by James R Benn
I looked at one more file.
“Two bullets in the head, right?”
“How did you know?” Remke said, his eyes darting to his aide who appeared at his shoulder.
“This is how Lucien Fassier killed Jarnac’s wife. The wire bindings were his trademark. That, and the two shots to the skull. Jarnac’s using the Saint-Just Brigade to extract his revenge, right up to the last minute.”
Remke collected the files and handed them to his aide.
“You have been of great assistance, Captain Boyle,” he said, standing. “Open warfare among factions of the Resistance will only complicate an orderly withdrawal. I must see if we can communicate this to the police. A somewhat delicate matter since we are now firing on them.”
“Good luck, Colonel,” I said, getting up and shaking his hand.
“We could all use some luck, Captain. This officer will show you to a rear exit. It will be simpler.”
“No bothersome questions, right?”
Remke smiled briefly, tucked his cap under his arm, and conferred with his aide. While they were talking I took out my pill case, popped a Pervitin in my mouth, and swallowed it with a champagne chaser.
One for the road.
Chapter Thirty-One
I left by the back door, which was only a bit less fancy than the front door, but at least it didn’t open straight into the shooting war. I stepped into a narrow street, the buildings on both sides four stories tall, all creamy stonework and looking peaceable. I got my bearings and set off toward Le Royal Bar, where I hoped to find Kaz.
Still breathing.
I stuck Remke’s pass and my Milice identity card inside my shirt. Easy to get to and easy enough to hide from a cursory FFI search. I made my way across a couple of barricades quickly enough. I stepped into a doorway as two truckloads of Germans rumbled by. The shooting gallery along the river was still popping along, but it had lessened in intensity, almost as if the combatants were getting tired of the whole thing.
Or, the FFI was running low on ammunition.
As the trucks turned a corner, I darted across the street and ran down a passageway, following a sign for the Louvre Metro. It felt good to run. I had to run. I didn’t know what else to do with the energy in my legs and brain. Running was effortless, like floating. I was in another world, zipping across the shadowed cobblestones, the street at the other end a pinpoint of light.
Close to the end of the road I put on the brakes. Something was wrong. I heard the harsh revving of motorcycles and saw people running, their shouts turning to screams as the vehicles drew closer.
Three shots echoed against the stone buildings. I edged closer, the crowd jammed up tight as they stampeded toward me. A few people made a quick turn into the alley and kept going, flowing around me like a rush of water. At the corner I saw six Kraut motorcycles, each with a sidecar, working their way up the road, which was jammed with carts and gazogene cars parked on either side. In the lead motorcycle, an officer in the sidecar had his arm raised, firing off rounds, screaming at the people in his way to move.
The Krauts were wearing goggles and helmets with foliage camouflage, their tunics thick with road dust. More troops from the front, a motorcycle detachment that had taken a wrong turn, perhaps, and was feeling threatened by the tight lane and the crowds of people no longer meek in their presence.
They were scared and about to turn vicious, their snarls and commands in German hovering on the brink of madness as they worked their machines closer to the open plaza. Another shot in the air, the officer shouting and waving his men forward. They were almost there.
A burst of machine-gun fire ripped through the air, hot white muzzle flashes sparking from the weapon mounted on the sidecar of the second motorcycle. The rounds scythed through the last of the Parisians making for the plaza, bodies cascading to the cobblestones. Others clung to their terrible wounds, in too much shock to even cry out as the motorcycles roared past, the bottleneck finally broken like a dam of twigs in a spring rain.
I stepped into the road as the sound of the heavy motorcycles faded away. Blood seeped around the cobblestones as the wounded began to shriek and moan, their anguish outdone by the living who cradled loved ones in their arms. Half a dozen dead on the eve of liberation.
I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t help. I had to keep going, find Kaz, find Diana, get them both to safety, and hide out until the tanks rolled in. Find Jarnac. Make him pay. Everything was jumbled up in my head, but I think I had the order straight. A hand reached out to me, clasping my arm, begging me to do something. A man, older than me, cradled a woman’s head in his lap, his eyes full of shock and welling tears. I knew what he wanted, but no one could breathe life back into her shattered body.
