“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked the German, patting his pockets in search of his pack.
The German noticed his futile attempts to locate his cigarettes and generously opened his cigarette case to Philippe.
“Where is your wife, Monsieur Vignon?” It was a simple question, spoken in a mild voice, but it made the blood rush to Philippe’s head at once.
“I don’t know,” he replied, at last, not knowing what else to say.
“Would you like to know?”
Philippe swallowed with difficulty, got up and went to the sink to fill a metal, enamel mug with tap water. He downed it all and turned back to his guest, who was observing him with mild curiosity.
“Yes. Very much.”
“You care for her, don’t you?”
They didn’t know they weren’t really husband and wife then. At least their identities were still safe. Philippe breathed out with relief. “Of course, I do. She’s my wife after all.”
“Gut. This simplifies my task. You see, your wife was arrested this morning by our people. We have been watching your cell for quite some time, and are aware of the diversion that you have been so carefully preparing.”
Philippe listened to him silently, without denying or acknowledging anything.
“Madame Vignon is being interrogated as we speak,” the German continued, carefully watching Philippe’s reaction.
Philippe clasped the mug in his hand with such force that if it were made of glass, he would have probably crushed it. He kept his face impassive.
“You’ve come to arrest me then?”
“Arrest you? Not yet. You see, I prefer persuasion to blunt force. I decided that maybe you, being the sensible man that you are, would want to listen to my proposition first. I can always arrest you later.”
Philippe returned to his seat with reluctance. “I’m listening.”
“A girl from your cell was supposed to deliver you suitcases packed with explosives so that you could use them for your planned diversion. Madame Vignon tried to take those suitcases from her to secure the delivery I assume.” The German drummed his fingers on the table several times, his look pensive. “Only, much to everyone’s surprise, when our people opened the suitcases, there were no explosives inside.”
Philippe frowned. The German caught onto his confusion and grinned. “You have no idea what was in the suitcases, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” he finally admitted.
“Men’s clothes.” The German chuckled softly.
Philippe narrowed his eyes, not appreciating mirth in a situation like this.
“Is this some kind of a sick joke?” he demanded with barely concealed anger in his voice.
“It certainly was, one that your crafty spouse played on all of us.” The German was still smiling, as if more delighted than upset by this fact. “I’ll admit, heading to your place, I hoped that you would be able to tell me where the real suitcases are, but I see now that you’re in the dark just as much as I am. Oh well, every problem can be resolved if one is dedicated enough to finding a solution; don’t you agree?”
“You already said it yourself; I don’t know where the suitcases are. I have nothing to offer to you.”
“Oh, but you do. You can tell me where the diversion is to take place. We know that you want to blow up the train tracks to sabotage a major wood supply heading to the Eastern front, but the tracks are long, and we don’t know the exact place. We also know that they will put the explosives down tonight, closer to the morning, with a timing mechanism – just like last time. Now, if you could just point out the exact place for me, and we can arrest your friends before they do any serious damage, then I can personally guarantee that Madame Vignon will be released immediately. And, you will both get a rather mild sentence only. Two, maybe three years in jail, here in France. It’s the deal of a lifetime if you ask me.”
“What about our friends?”
“I’m afraid I can only guarantee a pardon to you and your wife, and only because I’m acting on the orders of Standartenführer Sievers. Ordinarily, you would all be executed; but he decided to grant you both life. Your friends will have to face the firing squad I regret to inform you. What kind of Gestapo we would be if we released all of the diversionists?” The German spread out his arms with a smile.
“You surely do have a reputation to mind,” Philippe grumbled sardonically, not entertained by the joke in the slightest.
“We can argue about our methods all you want, my dearest Monsieur Vignon, but keep in mind that every minute spent in such polemics prolongs poor Madame Vignon’s sufferings,” the German said in the same pleasant tone, however this time the coldness in his voice revealed itself, intentionally no doubt.
“If you touch a hair on her head—” Philippe started with a threat in his voice, to which the German only waved his hand dismissively.
