by James R Benn
“I have told no one,” Remke said. “I have one man I trust with my life who knew where I was. The fact that the Gestapo did not raid the One-Two-Two proves his loyalty. As for safety, that is a hard thing to guarantee these days, but I will not be the one to be a danger to her. You have my word.”
“Thanks,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Are all the Gestapo gone from Paris? I heard they’d pulled out recently.”
“The administrative staff, yes. But there are still agents at eighty-four avenue Foch, their headquarters. I imagine they are occupied with burning files and covering up evidence at this point.”
“Let’s hope,” I said, the yawn finally breaking through.
“You will not be tired for long,” Remke said, laughing and leaning forward to speak to the driver in German. He was so damn cheerful I wondered if he was still taking these happy pills. “We will be there shortly. A side street between the opera house and rue Volney.”
“Good. Now tell me, since we’re pals, what’s going to happen after the surrender? You can’t go back to Germany, not while the Gestapo is still sniffing around for you. I can help, you know. My boss, Colonel Harding, would love to chat with you.”
“Samuel Harding, yes. I have quite a file on him, and it would please me to make his acquaintance. But surrender is not in my soul. There is still work to be done. A few in my resistance circle are still alive, and we must try to end this senseless war. So, give Colonel Harding my regards and tell him another day, another city.”
The car pulled into a narrow lane, a crooked cobblestone road of shadows and closed shutters.
“Go up this road, take your second left, and you will come to rue Volney shortly,” Remke said as the driver braked to a halt. “Viel Glück.”
He held out his hand. We shook.
“Good luck to you too,” I said. “We’re all going to need it.”
I exited the vehicle, violin case clutched in my hand. I walked to the second left and headed for the barricade, wondering at my reception. It was after four o’clock. Deep into the night but still far from dawn. I didn’t know how organized Nicole and her rue Volney group were, but I was willing to bet the lookouts would be out of the damp and dozing. Their street wasn’t a strategic point, and I figured the Krauts could easily go around them. The Germans weren’t spoiling for a fight, especially not the men who’d had soft garrison duty here. The beaten and battle-hardened troops escaping from Normandy were another story.
I was close enough to the street to make out the name on the blue enamel sign on the building. I pulled my beret from my pocket and slipped it on, wanting to look like every other French guy in town. I softly whistled a tune to signal I wasn’t a threat. “I’ll Be Seeing You,” a sad song for lovers separated by war. There was something in the lyrics about the spell of Paris, so it seemed appropriate.
I carefully climbed over the barricade, wincing as a cobblestone tumbled out from under my foot. It clattered to the ground, landing with a thud. No one came running. I eased myself to the ground and stayed in the shadows as I made my way to the café where Roger and I had eaten. When was that? My mind was hazy and the zipped-up chocolate and the Pervitin hadn’t kicked in as far as I could tell.
I made my way upstairs, quietly, hardly believing I might have a chance to sack out and grab a couple hours of shut-eye. In the darkened hallway I edged along toward the room where I hoped Roger was still lying by the door. I was ready to step over him and curl up on my bit of floor. As I passed the last door before the room, I heard the creak of hinges behind me.
I felt a chill as the barrel of a pistol pressed against my neck.
Hands grabbed at me and pushed me into the room. Someone kicked at the back of my knees and I went down, the gun barrel shoved against the back of my head.
A small lamp cast a soft yellow glow over Marcel Jarnac, sprawled in the easy chair, a pistol in his hand and a snarl creeping across his face.
In the corner, Nicole was tied to a straight-back chair, a gag in her mouth and her eyes wide with fear. Roger looked a lot worse. Curled up on the floor, his face bloodied and swollen, he tried to rise only to get a kick in the head.
“No one betrays the Saint-Just Brigade,” Jarnac said. “Where is the map you stole? Or have you already turned it over to the boche?”
I didn’t speak. I saw the game he was playing, transferring his crime to me and trying to get his hands on the map at the same time. He’d surprised me by getting here this quickly, fast enough to work over Roger and threaten Nicole in case they had any idea what I was up to.
