by James R Benn
“Fassier,” Harding said.
“Yes, but I never knew him by either name. I had not seen him since Spain, not until he appeared at the headquarters of General Patton. He was known as Lucien Harrier, named for a hawk that swoops down and kills. He worked with the Russians, as we all did. But he also did the bidding of the NKVD.”
“The Russian secret police,” Kaz said. Olga wound her fingers together, her head bowed.
“Yes,” she whispered. “There were many executions. Lucien killed more of our fighters than fascists. He was used by the NKVD to keep the various factions in line. To Stalin and his kind, the anarchists and communists who did not bow to Moscow were as bad as the fascists we all fought.”
“What does this have to do with Jarnac?” Harding asked.
“His wife. Renée,” she said, her words choked by grief. “She was an anarchist. A leader of the anti-fascist movement in Barcelona. She and Marcel argued all the time, and they could not stay together, so great were their passions. Still, they loved each other deeply. It may be hard to understand, but for us, our politics were our holy ground. Marcel and I, we believed in the same cause. We were proud Communists, and we believed in each other. But he loved Renée with a senseless passion.”
“Lucien killed Renée,” I said. It was the only answer, the only thing that made sense.
“She was executed by the NKVD, that much is certain. Did Lucien do it? Perhaps. Most likely, I should say, since she was found bound in his favored method. Wire tied around her ankles and wrists, pulled tight. Two bullets in the head. Marcel searched for him, but the Harrier disappeared. Until the other day, when he entered the room. I’d heard the name Faucon, but never knew it was him.”
“He ran from Jarnac,” Harding said.
“Yes. Marcel was mad to find him,” she said, looking up at Harding as if she’d come out of a trance. “I have heard it was terrible. What Marcel did.”
“It’s over now,” Harding said, skirting the issue. “You said you could help us find Jarnac.”
“Yes,” Olga said with a heavy sigh, laying her hands flat on her thighs and bowing her head as if in supplication. “He has a younger brother, Paul. He lives at number thirty-seven rue Ravignan, in Montmartre. Marcel traveled to Paris often, using false identity papers. He always visited Paul.”
“Is Paul a Communist as well?” Harding asked, scribbling down the address on a piece of paper taken from Dufort’s desk. “Will he be watched by the Germans?”
“No. Paul is a musician. A violinist. He uses his mother’s last name to be safe. Lambert. He is nothing like Marcel, which is why, perhaps, Marcel always had a softness for him.”
“Did Jarnac have any other regular stops in Paris?” Kaz asked, as Harding whispered with Big Mike, who left the room in a hurry.
“No, of course not,” Olga said. “Marcel is too wily for that. He’s stayed alive this long by never repeating his patterns. Except for Paul, and his visits were always unannounced.”
“Thank you, Miss Rassinier,” Harding said. “We hope to catch up with him before he can do any real damage.”
“If you do,” Olga said, standing up to go, “kill him. He is a traitor. Everything he was before, he is no more. Farewell.”
She brushed past Harding, leaving the last of her passion behind, a final casualty of the Spanish Civil War.
Kaz leaned back in his chair, looking exhausted. It had been a long night and a long day. I clenched my fist to keep the shakes down as I watched Harding. He stood, walked to the window, and stared at the same tree Olga had found so riveting.
A pensive Harding was never a good sign. I nudged Kaz and threw a glance at Harding’s back.
“Do we have any agents in Paris who could stop Jarnac?” I asked.
“We don’t, no. The Special Operations Executive does, but there’s not enough time to go through channels,” Harding said.
“What do we have time for, Colonel?” I asked, knowing full well what the answer was going to be. After all, everyone wants to see Paris before they die, don’t they?
“We now know the address of Jarnac’s brother. We also know another address in Paris he’s sure to visit,” Harding said, his face still turned to the window.
“That would be the Hotel Lutetia, on the Left Bank,” Kaz said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “A very nice hotel. I dined there once, in 1937, I believe.”
“What? How could you know what hotel Jarnac is staying at?” I asked.