“They already did, Monsieur Vignon. Standartenführer Sievers was kind enough to offer her a chance to tell him everything willingly, but she refused. He was certain that she would start speaking within minutes, but… It’s been several hours, and she hasn’t spoken a word. That’s what brings me here to you, Monsieur Vignon. I really need to get to those explosives before your comrades get a chance to do something irreparable.”
Philippe could barely contain himself from jumping up from his chair to throw himself at the grinning German and beat him until he stopped breathing. The thought of Giselle in the hands of those monsters made his blood boil, but the German was right. Philippe was caught between a rock and a hard place, with two choices that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy: save himself and Giselle, but lose Marcel and Arthur, or keep quiet and try to save his comrades with his silence, but lose Giselle and quite possibly his own life.
“Well? What is it going to be, Monsieur Vignon?” The German tapped his finger on top of his hand again. This time he wasn’t smiling.
Philippe squeezed his temples with both hands, resting his elbows on the table, not caring one bit that the German would see his despair. What was it going to be? He’d be damned if he knew.
“Think of your wife, Monsieur Vignon.” The German’s disgustingly sweet tone seemed to get right under Philippe’s skin, making it crawl with hatred. “Quite possibly, one of our men is currently holding a hammer in his hand, getting ready to break her beautiful little toes. It’s rather painful and can leave a person limping for the rest of their lives. The longer you play mute, the graver her injuries will be. You don’t want that, do you?”
Philippe clenched his jaw in fury, raked his hand through his dark hair, and rose from his seat. The German remained in his place while he returned with a map, threw it on the table and pointed at a place on it.
“This is it. Now call your people and tell them to stop hurting Giselle immediately!”
The German smiled gleefully, got up, folded the map neatly and placed his hat back on his head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop it until we secure the suitcases and arrest your friends. Who knows, you might have lied to me.”
Unable to control himself, Philippe swiftly moved to the countertop, pulled a kitchen knife from the stand and turned around, ready to cut the German into pieces, only to find him calmly standing in place and pointing a gun at him.
“I would advise against it, Monsieur Vignon. If I don’t return within an hour, your spouse will die a very painful death. Surely, you don’t wish such an unfortunate outcome for her.”
With those words, he hid the gun in his pocket, bid his farewell, bowed his head slightly, and proceeded to the exit.
“Oh yes, one more thing. I don’t have time to bring you in right now because I need to organize an ambush for your comrades, so I would greatly appreciate it if you took yourself to prison without my assistance, and gave yourself up. Our people are waiting for you already. Good day, Monsieur Vignon!”
“I will find you, and I will kill you,” Philippe hissed through gritted teeth, still holding the knife tightly,
but the German was already gone.
24
Lyon
“How could you do this?!”
Tommy blocked another blow, even welcoming the pain that reverberated through the bone of his forearm where Marcel had struck him countless times. He had expected such an outburst, and mentally prepared himself for it, having set his mind on meekly accepting every single hit until Marcel ran out of steam. He soon did, lowering his hands with balled fists, but Marcel’s eyes held such hurt in them, from the betrayal that he had never expected from one who he trusted the most. That caused Tommy more anguish than any physical pain ever could.
“Marcel, listen to me, please.” Tommy moved closer, but Marcel only raised his hand again. “You can hit me all you like, but you will have to listen to my explanation at some point.”
“What kind of explanation can you possibly give me that will make me change my mind and not shoot you like the backstabbing rat that you are?!”
“Don’t scream, please. The neighbors—”
“To hell with the neighbors! You went behind my back; you drugged me; you stole suitcases from me, you and Arthur! You both put my sister’s life in danger. Why?!”
“Because she asked me to.”
“And you listened!”
“Yes, I did. It was the only reasonable thing to do. She was being followed. They both were; her and her husband. The whole operation would have been compromised, and all of us would have been arrested. This was the only chance we had.”
“And my sister’s life is a fair price to pay, you mean to say?! We should have just called it all off! Why didn’t she tell me anything?”