I shook him off, feeling miserable, feeling invincible.
They’ll never get me.
I ran to Le Royal Bar and barged in like a madman. The barman I’d sold my pistol to wasn’t there. Maybe he was out getting his boche. A girl swept the floor as an older gentleman worked the bar, slowly wiping it down. They both stared at me. I wasn’t sure what to say.
“A message? Do you have a message for me? Billy Boyle?”
The old man moved away, making believe he hadn’t heard. I was getting the impression that four years of German occupation had made people very cautious. The girl, maybe twelve or so, rail thin with light brown hair done up in braids, beckoned me with a crooked finger. I followed her to a door at the rear of the bar which opened to reveal a steep, narrow staircase.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” I asked.
“Non,” she said, then pointed at me. “Bill-lee.”
“Okay, I get it,” I said, nodding for her to continue. She scampered up the stairs and stood before one of the doors in an ill-lit hallway.
“Le baron,” she said, smiling as she knocked on the door and opened it slightly. Then she was off. Kaz had obviously won her heart.
“Billy, what happened? Did Jarnac show up?” Kaz asked. He sat in an overstuffed easy chair near a large open window overlooking the plaza. The room was small, with a couch, table, and a threadbare but clean rug. Kaz looked small too, pale, and nearly swallowed up by the soft cushions.
“Yeah, it all worked out,” I said. “He had no idea Paul had escaped, so he kept his side of the bargain.”
“What was all the shooting?” Kaz asked as he looked out the window. A truck with a red cross splashed on its doors pulled into the plaza, the dead and wounded out of his line of vision.
“A column of Kraut motorcyclists came through a side street and shot their way out of a traffic jam,” I said, looking out the window, the faint breeze sending white curtains to dance at my side. Medics with stretchers ran down the street as onlookers helped the less badly wounded to the truck.
“What do we do now?” Kaz asked, sighing as he removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He dropped the newspaper he’d been reading. Combat, one of the Resistance papers. Toute la ville aux barricades read the banner headline. The whole city to the barricades. As a rallying cry, it wasn’t far from the truth. As the wounded were loaded into the truck, the plaza below me quickly reverted to a pleasant city scene, with plenty of people strolling by and taking their seats at the outdoor café. Buckets of water were splashed over the blood, sluicing it away in thin pink rivulets.
“Remke said I should get back to Diana and have her hide out until the Allies show up. There’s still Gestapo teams roaming the city picking up FFI leaders, plus running those direction-finding vans. He thinks she shouldn’t radio SOE at all.” I plopped down on the couch, drumming my fingers on my knees.
“Diana insisted a message be sent to Colonel Harding,” Kaz said, his glasses still dangling from one hand. “To tell him about Jarnac withdrawing his claim about the plan. Once that was done she’d leave. She said to see the doorman if she left before you got there. He can be trusted.”
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“Yeah,” I said, standing and pacing some more. The room felt small and suffocating. I was worried. I knew it took a while to encode any message and make contact. “Okay, one coded message, and we’ll hunker down somewhere. How about you?”
“I am content to remain here,” Kaz said, putting his glasses on. It seemed to exhaust him. “Berthe brought me soup a while ago. Her father—the fellow you gave your pistol to—has been active in the Resistance and was glad to help. This is his apartment, and he insisted I stay here.”
“Can you trust Berthe to keep quiet? And the old man at the bar?”
“The old man is her grand-père. He still has boche shrapnel in his leg from the last war. Berthe is old enough to know what is at stake. Now go to Diana. Unless you need to eat first?”
“No, no,” I said. “Not hungry.”
“Billy, you are quite the bundle of nerves. The Pervitin?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head with more vigor than required as I held the curtain aside and scanned the plaza. “See? Steady as she goes.” I held out my hand.
“Wonderful. Now show me your right hand.”
