by James R Benn
I smelled gas.
A flame blossomed from the engine in a small pumpf as something ignited under the hood, just as the driver’s door flew open.
Jarnac tumbled out, a pistol in his hand. I aimed the Thompson and was ready to tell him to drop it, or ready to squeeze the trigger, I wasn’t really sure.
Before I could decide, the fuel tank exploded, sending up a sheet of flame and blistering heat. I heard Jarnac fire, and then Kaz, as I was knocked away from the burning vehicle by the blast.
Through the hazy, shimmering glow expanding from the flames, I saw Jarnac run down the road, a white flag tied around his wrist and fluttering in the wind. I rose up, shaking off the shock from the explosion, and ran after him. I stayed behind the bastard, hoping that the Krauts were curious enough about a surrendering Frenchman not to fire on him. If they did, his body might slow a bullet or two, but it wouldn’t stop them all.
The MG 42 fired again, chewing up the road on one side. They were staying away from Jarnac, and I wondered if they’d been expecting him. Another burst kicked up clods of dirt near my feet, and I vaulted forward, throwing myself at Jarnac and grabbing onto his leather jacket, pulling him down and rolling into the ditch with him.
More gunfire from the machine gun, and I realized they were firing on Kaz, keeping him down under cover. Jarnac and I rolled around, throwing punches and struggling for possession of my Thompson, which had been slung over my shoulder and now had both of our hands tangled in its sling.
I could hear Krauts yelling, and they didn’t sound happy. Or that far away. Jarnac landed a punch square on my jaw, and I saw stars but kept my grip on the Thompson as he tried to jerk it away. I kicked at his knee, and we both lost our grip, the weapon falling into the thick, wet grass.
Jarnac was up and had the advantage. He kicked at my head and scrambled up the side of the ditch, his feet losing traction as he tried to climb out. I shook off another round of stars and launched myself at him, grabbing at his shoulders and coming away with a fistful of leather. More gunfire sounded, and I wondered who the hell was shooting at who.
More Germans screamed, a lot closer now. Jarnac threw me off and I fell back as he pulled himself out of the jacket, twisting away and yelling out in German to his pals. He went for me as I moved for the Thompson, and I heard him curse. He turned and ran, clutching his white flag, waving it high.
I watched a German potato masher grenade sail through the air in a high arc, headed my way. I threw myself to the bottom of the ditch, hearing a clunk as it landed in the road.
Then the explosion. Loud, sharp, and right above my head. I made myself move, checked myself for blood, and wiped away the dirt and stones that had showered down. The ditch had protected me from shrapnel and except for the ringing in my ears and a terrible sense of despair, I was just fine.
The lead was flying, tracer rounds zipping not far over my head, and I decided it would be best to stay cowered in this ditch and not to think about Jules and Marie-Claire, not to mention my failure at stopping Marcel Jarnac.
I was too late. Too late to save them, too late to stop Jarnac from getting away with the plans for the advance on Paris. Too late to stop the escape of a traitor and a murderer. Atlantik had beaten us.
The grass at the bottom of this ditch was cool and soft. I grasped it with my trembling hand and never wanted to leave.
Part Two
Paris
Chapter Nineteen
I rolled on my back and watched phosphorescent tracer rounds burn lightning hot above me, electric against the blue summer sky. It was like being in a dream, and for a moment I wondered if I was.
The ground trembled, and I knew it wasn’t a dream. Giant tires appeared on the road above the ditch, dirt cascading over me as the vehicle braked hard and let loose with cannon fire. Armored scout car, part of my brain informed me. Fast, with a 37mm cannon and a .50 caliber machine gun. That’s what chased the Krauts away.
Maybe it had blown a big hole in Jarnac’s back. Maybe not. War is capricious.
The white tracers vanished, but the staccato chatter of the machine gun was still echoing inside my head, loud and insistent. The armored car let off another round, and the harsh crack of the cannon blew away the machine gun echoes dancing inside my brain.
