Not all fathers are the same. That goes for families too. Don’t read too much into it.”
“Okay,” I said. “But maybe you could dig a little deeper into Lucien. Did you know he fought in Spain under a different name? He was known as Harrier and had a reputation as an enforcer for the Stalinists.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Harding said as we approached the truck. Our jeeps were being topped off with fuel as GIs tossed wool blankets and sleeping bags in the canvas-covered rear of the truck. “But remember, it’s hard to get info on these Resistance people, especially veterans of the Spanish Civil War. They’ve been hiding their identities for years.”
“Exactly,” I said. “What do we really know about them?”
“Get some sleep,” Harding said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. “Then find Lucien Fassier.”
A few minutes later we were riding along in the deuce-and-a-half truck, trying to sleep on bedrolls and scratchy wool blankets as we rolled down the main road, following our two jeeps. Jules had brought along a bottle of wine, and we passed that around for a while. Kaz laughed now and then, for no reason that we could explain to Jules, who took it all in stride.
Farce wasn’t too far from it.
I awoke with the dry taste of red wine fermenting on my tongue. The truck had braked, sending me sliding into Big Mike, who barely noticed as he sawed logs, stretched out on his sleeping bag.
“We’re here, Captain,” the driver said, slapping the side of the truck. I saw by the luminous dial on my watch it was five thirty, or oh-five-thirty the way the army liked to say it.
Kaz stretched himself awake and Jules popped up with ridiculous ease. Big Mike gave a final snort as I kicked his boot and jumped down from the truck. The guys who’d driven our jeeps took our places and the truck rumbled off, leaving us in the town square with a thin slit of dawning light showing along the road that led east. To Paris.
“What now?” Kaz asked, as we stood by our jeep. “Knock on doors and wake up the good people of Rambouillet?”
“Coffee,” Big Mike said, as he shuffled over to his jeep. He pulled a thermos from a knapsack and poured us all some hot joe. After a few sips, the fuzzy feeling in my mouth started to subside. “We can check in with the FFI down the road. I think it’s Louvet’s group. There’s a crossroads to the south, and it’s the furthest FFI outpost.”
“Check in with Harding first,” I said. “Let’s see if we have any sightings.”
“Then speak with the Police Municipale,” Kaz said, looking at a nearby building with its blue-and-white sign and windows spilling light out onto the street.
Across the square lights appeared at the windows of a hotel, a three-story granite affair with a steep, dark-tiled roof. It was probably the staff preparing breakfast and brewing fresh coffee. A small-town hotel was always a good place to gather intelligence. But so were the cops, even though they wouldn’t be serving pastries.
Big Mike was working the radio, so I told Jules to stick with him while Kaz and I spoke with the gendarmes. We slugged down the cooling coffee and made for the station. Rambouillet was a fairly big town, not quite a city but more than a village. The local cops were housed on a corner, in a squat building several stories high and covered in flaking mustard-colored stucco.
Inside, a narrow hallway led to an empty desk.
Slamming doors and shouts echoed through the building, followed by a flurry of footsteps down a stairway hidden from view. I heard a car start up around back as two uniformed cops dashed by us, muttering apologies and flying out the door.
Meurtre, one of them had said. Murder was a good reason to empty out a police station just before dawn. We walked out after them, catching sight of the cop car turning a corner with the two cops on foot giving chase.
“If we are going to talk to the police, we should go to the police,” Kaz said, with impeccable logic. I signaled Big Mike, who’d taken notice of the tumult, and we trailed the cops as Jules stayed with the jeep. Turning the corner, we saw the car pulled over in front of a narrow two-story house halfway down the block, headlights illuminating the open door. Two cops in the street were talking with a man dressed in a blue worker’s jacket and a wool cap. Flashlights blazed within the house as the other policemen stomped through it. Finally, one of the cops took notice of Kaz and me and asked what our business was.
Kaz spoke with him, mentioning the name of Fassier’s friend, Charles Marchand. The cop’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Marchand and he told Kaz to wait a moment. He whispered to his partner, who moved closer to us, one hand resting on the butt of his holstered revolver. The first cop went inside as our guard motioned for the man in the wool cap to move on.
I didn’t like the looks of this.
Kaz took a few steps on the sidewalk and stared at the nameplate by the door. Under the German occupation, all French homes had been required to post a list of residents by the entrance. This sign bore one name. Kaz motioned me closer. I squinted to read it in the harsh glare of the headlights.
Charles Marchand.
No wonder the cop was watching us like a couple of thugs. If we weren’t armed, he probably would’ve handcuffed us but instead he kept a steely eye trained on our slung weapons. Kaz began to chat with him, and his perfectly accented French seemed to thaw out the gendarme.
“It seems a fellow on his way to work saw the door to this house wide open. He knew Charles Marchand and called inside to see if everything was alright. He found Marchand dead in the sitting room, then used the telephone to call the police,” Kaz said.