“Never mind that, I’ve got to leave,” I said, letting go of the curtain and stuffing my hand into my pocket. It seemed to be spending a lot of time in there. “Take it easy, Kaz. A couple of days, no more, and we’ll be back at the Dorchester. Soft beds, good food, and the best doctor London has to offer.”
“Make sure I am the only one who will need a doctor, Billy. Don’t take any more of those pills,” Kaz said. “Now, I am going to take a nap. Give Diana my best and find a quiet corner of Paris for yourselves. Montmartre, perhaps. A little garret. A bottle of wine.”
He closed his eyes. I waited until I saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Kaz had more heart than any ten men I knew. I hoped it was enough.
Outside the sun was high and the cafés were full. There was wine and laughter even as the last of the blood was washed away. I hoofed it north, making first for the rue Volney barricade. It was a good landmark to steer by, and I felt I ought to apologize to Nicole and Roger for all the trouble I’d caused them.
I spotted Roger at the barricade, bandages and all. I hailed him as I drew closer.
“Sorry about bringing Jarnac down on you,” I said, climbing over the cobblestones and glancing around for Nicole or Suzette to translate. He stood behind the barrier, a German MP40 submachine gun at the ready. He kept the weapon pointed right at me.
“Nicole a été prise,” he said, a grim look on his face.
“Nicole is what?” I asked, spotting Suzette in her bloodstained white coat.
“Nicole has been taken away,” she said. “By the FTP. The Brigade Saint-Just, to be exact. For crimes against the people.”
“Jarnac,” I said. Another thing I should have seen coming.
“He was not here, but his men were. Nicole is a good Marxist, but since she helped you, she has been charged by them.”
“How can they do that?” I asked, still nervous about Roger and his gun.
“There is no law to protect us, not with all this fighting. We thought they were here to help, but instead they tied her up and took her away,” Suzette said, her eyes still red from tears, exhaustion, or both. “Less than an hour ago.”
“Tied? With wire?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
There was nothing I could say. I went back over the barricade, almost wishing Roger would pull the trigger.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I ran. Across the wide boulevard, heedless of a line of German trucks headed right at me. I sprinted to the sidewalk as the vehicles rumbled by, shoulders tensed against the possibility of gunfire. I skidded around a corner and flattened myself against brickwork. Nothing. Maybe they were headed out of Paris. Why else would they ignore me when Krauts were shooting people at every street corner?
I took off again, heart pumping from exertion, fear, and Panzer-Pille. The street was a straight shot past snooty shops, bistros, and apartment houses with tiny balconies fronted by fancy iron scrollwork. Not a barricade in sight. Five more minutes of running and my lungs burned, my legs ached, and my mind raced with possibilities and terrors. Did Paul find Jarnac, or vice versa? Would Jarnac raid the One-Two-Two?
No, I told myself. He wouldn’t. It had the protections of a stout locked door, a Kraut clientele, and a tough-looking bouncer.
I came to an intersection and stopped to get my bearings. I thought I was close to the café where Kaz and I had stopped after we got off the train. When was that? Yesterday? Three days ago?
There. I recognized a wedge-shaped building sitting by itself, a line of trees offering cool shade. I made for the green cover, easing up as I walked the length of the structure. I worked to get my breathing under control and to calm my racing mind. Gasping for breath and dreading the worst didn’t make for quick thinking. Calm down, I told myself. Don’t let Diana see you all panicky.
I took a few gulps of air and rested for a minute with my hands on my knees. Better. I turned the corner and stepped into a doorway, staying out of sight while I eyeballed the street. It was quiet along the rue de Provence, still too early in the day for their business to be booming. No one was on the street in front of the One-Two-Two, no vehicles passed by. Deciding to be cautious, I doubled back along the tree-lined street, so I could cross the road and approach the One-Two-Two from the other side, giving me a look down a side street. As I walked, I kept my eyeballs swiveling, checking for anyone suspicious keeping watch on the place. I didn’t see a person, just heard the soft rumble of an engine not too far away.