I didn’t want to get up. It was quiet for a moment, then a short burst from the machine gun sent shell casings raining down on me, red hot and trailing acrid wisps of smoke.
Boots appeared on the roadway. Black leather. That would be Kaz in his British ammo boots. I’d always meant to ask why they were called that. I felt Kaz’s hands grab my shoulders, and tried to ask, but nothing came out.
Another pair of boots. Large brown combat boots. That was easy. Big Mike. He got his paws on me, and I was hoisted out of the ditch, still trying to form a sentence and not much caring that I couldn’t.
Kaz and Big Mike were both making odd faces. I think they were trying to talk to me.
Almost upright, I came face-to-face with another pair of combat boots, spit-polished and gleaming in the sunlight. Colonel Harding stood on the hull of the scout car, one hand on the .50 machine gun. He jumped to the ground, laying his hand on my shoulder and leaning close.
He peppered me with words. They bounced off me like hail on a tin roof.
Big Mike put my helmet on my head and placed my weapon in my hands. My ears still rang, and I could barely hear the words spoken to me. Whatever they had to say didn’t matter until I faced up to what I had done. I walked away, down the road, to where the price of my failures sat in a scorched and bullet-ridden wreck.
I glanced back and saw Harding order the armored car crew to scout ahead and look for any sign of Jarnac. The vehicle took off, taking a route through the fields to avoid sections of road that the Krauts might have zeroed in.
I felt a tug at my hand. I was still holding Jarnac’s worn leather jacket. Big Mike loosened my grip on it and took it from me. I felt Kaz’s presence at my side and wished he didn’t have to see this. The explosion that had killed Daphne had been in an automobile, and this would only remind him of his loss. Not that he didn’t think about it every day, but seeing a physical reminder of the devastating carnage which had taken the woman he loved would take a toll.
We both had to witness, each for our own reasons. To deny that would be to deny the very lives we mourned. And to deny responsibility.
We walked. Around a bend, down a slight incline, past a copse of trees by a meandering stream. It was in our nostrils before we saw it, the stink of burnt oil and flesh that was the perfume of the French countryside in this summer of 1944.
They’d driven a small Renault flatbed truck. It sat at the edge of the road, the cab blackened and stitched with bullet holes. Blistered paint traced a faint outline around the FFI lettering on the driver’s door. Shattered glass crunched beneath our feet. Smoke curled from under the hood.
Marie-Claire and Jules sat upright next to each other in the small cab, terrible gaping wounds to their chests telling me at least they hadn’t died by fire. It had consumed their clothes and seared their bodies, leaving them unrecognizable except for the color of their hair and the shape of their faces. I recognized a ring on Marie-Claire’s hand. It was delicate, even after the fire had snapped at it.
I looked at Kaz. He stared at the bodies for a long time, his hand gripping the Sten gun as if Jarnac were already in his sights.
“The ground shall cover him,” Kaz said, his voice barely a whisper.
This time I heard him just fine.
We turned away, the odor of death clinging to us as we walked back to where Big Mike and Harding waited.
“You okay, Billy?” Big Mike asked, as we drew near to the scout car. Not the first time he’d asked, by the look on his face.
“Yeah, fine. That grenade rattled me, that’s all,” I said, slinging my Thompson over my left should
er and cramming my right hand into my pocket where it kept time like Jimmy Dorsey.
“How’d you know, Boyle?” Harding asked.
“Know what?” I asked, still feeling hazy. I was still in that ditch. I was still staring at the shattered bodies of two young kids. There wasn’t much of me present to listen to whatever it was Harding was trying to say.
“About the map,” he said, flourishing a folded paper. “It was hidden in the lining of this jacket.”
“I had no idea,” I said, staring dumbfounded at the torn shreds of the leather jacket at Harding’s feet. “I was just trying to hang onto him. He shook me off, and I fell into the ditch. He pulled himself out of the sleeves trying to get away.”
“Smart place to hide it,” Big Mike said, kicking over the pile of rags. “Easy to keep tabs on the damn thing. Guess he thought it wasn’t worth dying for once the lead started flying.”
