by James R Benn
Me, I had an idea. But all I could do right now was try to stay awake. I dug my fingernails into my palm. I bit my lip.
The taste of blood was metallic on my tongue.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I might have fallen asleep, because for a moment I had no idea where I was. I made myself wake up. I had only one shot at this thing, a long shot, and it had to be taken now.
My eyes were gritty with fatigue when I pried them open. A damp breeze wafted through the room, and I could make out a drizzle of rain through the open window.
When was the last time I really slept? The previous night had been spent in the back of a truck, snatching a few winks as it rumbled through the dark, bringing us back from Patton’s headquarters. The night before that was in a tent, on a cot, which wasn’t bad as the army goes. Before that, in a foxhole on Hill 262, with German mortars serving up nightcaps and wake-up calls.
I shifted my position, careful to move quietly and not let my shoes scrape against the floor. My body ached with fatigue, but my mind was racing, sharp electric currents sending thoughts ricocheting inside my head.
I prayed it would keep me awake.
I heard a faint snort of breath from the girl in the chair as she tucked her legs underneath her and cradled her submachine gun like a teddy bear. She was out cold.
Roger was silent and unmoving, which might have been his style, or maybe he was having the same sort of lightning thoughts spinning through his brain. I lifted my arm slowly until I could read my wristwatch. Almost midnight. I’d slept a few hours, so maybe Roger was cutting logs in his own quiet way.
The hard floor was beginning to feel comfortable, so I had to make my move. If I woke up at dawn, it might be too late.
I rolled onto my side. Waited. Pushed myself up and noticed my right hand had stopped shaking. It was probably too tired. I waited for my breath to settle and got to my knees. The blanket muffled the sounds of my shoes as I got my feet under me and stood.
I went dizzy, or the room swayed around me, it was hard to tell the difference. One of us got our equilibrium, and I managed to stand, quietly, planning out my next steps. Literally. In two steps I’d be up to Roger, stretched out in front of the doorway. Then one big step over him and I’d be in the hall.
It sounded easy.
I slipped the phony identity card out of my jacket pocket but left the coat behind, not wanting to risk the rustle of fabric as I picked it up. I stepped away. One step, my shoe leather landing smoothly. Second step, and I was inches from Roger’s arm, flung out at his side.
The pistol was by his elbow.
I knelt, slowly and quietly, reaching for the weapon. I got my hand on it just as a tremble started at the tip of my fingers and jiggled the steel barrel against the floor. I looped a finger through the trigger guard and lifted the pistol as I stepped over Roger’s sleeping form, into the hall, not stopping until I got to the head of the stairs.
I stuck the two-bit automatic into my pocket and listened for any movement from the café. It was silent. I took the steps, careful not to let my heel fall too hard on the creaky wood. A couple of candles were guttering, ready to flicker out, giving the room a ghostly, shimmering light. I took one and carried it to the map, finding our neighborhood. I traced a route, circling around the German stronghold at the opera house, heading for Montmartre.
Once I found rue Taitbout, it was pretty much a straight shot up to the big boulevard de Clichy, which ought to be hard to miss. Then across, a left, another left, and a quick right would bring me to rue Ravignan. All I had to do then was find number thirty-seven, roust Paul Lambert out of bed, and kidnap him.
Or, if Jarnac was by any chance there, kill the bastard and leave Paul to bury him. But I doubted that possibility. Jarnac had something more important to attend to than visiting family.
So, grab Paul Lambert and bring him back here. While avoiding Krauts, of course. Not to mention trigger-happy résistants as I passed in front of their barricades. Then wait. Somewhere along the line I had to figure out what exactly to do with the kid.
I went through the kitchen and found a knife. Sharp, not too big. I stuck it in my belt and looked around for anything else that might come in handy. On a table I found a stack of armbands, the Cross of Lorraine and FFI nicely stitched. I put one on, swiped someone’s beret, and decided I looked like a Parisian. In the dark, anyway.
