“Besides, we won’t tell her what she’s transporting,” Marcel suggested. “She knows better than to ask questions about the tasks we give her. She’s been moaning for months that we haven’t delegated her anything important. Well, we’ll just tell her this is something utterly important, and that she shouldn’t ask a thing about it.”
“Sounds like a perfect plan to me.” Philippe shrugged.
“She’s not stupid; she’ll want to know what’s inside the suitcases,” Giselle argued. “I know I would. So, how do you know she won’t open them?”
“We’ll get her ones that can be locked. We’ll buy them here, and you’ll have the keys.” Marcel pointed at Philippe and Giselle. “And once she drops them off, you’ll open them and get them ready for Arthur.”
“Why can’t someone else transport them? Someone else with an Ausweis?” Giselle shot Philippe a glare as he rolled his eyes at his stubborn “spouse.”
“We don’t have anyone else with an Ausweis except for Chief himself, Tommy, Arthur, and myself,” Marcel spoke quietly. “My face is on the wall of every prefecture of the Occupied Zone and I risk capture by crossing the Demarcation Line. The Boches hardly check anyone who travels without luggage, like me; if I traveled with suitcases it would be pure suicide. As for Chief, Tommy, and Arthur, we can’t risk any of them being arrested in case some damned Boche decides to check their suitcases. Chief is in charge of everything, and he’s our only link with Paris, now that he’s finally had a chance to meet with Moulin. Tommy is our only radio operator, and Arthur is our only explosives expert; we can’t risk losing them either. If Lucienne gets arrested, it’s collateral damage; if these two do, we’ll get in big trouble.”
“I guess that leaves us no other choice,” Philippe concluded. “Lucienne, it is.”
“I still don’t like this idea,” Giselle muttered, sighing.
Marcel put his arm around his sister, smiling at her. “Hey, what can possibly go wrong?”
Mountains of Lyon, July 1941
“They’re late again.” The annoyance in Tommy’s voice was evident.
A faint, purple glow had long disappeared from the sky replaced by the opaque ink of the night.
“You shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” Marcel grumbled in response. “The Chief strictly prohibited us from taking you anywhere near the drop-off point. You’re our only radio connection with London. We can’t risk your safety. Why do I always give in to your ridiculous demands?”
“Because you like having me around.” Tommy nudged him with his shoulder, not even bothering to hide his mischievous grin.
Marcel jerked his shoulder irritably and moved away. “No, I don’t. It’s just that I find it easier to give in to your demands than deal with your outbursts whenever something doesn’t go your way.”
The two sat, leaning against the moss-ridden trunk of a tree, waiting to hear the familiar low grumble of the British plane engine. Marcel wouldn’t take his gaze off the sky, anxiously fighting the doubts that had been bothering him all the way to the mountains. This was the first message that he had received and decoded all by himself, with Tommy standing near of course, but with him using the only pair of headphones, so it was impossible to tell if he had decoded it correctly. Maybe it was his fault they hadn’t heard the plane yet, and he had misinterpreted the time of the drop-off?
“Can I have your cigarette?” Tommy asked, already holding his hand out.
“What happened to yours?”
“Left them at home.”
Marcel thought of reaching into his pocket and giving him a fresh one, but then, for some reason, gave the one that he was smoking into Tommy’s fingers. The Brit took a long drag on it and let out a satisfied sigh.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” Tommy asked abruptly.
Marcel hesitated before replying, but then only shrugged his shoulder uncomfortably. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I had no time for girls. I had to study.”
“The lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.” Tommy snorted. “Have you ever slept with a girl?”
“Why do you care?” Marcel shot back, feeling his cheeks getting hot and thanking the darkness of the night for keeping his emotions invisible from the nosy rascal.
“Just curious. It’s a simple question which demands a yes or no answer. No need to tell me the details.”
“Yes. Happy?” Marcel snapped at him again for no apparent reason.