“Because the grand Hotel Lutetia now serves as the headquarters of the Abwehr,” Harding said, finally turning to look us in the eye. “It’s a good bet German military intelligence will be the first stop for our man Atlantik.”
“Colonel, he’s already got a head start on us, and he’s most likely going in with a German escort,” I said, standing and shoving my hands into my pockets. “It’s impossible.”
“What’s not possible is letting Jarnac deliver that information,” Harding said. “You heard the radio message. The devil’s in the tower, and Leclerc is moving his division into place to move on Paris. By morning, his advance elements will be on the move.”
“But Colonel,” Kaz said, spreading his hands wide to encompass all the questions we had. “How shall we get there?”
“In here, fellas,” Big Mike said from the hallway, ushering in two Frenchmen. Dufort brought up the rear, explaining something to the two guys that I couldn’t quite grasp. They didn’t seem happy and began to argue with Dufort. But he was the boss, and they calmed down fast.
I saw one of them look at my boots. His eyes brightened, and his entire disposition changed. He was about my size. His pal was smaller, wiry, like Kaz.
Exactly like Kaz.
“Don’t tell me,” I said, looking to Big Mike. He nodded. I sat down to take off my boots.
“We shall need identity cards,” Kaz said, taking off his jacket and eyeing the worn suit of his counterpart with distaste. It was off the rack.
“Take your pick,” Dufort said, emptying a file marked Carte d’Identité onto the desk. Twenty or so Vichy identity cards tumbled out. “Some are real, others are forgeries, but well done.”
I put on my new dark blue trousers and stuck my feet into the detective’s shoes. He was getting the better of the bargain. The soles felt like cardboard, which was par for the course in occupied France. Shoe leather was as rare as sugar. I pawed through the identity cards as Harding explained there was no time to take a photograph and match it up with the stamps overlapping the images. So, I looked for a guy who was close to my age and hair color. The closest I came was a Milice identity card with Brigade Spéciale emblazoned across it. Charles Guillemot looked sort of like me with some extra weight, thinning hair, and a lousy attitude.
“Very good,” Dufort said. “The Germans may wave you through with that.”
“What happened to Charles?” I asked.
“He is a résistant,” Dufort said. “Several of these are his. We keep them safe for him.”
“Here’s one, Kaz,” Big Mike said. “Looks sorta like you.”
“Ah, that is a real one,” Dufort said. “Jean Rey, who died when his train was bombed not far from here.”
I took a look. Rey was thin, with a pinched face and a big forehead. “If you had an ugly older brother, this could be him,” I said.
“Very well,” Kaz said, knotting his tie. “Jean Rey it is. Contractor by trade, I see. I shall do my best to build rather than destroy, in memory of the large-headed Jean.” Kaz buttoned his jacket and managed to make his dull, gray suit look almost fashionable.
The two detectives laced up their new boots and stomped out, dressed in wool khakis and broad smiles. Big Mike held on to my captain’s bars and promised to take care of them. I looked forward to being reunited with them as soon as possible.
“You know your way around Pari
s, Lieutenant Kazimierz?” Harding asked as we left Dufort’s office, donning our new fedoras. Mine was a touch too big, which I didn’t mind since I could pull it down farther to hide my face in case anyone checked my identity card.
“Very well. I’ve not heard of the rue Ravignan, but it should be an easy matter to find it in Montmartre.”
“Do you know the rue de Provence in the eighth arrondissement?” Harding asked, leading us outside to the jeeps where Big Mike started fiddling with the radio.
“That street does sound familiar, yes,” Kaz said. “Why?”
“In case you need help, go to one-twenty-two rue de Provence,” Harding said. “Ask for Malou.”
“Malou who?” I asked.
“Just Malou,” Harding said.
“There are no last names for the girls at the One-Two-Two,” Kaz said, obviously knowing something I didn’t. Which happened pretty often. “I will explain later, Billy.”
“Okay, but how about someone explains what happens next?” I said.