I walked out the front door like I owned the joint. I went down to the far barricade, hoping the fighters there hadn’t laid eyes on me being questioned by Nicole. There were a half dozen fifis on duty, leaning on the stacked paving stones and searching the streets for movement. I gave a jaunty wave and stepped onto the barricade and vaulted over, just another Resistance fighter on a mission.
“Bonne chance,” one of them whispered as I scurried across the street, angling away from the approach to the opera house. I’d need all the luck Paris had to offer.
I didn’t worry about the curfew. Germans were shooting civilians in broad daylight, so I figured the cover of darkness gave me an advantage. I cut into a side street, running from doorway to doorway, watching ahead of me for any sign of Krauts. I made it to the intersection as a car roared down the road, taking a corner at high speed and disappearing in seconds. German or French, I couldn’t tell.
The misty rain soaked me, but it also hid me in the dark, foggy haze. Too bad it did the same for anyone else out there. There were no lights anywhere, which made it easier to see the flare of brightness as a match was struck at the corner ahead of me. A cigarette glowed, then disappeared.
It had to be a Fritz. Any Frenchman skulking around wouldn’t give himself away like that. Behind me, I heard the faint tread of boots grow louder. A patrol, maybe. I hustled ahead, trying to make out any figures in the murkiness. I knelt behind a tree. I couldn’t see a thing and hoped that it was because nothing was there. Maybe it was just a few Krauts coming home late from one last fling at the Moulin Rouge.
The boots grew louder and more insistent-sounding, and I knew I had to get out of there. I dashed ahead, darting into doorways and behind garbage cans, running broken-field style and hoping the Krauts didn’t decide to double-time it.
I was close to the corner and caught a whiff of Kraut tobacco. It always smelled a little moldy to me. I froze, afraid to round the corner and run smack into trouble. The marching patrol drew closer, their hobnailed boots sparking harsh against the cobblestones. I made for the last doorway, hoping to hide in the shadows.
I slammed into a Kraut in the deep-set doorway. The brim of his helmet struck me in the forehead, my momentum shoving him against the door, his rifle clattering to the floor. Neither of us had expected this, but now we were embraced in a deadly, shuffling dance.
I shoved his helmet back, the strap catching on his throat and keeping him from crying out. He punched me in the ribs, hard, and I gasped for breath, both of us in the corner now, my hold on his helmet weakening as he hit me with a left again, sending me sliding sideways. I pulled the knife from my belt, his metal brim slipping from my grasp, just as he went for the knife sheathed in his belt.
I was faster.
The first thrust into his ribcage slid off bone. It hurt him, but he was still standing, flapping his hand at his side and trying to pull his blade. I stabbed him again, just where I’d been taught, right between the ribs and into the heart.
His arm dropped to his side, and he began to slide to the ground. I held him up to stop his body from falling right in front of the German formation coming my way. His head tilted forward, his eyes close to mine. They were blue. He blinked once, twice, as his last breath faded in the night air, a tiny huff marking the passing of life.
In a heartbeat—or in the time it would have taken his heart to beat if I hadn’t shoved a length of cutlery into it—he became nothing but dead weight, and in an absurd flash of understanding, I knew where that term came
from.
I crammed him into the corner of the doorway, jamming his rifle into his belt to keep him upright. The clatter of the hobnail boots echoed off the buildings, sounding closer and closer. I glanced around the edge of the doorway and made out the gleam of helmets headed my way.
“Franz? Wo bist du?”
The insistent whisper came from around the corner. Another guard, maybe, looking for Franz who’d snuck off for a smoke while on duty? I heard him call for Franz again.
“Zigarette aus, Franz.”
A warning. Maybe a non-com was on the prowl. The voice faded, searching for Franz in the other direction. I took a quick look around the corner, spotting the back of a Kraut guard, rifle slung over his shoulder. That didn’t bother me as much as the sign above me.
Sicherheitsregiment.
I’d managed to walk right into a Security Regiment headquarters. Mere steps ahead of a patrol or maybe a changing of the guard. They’d sound the alarm as soon as they discovered Franz permanently off duty.