A second later he heard Tommy sniggering under his breath. “A working girl?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Did you like it?”
“I’m not going to discuss it with you.” Marcel folded his arms on his chest and turned away.
“Apparently, that’s a no.” Tommy didn’t even try to keep the amusement from his voice. “Have you ever kissed a guy?”
“No, and I am not planning to.”
“Why such anger? Maybe you’d like it better than with a girl.”
“Piss off.”
“Oh, come now, don’t be such a prude.”
Tommy was laughing, his breath so soft and enticing near Marcel’s chin, where the Brit’s velvet lips caught him as he turned his head away at the last moment. Marcel shoved him in the chest and jumped to his feet, breathing heavily from anger… or was it because the damned Brit had made his heart beat so wildly against his ribcage from one simple, playful kiss that Marcel feared it would break his ribs any second now.
“Try that again, and I’ll put a nice shiner on your handsome face!”
He could see an impish gleam in Tommy’s eyes even in the darkness, as he got up as well, with the grace of a feral cat, and moved towards him. “So, you do think I’m handsome?”
“Piss off, I said!”
“Make me.”
Before Marcel knew what was happening, Tommy flicked the cigarette away and moved towards him with unexpected agility. Marcel threw a punch which missed its aim and soon found himself in a deadlock, struggling with the Brit’s surprisingly strong arms. Despite all the fight that he was trying to put up, Tommy overpowered him laughingly, tripped him with yet another move that Marcel never saw coming, and he found himself being placed almost gently on top of the soft moss beneath them, his arms completely restrained behind his back.
“Now what are you going to do, tough guy?”
Marcel desperately tried to worm himself out of the Brit’s iron grip but to no avail.
“Nice attempt.” Tommy was definitely having the time of his life, laughing at his futile efforts to release himself. “I’m from MI6, mate. They trained us for months in moves like that.”
“Let go.” Marcel swallowed with difficulty at the strange look that appeared in Tommy’s eyes.
“You don’t really want me to.” Tommy grinned softly, pushing his knee in between Marcel’s legs.
“Please.” Marcel’s voice sounded so miserably full of weak pleading that he felt disgusted with himself.
“Well, if you’re asking nicely.”
Of course, he didn’t let him go; instead, he only pressed his chest against Marcel’s, caressing his lips with his mouth. Marcel shut his eyes tight and tried not to breathe, so utterly perplexed with the strange emotions inside him, that changed with the speed of light, thrilling him, but confusing him all the same. Tommy’s lips were so soft and gentle, in contrast with the steely clasp on Marcel’s wrists, that had started to go numb under the weight of their bodies, and Marcel finally gave in to the most delicious sense of twisted pleasure. The sensations of pleasure coursed throughout the depths of his body, and he opened his mouth to allow Tommy to do whatever he wished to him – giving in to Tommy as he nearly always did.
It was wrong, unnatural and frowned upon – criminal even – yet Marcel couldn’t possibly comprehend how something so wrong could suddenly feel so very right. Tommy’s hot mouth searched his with unrestrained desire, the Brit’s teeth sunk into Marcel’s bottom lip, catching it with his lips to su
ck on it gently, and his hands were pressing Marcel’s hips into Tommy’s. Marcel hadn’t even realized that the Brit wasn’t restraining him anymore and that it was his own hand that was entangled in Tommy’s golden hair now, pulling him closer, breathing hard with him, helping him pull his shirt from under his belt… His whole body screamed in protest when Tommy suddenly moved away.
“Shit! The plane!” Tommy added a few elaborate expletives under his breath and almost yanked Marcel back to his feet. “Come on, hurry up!”
Running behind the Brit, it was still a mystery to Marcel how he had heard the plane at all. All he, Marcel, could hear now, was the sound of his own blood pulsating in his ears. His skin still burned like fire, despite the brisk gusts of wind swiping at their faces, as they dashed towards the nearest clearing to see where the plane would drop its cargo.