“Or necessary,” Kaz said. “By now, he must have all the positions memorized. All he needs to do is recreate it.”
“If the Krauts believe him,” Big Mike said. I looked down the road in the direction Jarnac had run, passing Jules and Marie-Claire in the company of his German rescuers. I rubbed my hand against my face, trying to wipe away the grime and memories, the futile sense of loss and sacrifice. I had to think. I had to make sense of all this in the midst of senseless slaughter.
I took out my canteen and raised it to my mouth. My hand had steadied. Maybe my mind would follow suit.
“Look at what happened here,” I said, wiping the moisture from my lips. “They knew he was heading into German territory. He sent those kids forward to announce himself and probably told the Krauts what kind of vehicle they’d be in.”
“Kind of like a trip-wire,” Big Mike said. “In case the Krauts didn’t get the message.”
“Yes, and it would not be difficult to arrange,” Kaz said. “With telephone exchanges working, a message could easily be delivered across the lines.”
“And he had that white flag tied around his wrist,” I said. “A pre-arranged signal. The fact that we tried so hard to stop him will only reinforce the importance of his story.” I leaned against the jeep, bone tired. Tired of the dead and their insistent demands to be remembered. All I wanted to do was sleep and forget. Forget about Jarnac and the people he’d murdered.
Bernard Dujardin, who was his comrade.
Sean McKuras, the translator who stumbled into the theft.
Jules Herbert and Marie-Claire Mireille, fighting patriots and lovers whose lives he threw away.
Charles Marchand, dead of a knife thrust for the simple act of taking in his friend.
Lucien Fassier, tortured to death for a reason I’d yet to fathom. I still had no idea why Fassier ran after the theft of the map, but it certainly left Atlantik with a convenient scapegoat. Not to mention a good reason for openly hunting down Fassier. Hell, if he’d confessed to killing him in that basement, half of France would have applauded him.
“Did you hear me, Boyle?” Harding said, gently placing his hand on my arm.
“Sorry, Colonel, what were you saying?”
“He has to be stopped,” Harding said.
“He is headed to Paris, Colonel,” Kaz said. In the distance, the crack of artillery echoed against the hills, reinforcing his point.
“German 88,” Big Mike said, as the anti-tank gun unleashed another round. We waited for an explosion to mark the demise of the scout car. Instead, we heard the straining engine roaring back, straight along the road this time, coming into view and braking sharply as it drew alongside us.
The commander popped up from the turret hatch, glancing back down the lane.
“Two 88s, Colonel, dug in on a ridgeline about a half mile out,” he shouted in an adrenaline surge. “They’ve got the road covered. Missed us by a couple of yards.”
Harding told him to head back to Rambouillet, and he didn’t waste a second saying so long. Couldn’t blame him much; the high-velocity shell from a German 88 would have turned the lightly armored scout car into shards of scrap metal.
“At the risk of repeating myself, Colonel,” Kaz said, “Jarnac is on his way to Paris. How are we to stop him?”
“We know exactly where he’s going,” Harding said. “Come on, there’s not much time.”
The only thing that made sense to me was that there wasn’t much time. Because if knowing precisely where Jarnac was headed in German-occupied Paris was an advantage, the disadvantage was a shortened life expectancy.
Chapter Twenty
Harding had brought an I&R platoon—Intelligence and Reconnaissance—with him, and they’d conveniently set up an advance headquarters at the police judiciaire. Which was convenient for Inspector Dufort, who was waiting to complain about the intrusion of GIs and to demand an update on his murder investigation.
Harding looked confused, and I gave him the lowdown about Fassier and Dufort’s vague threats to involve SHAEF.
“Do not misunderstand, Colonel,” Dufort said, guiding us to his office. “I merely wished to enlist Captain Boyle in the pursuit of the killer, since he was already involved in hunting down Lucien Fassier.”
“As were many members of the Resistance,” Harding said. “Have you strong-armed them as well?”