I pulled off my shoes and ran like hell, catching sight of a smoldering cigarette on the sidewalk, the smoke Franz never got to finish. It’s glow followed me like an accusing eye as I bounded across the road, away from the guard and across the path of the oncoming patrol. In my stocking feet my footfalls were nearly silent, although my bursting lungs and beating heart made it sound like a stampede right behind me.
“Halt!”
Rifle fire cracked in the night, slugs hitting the cobblestones in front of me. If I had halted it would only have been to present the security troops with a stationary target. I sped up, stretching my legs and breathing in deep drinks of air. I made it across the wide road, sheltered from view by the building.
Another shot, this one whizzing by my ear. I’d forgotten about Franz’s pal.
If I ran straight, he’d have another good chance at my back. If I took the right turn a few steps away, I might run into Krauts from the patrol fanning out. I ran across the street, angling away from the headquarters, hoping the mist and darkness would hide me. Besides, who in their right mind would expose themselves like this? A shoe in each hand, I ran hard, remembering my track coach back in Boston, who always told me that just because it hurts doesn’t mean you have to stop.
It hurt, but a lot less than a bullet.
I caught the edge of a cobblestone with my toe and tumbled head over heels, tucking in my arm to take the hit. My body made a thudding sound and one shoe skittered away. I leapt up, unhurt as far as I could tell, and ran to grab my shoe.
Another shot, close enough for me to hear the whizzing sound as it passed by. Some Kraut with damn good hearing had picked up on the noise I made, and I could hear him shouting to the others.
More shots. I don’t know if the rest of them spotted me, or if it was only a case of nervous Krauts firing into the dark. I kept running, putting in a few zigs and zags as I crossed a road that seemed as big as a football field. The rain had stopped, and a fog had begun to rise off the ground.
A motorcycle revved in the distance, the noise of its engine growing louder, as did the sound of hobnail boots converging from several directions. More shots came my way, not even near misses. Maybe they’d lost sight of me.
The motorcycle turned on its headlamp, the brightness blinding in the darkness. He came up the middle of the road, pinning me with his beam. A Kraut in the sidecar cut loose with his MP40, spraying the road with automatic fire while I tried to sprout wings and get to shelter on the other side.
The paving stones were slippery from the mist, and the motorcycle swerved a few times, but recovered. I kept running, thinking about the .32 pistol in my pocket. A foolish thought. I could do as much damage throwing it at them as firing it.
I spotted the side street I’d dart into. It seemed close, but my legs were wobbly and my lungs raw, each breath a searing pain.
More gunfire, lots of it, bullets zinging through the air all around me.
I was about to give up, fall to my knees, and take a few gasps of oxygen before they shot me. Then I saw it, and I did go to my knees. Flat on my face, as a matter of fact.
The gunfire was coming from the side street. From a barricade of sandbags, fifis were targeting the motorcycle, which took several hits and crashed spectacularly against a tree on the sidewalk. The Krauts out in the open beat a retreat, having no chance against the fighters shooting at them from under cover.
A handful of fighters ran out to grab weapons from the dead motorcyclists, and on the way back they helped me over the barricade, asking a million excited questions which I had no hope of understanding. But what I did understand, from the sign on the corner building, was that the football field I’d just crossed was the boulevard de Clichy.
I was getting close.
They gave me water, and I gave them my fighter-pilot impression, which seemed a fair trade. A few spoke a bit of English and gave me straightforward directions to rue Ravignan. I told them I had to get a message to a couple of Allied airmen in hiding and apologized for not being able to tell them more.
They shared their bread as readily as I shared my lies, and we were all happy with the arrangement.
“Boche no enter Montmartre,” a girl of sixteen or so said, thinking about each word carefully as she spoke. “Fin.” She drew a finger across her throat, simplifying the translation.
A boy not much older than her came forward with a blue work shirt and handed it to me. The white shirt I’d been wearing since who-knows-when was stained with dirt, sweat, and blood. These fighters were all dressed rough, but I looked like a real bum, so I accepted gladly.