“Frappe le,” Jarnac said, glancing at the guy behind me, telling him to smack me.
“Attendez,” I said, raising a hand. Jarnac did the same, telling his muscle to wait.
I lowered my hand, patting the violin case. Jarnac had been so intent on his act that he hadn’t taken notice of it. I tapped the hard leather with both hands, beating out a tune. Back to “GI Jive” this time, man alive.
I laughed. Not that there was anything funny going on, but at the realization that I felt good. Wide awake and ready to go. Which was a problem since men with guns wanted me right here.
“Open it,” Jarnac said, his bluster suddenly gone. I popped the snaps and lifted the cover.
“Italien,” I said, remembering Paul’s description. “From the last century.”
The guy who’d kicked Roger shot a glance at the thug threatening the integrity of my skull. Kind of a what-the-hell-is-going-on-here look. Jarnac twisted in his seat, waving his pistol at Roger and Nicole, shouting orders at his men. They untied Nicole, lifted Roger up, and dragged them both out of the room.
That left Jarnac, me, and the fiddle. Plus a pistol and my head full of zing. Man, I felt good.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked, taking the violin and tossing it in his lap. I placed the case on the floor and grabbed the chair Nicole had been tied to, rope still hanging from the back. Convenient if Jarnac decided to have me trussed up. I turned it around and straddled it, resting my arms on the back.
“Where is he?” Jarnac said in a low growl. He was over his shock now and back to playing the tough guy.
“Somewhere safe. Someplace he’ll never forget, ooh-la-la,” I said. I had to remind myself not to give too much away. My mind was racing, and words had a way of tumbling out without too much in the way of thought beforehand. “Nice kid. I heard him play. Some Beethoven concerto. He’s not going to be happy when he finds out I swiped his violin, but I figured you’d want proof.”
“I want mon frère, and I want him now,” Jarnac said. “This is a foolish game you are playing.”
“Better a witty fool than a foolish wit,” I said. “According to Shakespeare, anyway. And Sister Mary Gabriel. She was my English teacher back in Boston and loved the Bard. She quoted that line so many times I’ve never forgotten it. I was the foolish wit, of course, but that was back in high school. I’ve learned a few things since then, Atlantik.” Jeez, I needed to calm down, but I was on a roll. Too bad it was downhill. Too bad I couldn’t stop myself.
“Where is Paul?” Jarnac said, his voice measured and low. So was his pistol, about six inches from a part of my anatomy that I held in high regard. The wooden chair slats weren’t going to do much to protect me.
“Don’t shoot,” I said, lifting the case from the floor and holding it on my lap. “Wouldn’t want to damage the goods.” I thought this was pretty funny and began laughing at my own joke.
“Stop!” Jarnac shouted. One of his men peeked in only to retreat after a few curses from his boss. “Who is this Atlantik, and why have you taken Paul?”
“Ah, I getcha,” I said, leaning forward and balancing the chair on two legs. “Gotta keep the help from connecting you to the Abwehr. Wouldn’t do for them to hear your code name.”
“You must be drunk,” Jarnac said. “Perhaps this will not hurt so much, then.”
He moved the muzzle of his gun to my kneecap and stared me down. I was already one step ahead of him.
“Colonel Erich Remke,” I whispered. “If you shoot me, I’ll scream his name. If you kill me, you’ll never see Paul again.”
The light in the room flickered, went out, then the bare bulb lit up again. I wondered who controlled the electrical power stations in Paris, and then lost interest in that as Jarnac tapped my knee with his pistol.
“I am not surprised you know the name of an Abwehr officer, given that you have turned your coat, as they say.” Jarnac was keeping up the pretense that I was the traitor in the room, which was okay with me since he’d inched his pistol away from my moving parts.
“Time to get down to brass tacks, Marcel,” I said. He looked confused. “It’s an expression. Let’s cut a deal. Come to terms. Shake on it. No more beating around the bush.”
“You want a deal? Bring Paul here,” he said, tapping the barrel against my knee. Such a subtle reminder.