As the small white parachute opened not too far from where they stopped, Tommy grabbed Marcel by his hand, pulled him close, laughing, and planted another loud kiss on his mouth.
“Well, what do you say? Better than with a working girl?”
Marcel caught himself grinning back gingerly.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” The same feral look was back in Tommy’s eyes, but this time Marcel found himself craving its contagious power. “Let’s go get our parcel and then we can discuss it further once we’re back home.”
Something caught in Marcel’s throat again, and he took a tentative step back without realizing it. Tommy didn’t pursue him this time, much to his surprise.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” the Brit spoke with unexpected tenderness in his voice. “I’m sorry for having to hold you before. I promise I won’t do it again. I won’t do anything that scares you.”
“You scare me,” Marcel admitted in a hoarse whisper.
“Why?” Tommy cocked his head, an impish grin back in its place.
“I don’t know,” he admitted with painstaking honesty, looking for answers in Tommy’s amber eyes. “One day I’ll figure it out.”
It took them less than five minutes to reach the white cloud of the parachute covering the precious cargo that they had to carry all the way to the abandoned forest overseer’s hut. The next morning Patrice and one of his comrades would bring a truck to pick it up and deliver it to the orphanage. The carefully developed plan seemed to be working seamlessly so far.
They quickly found the standard wooden crate in the folds of the white cloth, cut the parachute’s restraints carefully wrapped around it, and folded the parachute, hiding it under the unearthed roots of a near tree. The forest and the mountains surrounding them were all but abandoned; no one even hunted in these areas anymore, for the war efforts had commandeered all available horses, so there was no fear that the concealed evidence would be discovered.
It was a long way to the hut, and Tommy finally signaled Marcel to put the heavy crate down and rubbed his numb arms.
“What the hell is in this bloody thing?”
“Guns. Mills grenades. Or plastic explosives, judging by the weight.” Marcel handed Tommy a cigarette he had just lit for him and lit one for himself. “They’re always heavy. By the way, if it’s the second item, we probably shouldn’t be smoking near it.”
Tommy shrugged indifferently and slumped down on top of the crate with a devil-may-care look on his face which always fascinated Marcel for some inexplicable reason. Feeling particularly brave himself, with a strange sense of excitement overpowering his common sense, Marcel also sat on top of the crate.
“You don’t care that we can blow ourselves up, do you?” Marcel asked him quietly, hiding a grin.
“It’s such a beautiful night,” Tommy replied with cynical dreaminess in his voice, squinting at the darkness enveloping them, “that I don’t mind dying before the dawn.”
A sudden burst of light blinded them, together with a shout and the unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked. “You two! Hands up!”
“Well, bugger me,” Tommy hissed, spitting out his unfinished cigarette and rising from the crate with his hands up in the air. “It turns out that the proverb about fearing one’s desires for they tend to come true turned out to be full of sense.”
Marcel got up warily, unnerved by the fact that he couldn’t see their captors.
“Do you have any weapons on you?” a booming voice pierced the silence.
Before Marcel could open his mouth to try to negotiate with the gendarmes, and he suspected that was exactly who they were, Tommy had already spread his arms in the sincerest of manners, the most innocent of smiles playing on his face, and said, “Bien sûr non, Monsieur! We’re just ordinary citizens, not some vigilantes. Besides, isn’t carrying arms prohibited by the armistice?”
“Shut it, smartass!” a second voice shouted rather rudely. So, there were at least two of them, armed, against Marcel and Tommy and their bare fists. “No ordinary citizens would lurk around in the middle of the night in the mountains! What you got in that crate?”
“I’d be cursed if I know.” Tommy’s confident answer came before Marcel’s, who had his hands pressed against his heart in a theatrical manner. “We just found it.”
“You found it?” The skepticism on the part of their interrogator was palpable.
“That’s right. We tried to pry it open but it wouldn’t budge. So, we decided to take it home and see what’s in it. We’re hoping it’s some good quality English whiskey.”