I stopped at the side street, the club less than half a block away. A couple of automobiles were parked there. One of them, a Citroën Traction Avant, had its engine running. The model, with its trademark chevron on the front grille, was distinctive. It was also the Gestapo’s favorite vehicle.
I eased back, keeping an eye on the vehicle as I moved. I counted three men, two up front and one in the back seat. They hadn’t seen me. The driver had his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, watching and waiting for something. The passenger had his head craned out the window, scanning the building opposite him.
Gestapo. On a stakeout.
For me? Or for Diana?
A shiver of fear settled in my gut. Sweat rolled down my back as my hand tremored. I laid it flat against the cool granite. They were here for Diana. There were probably more of them up the street, watching the rear exits. What were they waiting for? More goons, probably. A truckload of soldaten to bust in and search the place. It would be too big a job for five or six Gestapo agents.
I didn’t have much time. I gave another quick glance around the corner before moving. The rear window rolled down. It was Paul Lambert in the back seat.
Quiet little Paul, the concert violinist, had gone to the Gestapo.
I ran, fast as I could, faster than I thought possible, cutting up the next street and trying to work my way around to the rear of the club, remembering the layout of the courtyard and hoping I could get in. I watched for the other Gestapo men I was sure were watching the back as well. I saw them. Two guys in a car, facing away from me, eyes glued to the back of the One-Two-Two. I spotted a trash can by an apartment house door, a folded-up newspaper on top, the best camouflage I could come up with. I grabbed it, stuck it under my arm, and walked straight ahead like any other guy on his way home. I didn’t look at the car, the same way any Parisian would avoid eye contact with the boche. They let me pass, and I kept on, looking for some sort of way into the building. There was a door, but they’d see me take it. I kept walking, glancing up to see if anyone was looking out a window.
No one, but I couldn’t risk drawing attention to myself. I walked on, going around the block. I’d have to take my chances at the front door and hope the team with Lambert stayed put. I ditched the paper and kicked into a run as
soon as I turned the corner, my eyes darting to pick up any other watchers. I slowed by a small café, scanning people at their tables, seeing no one who looked like a plainclothes boche.
At the corner, I stole a look at the front door, once again about a half block away.
Damn. One of the agents was leaning against the wall at the far end of the block, using a newspaper prop himself. The front door was out. I backtracked to the café, Le Mistral, and walked inside. If there was a time to take chances, this was it.
“Le toit?” I asked the barman. He gave me an odd look, and I wondered if I should repeat myself. Maybe I had the wrong word for roof, or my accent was so bad he couldn’t understand me. He nodded in the direction of the room behind me and pointed surreptitiously to the mirror behind the bar.
Two Kraut officers sat with their dates, partially obscured by a partition. They were too busy whispering and clinking champagne glasses to notice me, at least not right away. The place was fancier than it looked from the outside, and in my sweat-stained shirt I wasn’t dressed well enough to be the busboy.
The barman headed for the kitchen. I followed, all the way to a back room filled with cases of wine and leafy vegetables in burlap bags. He looked back to be sure no one was watching, opened a narrow wooden door, and gestured for me to enter. With that, he was gone. He’d just risked his life, as if fugitive Americans came through every day.
I took the stairs, the wooden steps old and creaky. Up four floors, where I found the exit to the roof. After a small, flat platform, the rest of the way was along the slanted gray zinc roof. To one side was the pavement, four stories down. On the other, a flagstone courtyard. I moved slowly, inching along, my good hand gripping the peaked edge, the other nearly useless. I made it to the One-Two-Two roof, climbing over a low barrier that separated the two buildings. The pitch of the roof here was more severe, and I hoped I could make it to what looked like a skylight about twenty yards away. I needed both my hands, but the shaky one wasn’t cooperating. My heart was jack-hammering, keeping a maniacal beat with my trembling right hand. I laid flat on the roof and pulled myself along as best I could, hoping the Gestapo didn’t have anyone watching from inside.