“No, no way. But you can have him back before noon if you do one thing,” I said. “One little thing and Paul will be plucking these strings instead of a harp.”
“What thing?” Jarnac asked. I don’t think he picked up on the harp strings. Too bad, it was a good line.
“Go to the Hotel Lutetia and see Remke’s aide. The guy you reported to,” I said, whispering with my hand on the side of my mouth. “Tell him you’ve found out the map was phony. A ruse, part of a deception plan. Then call Remke at the Hotel Meurice and confirm it.”
“Not that I will do any of this, but if I did, what would happen then?” Jarnac said, his own voice a whisper. The deal was being cut.
“I get word from Remke that it’s done, and I bring Paul to you. Brother and violin are reunited. No one needs to hear any details,” I said.
“He is with your Polish friend, the baron?” Jarnac asked.
“It doesn’t matter who he’s with. He’s safe and will be returned to you intact once you keep your side of the bargain.”
“You have miscalculated, Captain Boyle,” Jarnac said, leaning close and whispering in my ear. “You may be brave, but you are not a killer. Not the kind of killer who executes a young boy simply because I do not agree with your plan. You would kill me, certainly, but Paul, no.”
“Two things to think about,” I said. “One, I find that war makes cold-blooded killers of many men. Poles, especially, since they have endured so much butchery. Two, killing Paul would kill you. He’s the only shred of decency left in your miserable world. Without him, you are less than nothing.” There was some truth in what I’d said as far as Kaz went. He’d been casual with death and with life, but that had changed since he’d found out his sister was still alive. I actually didn’t think he’d pull the trigger on Paul, but brother Marcel didn’t know that. Or that I had no idea where Kaz had gotten himself to.
“I left decency in Spain,” Jarnac said. “At my wife’s grave.”
“Is that what this is all about? Revenge against Lucien Fassier? Faucon, the Falcon?”
“He was known as Harrier in Spain,” Jarnac said, nearly spitting out the name. “An executioner for the NKVD. Anyone the Stalinists wanted killed, he obliged.”
“Your wife?” I asked. I hadn’t thought much about Jarnac’s motive, but this matched what Olga had told us.
“Yes. Renée was an anarchist. We were not always in agreement, since I was a fervent Marxist. But our love was great. Harrier killed her. His orders said she was an enemy of the people, a death sentence in Spain,” he said. For the first time, Jarnac sounded like a man in pain. “He tied her up like an animal.”
“But why kill all the others, if you wanted Lucien Fassier?”
“Ha! I was glad to find him that day and mark him for death,” Jarnac said. “I had not seen him since Spain and thought I never would. He died slowly, I will tell you.”
“But why steal the map? I understand revenge against Fassier, but why take the map?”
“When I left Spain, I vowed to hurt the Communists. Hurt them as badly as I could. It was only when this war came that I saw how to do that. You call it betrayal. But they betrayed me. And Renée. I wanted to make them pay. Dearly.”
“So, you became a double agent for the Nazis,” I said.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said. “And the Communists are my bitterest enemies.”
Machine gun fire rose up from the street, followed by explosions. Grenades. More gunfire. Jarnac’s men stormed into the room, weapons drawn.
“Yes, damn you,” Jarnac hissed into my ear, proving he loved his brother more than he hated his worst enemy. He threw me to the floor and signaled for his men to leave, placing the violin in its case. Then he stopped, his lips pursed as he thought it through. He snapped his fingers for me to come along. He had to keep me alive. Terrific idea in my book.
They bundled us out of the room, two in front and one on our six, pistols and submachine guns at the ready. I thought about pulling out my little .32 but didn’t want them to fall down laughing. Downstairs, medics were carrying in a wounded woman while another tended to Roger, cleaning his face and bandaging his ribs. Probably broken. I flashed him the “V for victory” sign and he gave a feeble wave back, like he was being polite but wished he’d never laid eyes on me.
The FFI fighters were at the barricade, mostly ducking under cover as German machine gun fire chewed up the masonry and shattered windows, showering the street with grit and glass. Nicole was in the fight, tossing German potato masher grenades into the street. Jarnac’s men shoved him across the street, into the door that led to the rooftop escape.