“Why would there be English whiskey in it?” The voice betrayed a hint of interest this time.
Tommy took a deep breath as if pondering something and then looked at the blinding light of the powerful flashlight again, shielding his eyes from it.
“I’ll be honest with you, Monsieur. We conduct a little trading on the side. Times are tough on everyone you see, so we started a small business to support ourselves.”
“Le Marché Noir?”
“It pains me to admit it, but yes, my law-enforcing friend. We found out that the Brits drop whiskey in similar crates in the south of France when they can’t reach their troops in Africa – we have a similar business in Marseille too – and our business associates pick them up and sell the same whiskey back to the Brits. Sometimes even our French lot don’t mind picking up a case or two if they have the means, bien sûr. We sell it to them. And today we walked around to see if we can set up some traps to catch some rabbits to sell – you won’t believe the demand there is for them now! – and we noticed this thing. Naturally, we didn’t want to drag it to our house in the middle of the day, so we waited for night and came back for it. It’s most likely whiskey, I tell you. If it were something else, those commies would have picked it up by now.”
Marcel felt a surge of awe at Tommy concocting such a credible story, that even Marcel almost found himself being persuaded by it. The other party seemed to ponder his words as well until the flashlight jerked to one side.
“Move away from it.”
Both Marcel and Tommy readily obliged, as the second flashlight lit up while the first one stayed trained on the crate. Both gendarmes - and it was indeed them, Marcel was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the uniform – discussed what to do about the crate while Marcel took several discreet steps back, pulling Tommy by the wrist.
“Hey! Stay where you are, I said!”
“We just wanted to give you room,” Marcel replied, trying to sound as genuine as possible. “We aren’t going anywhere. We told you, we’re ordinary merchants.”
“You’re still under arrest for dealing goods on the black market. Don’t even think that we’ll let you go without charging you.”
“By all means, do what you feel is right.” Marcel lifted his arms in the air again, carefully faking compliance.
As the two poked and probed the top of the crate, Marcel chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes glimmering feverishly.
“Try shooting at it,” he shouted, trying to keep a tremor out of his voice and stepping back some more. “That’s how we always open it when a crowbar doesn
’t work.”
Tommy stepped further away as well, catching onto Marcel’s plan.
The two gendarmes kicked and hit the crate with their rifle butts a few more times before admitting defeat. Marcel held his breath as one of them aimed his rifle at the top of the crate. They stood so close to it that the rifle’s muzzle nearly touched the wood. Marcel glided even further away, catching Tommy’s wrist again. A shot pierced the silence, and then a deafening explosion took both Marcel and Tommy off their feet in its wake. Marcel landed on top of the Brit, shielding him from the debris with his body. A sharp pain shot through his thigh and back as several wooden splinters pierced his skin. Marcel hissed and immediately felt Tommy push his body away.
“No, not on my back!” Marcel screamed out, and Tommy’s arms caught him at once, holding him up in a sitting position.
“Are you hurt? Where?” Tommy’s hands shook slightly, despite his firm voice.
“Back and legs, I think. Splinters from the damned crate. They didn’t go deep. I’ll live. Just help me get up.”
Tommy held Marcel by his elbows, helping him to a standing position.
“Can you walk?”
“I have no choice. We just killed two gendarmes, Tommy.” Marcel shifted from one foot to another gingerly, trying to assess his condition. The shock would probably help him walk for some distance at least. After that… After that, they would just have to improvise.
Tommy glanced in the direction where the two flashlights had danced a mere minute ago. The darkness around the flickering embers of the crate contents remained opaque and silent now as if swallowing two lives didn’t matter one bit to the night.
“Why did you do that?”
“You heard them. They would have taken us in,” Marcel muttered.
“No, I’m not talking about that. Your idea was excellent by the way. I’m asking about why you jumped on top of me? You could have died, you know, if one of the nails from the crate went through your neck.”
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 18