“All set, Big Mike?” Harding asked, instead of answering me.
“Yep. There’s a flight of Thunderbolts headed out. They’ll hit the Kraut emplacements in thirty minutes,” he said.
“Okay, let’s move,” Harding said, handing each of us a wad of money. “Take these francs. You may need some cash.”
“And for you, Captain Boyle,” Dufort said, giving me a small automatic. “It is a Ruby pistol. Only .32 caliber, but it fits nicely into a pocket. A member of the Milice would not be without one.”
“Thanks,” I said, hefting the small pistol. Not much stopping power, but if I had to use it, it would probably be close enough to do the trick. The grinding of gears and a sputtering engine announced the arrival of an old Peugeot. A really old Peugeot. One fender was about rusted off, and the rear window was broken. It was outfitted with big gazogene cylinders, designed to power the engine by burning wood in a container in the trunk. It wasn’t elegant, but it made the wheels turn, which was a big accomplishment in occupied France.
“As you can see, it runs,” Dufort said. “It will not be out of place in a town still under German control. The firebox is full, and it should get you to Chaville.”
“What’s in Chaville?” I asked.
“A railroad station, where you can board a train to Paris,” Harding said.
“Here, I have drawn you a map,” Dufort said, handing it to Kaz. “Many people from Paris take the train to the country in search of fresh food. It will be crowded, since everyone must be back before the curfew.”
“It’ll work,” Harding said, with the enthusiasm of a guy who’d thought up a crazy scheme and wouldn’t be around to find out if it actually worked.
“Okay,” I said, as I slid behind the wheel. Kaz rolled his eyes and got in the passenger seat. Big Mike had to slam the door for him a few times before it stayed shut. He and Harding told us to follow their jeep as Dufort watched us leave.
“Bonne chance!” he said, waving his hand in farewell.
I had a peashooter pistol, a pocketful of cash, a wood-burning rattletrap, and a phony ID card. We’d need all the good luck in the world.
Chapter Twenty-One
We drove past where Marie-Claire and Jules had died. Their bodies were gone, thank God, but the burned-out hulk of their vehicle still sat as a reminder of the surprises the backroads of rural France had in store. We halted at a bend in the road, and Harding went ahead to check the terrain with his binoculars.
“The Thunderbolts should be here soon,” he said, signaling us to come closer. He pointed out twin knolls overlooking the roadway. “We gave them the location of the guns and orders to fly over the route to Chaville and shoot up any German vehicles or positions.”
“You’ve thought of everything, Colonel,” I said, trying to keep my expression neutral.
“Listen, this isn’t a suicide mission,” he snapped. “All indications are the Germans have no real defenses between here and Paris. There’s a string of anti-aircraft guns in an arc around the city, and that’s what those 88s probably are.”
“The fighter-bombers are going to take care of them, don’t worry,” Big Mike said.
“If you see any other Germans, don’t take chances,” Harding said. “Get off the road and take to the woods. But make it to Chaville, that’s important. You need to be in Paris before the 2100 hours curfew.”
“Colonel, that doesn’t leave us much time,” I said.
“I know,” he said. Big Mike handed around K-Rations, and we opened them on the hood of the jeep. I still had my concerns about this little jaunt, but I was hungry enough to forget about them for a moment and dig in. I devoured the biscuits, and ham and eggs straight out of the can, washed down with a bottle of wine Big Mike produced.
I’d just handed the bottle to Kaz when the drone of engines began to hum at the horizon. We craned our necks, trying to spot the speeding Thunderbolts, but the deafening roar of the low-flying planes was on us before we saw them. Heavy with death, they swooped overhead, their prop wash sucking up leaves and swaying heavy branches.
Two flights of four aircraft went after the German guns, each group breaking off to attack an emplacement. The German gunners fired, but the Thunderbolts came in too low and fast to hit. They carried rockets under their wings, and the planes each let loose in turn. Fiery explosions pock-marked the hills as the Thunderbolts soared away, circling for another attack.