Nicole caught my eye as she threw her last grenade. A mingled look of pity and disgust played across her face, and I wondered if she blamed me for bringing the wrath of the Saint-Just Brigade down on her group.
I saw the grenade as it sailed through the air in a high arc, headed right for her. My thoughts were still careening inside my skull, but everything else was in slow motion. I pushed Nicole down as Jarnac’s man grabbed at me, pulling me into the doorway after his boss. I shook him off and caught the grenade by its wooden handle, flicking it back over the barricade. Zing zing.
It exploded before it hit the ground, a sharp cracking burst that dislodged stones and sent them tumbling down from the barricade. One of the fighters fell, clutching his face as blood flowed between his fingers. I picked up his rifle and climbed the barricade, got a good footing, and took aim.
I fired off two shots before every Kraut in Paris seemed to have me in his sights. I ducked, seeing Jarnac in the doorway yelling at me. I couldn’t hear a thing, my ears still ringing from the explosion and the shooting. He sprinted to me, running low as his men worked to shield him.
“Ten o’clock, at the Jardin des Tuileries, directly across from the Hotel Meurice. I want Remke there as well. I will do as you ask, but if you are lying or if Paul is hurt, I will kill you,” he said, his hand grasping my shirt.
“Get in line, pal,” I said and rose to fire again. One shot, and a Kraut crumpled. The street was filled with trucks and half-tracks. The tracked vehicles mounted heavy machine guns, which were keeping up a steady fire. I ducked, covering my head as debris rained down on me.
A truck had smashed into one of the trees lining the road. Bodies were scattered around it, and I wondered if one of the FFI had opened up on the convoy without thinking things through. This wasn’t a routine German patrol. These guys weren’t wearing clean uniforms. They were filthy and worn, their helmets decorated with camouflage. The half-tracks still had fir branches tied to the sides. Combat troops from Normandy, hardened fighters who just wanted to get the hell through this town. But now they were distracted by their dead comrades, ambushed by civilians they considered to be terrorists. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
I popped up again and fired, joining in with the FFI and their varied
armory. A couple of Sten guns, some old French rifles from the last war, captured Kraut pieces like mine, pistols, and one shotgun. The Krauts had gotten smart and regrouped behind the armored half-tracks, letting their heavy machine guns do all the work. I tried to fire back but as soon as I moved slugs zipped over my head and smashed into the stacked cobblestones.
Nicole was shouting over the racket, signaling for everyone to fall back. One of the FFI guys tugged at my sleeve, beckoning me to retreat as a couple of kids wearing red crosses carried off the wounded.
Maybe it was the hop in my head, but I felt like I was hitting on all eight cylinders, so I went for another shot. I settled in on my sights as the half-track closest to me was targeting the other end of the barricade and fired at the machine gunner. I saw him jerk backward as the firing stopped. Another Kraut pulled him aside and got on the gun. I worked the bolt and fired again, a miss this time.
Something smashed against the hood of the half-track and bright flames leapt up and spread out on the road. The driver jumped out, his tunic on fire, and rolled in the street. Others vaulted over the back of the half-track as they ran for cover.
Another burst of flame spread out over the cobblestone street. Molotov cocktails, coming from the rooftop opposite us. Shots came from the rooftop as well, targeting the Germans who’d escaped the burning vehicle. FFI fighters returned to the barricade, firing at the boche who were searching the rooftop for their tormentors.
A Kraut officer, his own tunic smoldering and blackened, signaled to his men to pull back. The one remaining half-track kept up fire on the rooftops as soldiers jumped on trucks that sped past the barricade as they took parting potshots at us. The half-track trailed them as a final firebomb crashed to the road, barely missing it.
Cheers rose up from the barricade, the buildings around us, and from across the street. Nicole dashed to the top of the barrier, checked both ways, and gave the all-clear sign. Half a dozen men and women ran out to collect arms and ammo from dead Germans. I dropped my rifle and ran after them.