As I was about to leave, one of the crew brought out a cup of coffee from a café where they were gathered. Real coffee by the smell of it, in one of those tiny cups the French liked, which meant it packed a punch.
No one else had a cup. This was a gift, something special they were offering an American liberator. I thanked them and drank the steaming liquid, feeling the jolt to my brain.
“Vive la France,” I said.
“Vive la liberté,” came the response. Hard to argue with that.
As I left them their eyes were gleaming with pride and determination. Not a one of them looked over twenty, which meant they’d all grown up under the heel of Nazi repression. They were claiming their own new future, and I felt sorry for the next bunch of Krauts who tried to storm that barricade. And I worried about the kids taking foolhardy chances, since that’s what kids do.
As I walked up the steady incline, I realized that mont meant mountain, and I was in for a bit of a climb. Just what my aching legs needed.
I stopped and heaved in a few breaths, bent over with my hands on my knees. I spotted the next turn and crossed the street, looking out over an unexpected view of the city. The darkness was tinged with fog and faint flashes of gunfire. Pools of light dotted the landscape, maybe pockets of working electricity, maybe burning buildings.
This was not the City of Light I’d imagined.
I trudged on. This neighborhood definitely was not the high-rent district. On the south side of the boulevard below, the apartment buildings were four or five stories high, built from granite, with balconies and high windows overlooking broad tree-lined streets. Here, stucco flaked off brickwork, and wooden shutters hung lazily on cramped, small buildings above narrow lanes. It was like ascending a hilltop into a country village.
I turned a corner and was faced with steps leading into the fog. A lot of steps. I kept a steady grasp on the iron railing, my thigh muscles feeling ready to snap. If my directions were right, the street at the top of the cobblestone stairs would be rue Ravignan.
It was, thank God. The blue enamel plaque on the corner of the building told me so. I wanted to kiss it, but I didn’t have enough breath to pucker. I managed to walk, feeling almost weightless on the even surface. I found Paul Lambert’s place easily enough. Numb
er thirty-seven was a three-story joint with wooden shutters closed over the ground-floor windows. Vines covered the side, which stood adjacent to a small cottage at the end of the block. There was no concierge to guard the entrance, only a door leading to a small lobby strewn with old newspapers. There were four mailboxes. Lambert lived in 3B. More steps.
I wanted to rest. I wanted to sleep. But time was not my friend tonight, so I forced myself up the stairs, a grayish glow from a dirty skylight my only guide. I got to Lambert’s, which was right next to 3A, almost knocking over a bicycle leaning close to his doorway. It looked like the top floor had been divided into two small flats, not that the apartment building was big to begin with.
I hesitated. I knew I’d have a problem if he didn’t speak any English, but I figured we’d get around that somehow. It suddenly occurred to me that a knock on the door in the dead of night might be an occasion for concern in occupied Paris. I wished I knew how to say It’s not the Gestapo in French, but failing that, I gave the door a few gentle, un-Nazi-like raps.
“Monsieur Lambert?” I said, trying to put a Continental lilt into my voice.
Nothing. I knocked again, a little louder this time. I called for Lambert once more, then pressed my ear to the wood and listened. I could make out the shuffling of feet, probably Lambert making his way from the bedroom. A sound like a door opening. Or was that from the other apartment? Then nothing.
Damn.
I ran down the stairs, fast, grabbing the bannister and whipping myself around at each landing. I burst out the door and ran to the side of the building adjacent to the smaller house. The rear window of Lambert’s apartment was wide open. It was an easy jump to the roof of the neighboring house. If it had been the Gestapo, they’d have had that covered.
But Paul Lambert didn’t know that, and now he was legging it to save his life.
Which way?
The street ended here, facing a small plaza. Too exposed. I took off down an alley behind the buildings, weaving between cans of garbage and spooking cats out for a midnight snack. It was his closest escape route, and one that gave him access to back doors and the twists and turns the residents of Montmartre undoubtedly knew well.