“Look,” Kaz said, pointing high in the sky. Above the attacking aircraft, another flight flew cover, circling over the battlefield.
The Thunderbolts returned, this time strafing the positions one by one. Each plane was armed with eight .50 machine guns spitting incendiary and armor-piercing bullets at a furious rate. Secondary explosions blossomed as German ammunition exploded, signaling an end to any possible resistance.
“Okay, go,” Big Mike said as the fighters formed up and headed west, scouting out targets on the road to Chaville. I hoped at that altitude the pilots could tell the difference between our gazogene junker and a Kraut staff car.
“We’ll meet you in the bar at the Hotel Lutetia,” I said, with more bravado than I felt as I bent myself to fit in the rusty Peugeot. “After the Abwehr boys check out.”
“Find Jarnac. Put a bullet in him. Wait for the cavalry to arrive. Leclerc will be a day behind you, two at the most,” Harding said.
I waved as I drove off, the automobile straining to make it up a slight incline. I checked the rearview mirror. Big Mike looked worried, like he might never see us again. I felt the same way.
Descending, the Peugeot picked up speed. We cruised by the two hills, fires licking at the trees and sending gray clouds swirling into the sky. A solitary German soldier stumbled out of the burning woods, wisps of smoke curling from his uniform, his face blackened with burns and red with blood. His eyes gaped wide open, but he saw nothing, felt nothing, knew nothing other than to move away from the destruction, powered by the shock that would keep the pain at bay for a while longer. If I’d had more bullets, I would have saved him from the agonies ahead.
Instead I drove on.
“What do you think our chances are?” I asked Kaz as we drove by fields thick with grass, where cows or sheep once grazed before the Germans helped themselves to most of the livestock.
“Of getting to Paris? Oddly enough, good. The colonel is correct about the defenses being thin this far out. Mostly anti-aircraft units as he said. This is a no-man’s-land, which is to our advantage. And we’ve heard about Parisians taking to the countryside to barter for food. The more crowded the train, the better our chances are,” he said.
“What about finding Jarnac?”
“Of that, our chances are slight at best,” Kaz said. “If he has a German escort to take him directly to his Abwehr contact, then I fail to see how we can intercept them and kill Jarnac with your little pist
ol.”
“What if he doesn’t?” I said, willing our vehicle to make it up a small incline without rolling backward. “Maybe those Krauts had orders to let him pass, nothing more. Jarnac figured he’d have his car to drive to Paris, so why would he need an escort?”
“Perhaps,” Kaz said, scanning the terrain ahead. “If that were the case, he’d take the train as well. The Germans at the machine gun nest certainly took casualties from the colonel’s armored car. They may not have been inclined or able to assist Jarnac.”
“So, the best case for us is if he had to hoof it on his own to the nearest train station. Chaville?”
“I can’t say from this map Dufort drew. It does show two turnoffs for other villages, and either could have a train station,” Kaz said. “His note says trains depart from Chaville on the Paris line on the hour.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’ll be on the same train,” I said, knowing that if luck had really been going our way, I would have kept hold of more than Jarnac’s jacket.
“We should be alert to the possibility,” Kaz said, as the chatter of machine guns reasserted itself, and four Thunderbolts glinted in the sunlight as they arced upwards into the sky after another strafing run.
Smoke rose up ahead of us, marking their target. A bright plume of flame blossomed and then faded. I slowed, which was not hard with our lumbering vehicle, and stopped as the destruction came into view.
A German truck lay on its side in a ditch, tires burning and sending thick, acrid, black smoke churning upwards as flames licked at the truck bed and swirled inside the cab. Two bodies sat up front, barely recognizable as human in the consuming fires. Around the truck, which was riddled with bullets, a dozen bodies lay sprawled, some missing limbs, some burning, all lifeless.
We drove around it, the heat from the conflagration shimmering against the late afternoon sky. Kaz rolled up his window. Two shots startled us, followed by more as I sped up.
“No one is shooting at us,” Kaz said, looking back. “It is just their ammunition cooking off.”