“Strong-arm? Please, I do not understand,” Dufort said, sitting behind his desk and gesturing to three chairs set before it. Big Mike leaned against the wall, arms folded. “But never mind, I think I can see the meaning.”
“We don’t have much time,” Harding said. “All we can tell you is that the murder of Lucien Fassier is likely connected to a member of the Resistance who was secretly working with the Germans. I wouldn’t advise you to make trouble where none exists.”
“I understand you pursued Marcel Jarnac,” Dufort said, ignoring Harding’s warning.
“How do you know that?” Kaz asked. Dufort eyed him, and then turned his gaze onto me.
“The police have informers in America, do they not, Captain Boyle? It is the same here. I knew within minutes of your flight down the stairs from the room of Monsieur Hemingway.”
“What of it?” Harding said, standing up and pushing back his chair, impatient with the delay.
“Nothing, except for the person I have waiting to speak with you,” Dufort said. “A person with knowledge of Jarnac and his activities.”
“Who?” Harding said. He didn’t sit down, but he didn’t make a move to leave either.
“First, you must remove your men,” Dufort said. “This building belongs to the French government. Only General de Gaulle can commandeer it. It is a point of honor, you understand.”
“I do,” Harding said. “If you help us, we will find another site. What else?”
“Nothing,” Dufort said, with a casual wave of his hand. “What is more important than honor?”
“Justice. Especially when it goes hand-in-hand with honor,” Harding answered. Dufort sat silent for a long moment before he nodded in agreement. “I’ll have my men move out as soon as we speak with whoever you have.”
“Excellent,” Dufort said. “And I will submit my report on the murders of Charles Marchand and his guest, killed by a fascist traitor. Which I will forward to my colleagues in Paris in due course.”
“I’m glad that’s all worked out,” I said. “Now, who’s this person of interest?”
“Olga Rassinier,” Dufort said. “Russian. You already know her, of course, and her Resistance group of immigrant fighters. She is the most valued type of informant to any policeman. The spurned lover.”
“She and Jarnac?” Kaz said.
“Yes, but I will let her tell you,” Dufort said, standing. “Please use my office and let me know what else I may do to help.”
In a minute he ushered Olga in and left us to it. I got up to give her my seat and leaned against the desk.
&nbs
p; “It is true?” Olga asked, looking between us, her brow furrowed with worry. “Marcel is a traitor?”
“He was the one who stole the map. We got it back just before he went over to the Germans,” Harding said, then told her about Marie-Claire and Jules.
“Oh, those poor children,” Olga said, her hand raised to her mouth. “But even if you have the map, Marcel will know everything.”
“That’s why we must stop him. Anything you can tell us will help,” Harding said.
“I cannot believe it. Marcel was a true comrade, he would never do such a thing,” Olga murmured, as if trying to imagine the impossible. I could see Harding was getting impatient, but if this was a case of personal betrayal, she couldn’t be rushed.
“You cared for him,” I said, my voice soft and low. I reached forward and placed my steady hand on her arm. The clock on Dufort’s desk ticked, filling the silence with the beat of a broken heart.
“We were in love. In Spain. And still here, but it was nothing like the old days. Nothing at all,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She looked out the window and seemed to gain strength from the green leaves wafting slowly in the breeze. “We were younger, and on fire with the purity of our beliefs. We wished to build a new society, do you understand? Fighters came from all over the world to join the International Brigades and fight for a just society. But here in France, it is different. We fight the Nazis, as any decent person must, but there will be no new society. We struggle, suffer, and die, but when it ends it will be the rich who come out on top, just as they were before the war. I am joyful when I see the Liberation come to each town and city, and sad, as well. Strange, is it not?”
“Olga, we have to catch Marcel, and quickly,” I said, trying to bring her back. So much of this case went back to Spain, but we needed information in the here and now. “Can you help us?”
“Yes, I can. I can tell you where he will go in Paris. And I can tell you what happened between Marcel and Lucien Faucon.”