“Because she knew that you would have tried to stop her. She was under constant surveillance; she had no place to run anyway. Besides, we don’t know if she was arrested or not. Maybe they saw that the suitcases didn’t contain what they were looking for, and let her go.”
“Do you even believe what you’re saying?”
Tommy released a ragged sigh and lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Marcel. I did it for you. She didn’t want anything to happen to you, and neither did I. I love you…”
“Go fuck yourself with your love!” Marcel shoved him hard in his chest.
Tommy stumbled backward without even trying to protect himself. “You have every right to be angry. But with time you will understand—”
“If something happens to Giselle, I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”
Tears were streaming down Marcel’s face as he hurled his threats at the Brit. Tommy wanted to cry himself, but at least one of them had to remain strong.
“Arthur is already in Dijon,” he spoke quietly. “He’ll wreak such havoc among them, the likes of which they have never encountered before. And all because she gave us all a chance, Marcel.”
“At what price? Her own life?”
“She was under their surveillance as it is. They would have arrested her anyway. Now, we all have a chance at least. A chance to disappear and reinvent ourselves under new names, in a new city. For us, Dijon is done for. But the fight will continue someplace else. She sacrificed herself to save us all, Marcel. Now, we all owe her for that. We owe her more German deaths than the Huns ever imagined. We will avenge her, I promise. I will fight along with you till my last breath until we kill every last one of them…”
Marcel’s eyes clouded with tears, full of hatred, and the pressure on his chest prevented him from talking.
“No, Tom. I don’t want to fight alongside you. You lied to me, and your lies will cost Giselle her life. I don’t care what arguments you bring. It won’t change a thing. I hate you. I will never forgive you. I don’t want you near me. Now, get your things and get lost. Tell your MI6 we’ll find ourselves a new radio operator. One who we can trust.”
Tommy took his verdict with stoicism, nodded his head several times in understanding, sighed with difficulty, and said, “You saved my life once, and I promised you that it would be yours from that point on. I’ll stand by my word. I’ll leave now. I know you hate me, and I deserve it. I still love you endlessly, and more than anything I want you to be happy. Just remember this when I’m gone, please.”
Marcel refused to give him a parting handshake. Only when Tommy’s steps had disappeared behind the door did he fall into a heap on the floor and burst into tears; over his sister, over the man who had become her unwilling executioner, and over himself, because he loved that cursed-to-all-hells executioner too.
Dijon
The heavy metal door unlocked, and Giselle shut her eyes tightly after being nearly blinded by the bright light that burst into her cell. She had lain in absolute darkness for God knew how long. She had lost track of time long ago. She couldn’t even tell if it was day or night, and how many hours exactly she had spent in the interrogation cell, barely conscious, battered and naked.
She was slipping in and out distorted reality - or a nightmare from which it was impossible to wake from. She tried to concentrate her mind on one thing only: to be quiet. They repeated two questions with vicious obstinacy; to which she would scream “I don’t know” until her throat gave in and only hoarse whimpers would come out instead of the words. Where are the suitcases and where is the diversion going to take place? And another, to which the usual denial didn’t apply: What is your name? She nearly said, ‘Giselle Legrand’ when, after losing consciousness due to the shock of having her head immersed under water, they shook her awake. ‘Laure Vignon,’ she finally whispered after remembering the correct answer. Laure Vignon.
Steady steps on the concrete floor near where she lay made her curl herself into a ball, her bloodied knees pulled towards her chest, expecting a kick in her ribs that were most likely broken.
“I know you’re awake. Open your eyes.”
His voice was strangely familiar. He stood against the blinding light, but all Giselle could make out was his dark silhouette when she finally forced herself to squint at him, shielding her eyes with her bruised hand.
He slowly lowered down, crouching next to her, and Giselle pulled back at the sight of the face that took shape in front of her eyes; somber and twisted, with a shadow of infinite evil glowing eerily in the charcoal of his eyes.
“Go away,” she whispered and waved her hand in front of her, intending for it to go right through the apparition and make it dissolve into thin air. Her hand hit a knee that felt far too real to belong to a ghost. “You can’t be here. I killed you. You’re dead.”
The man in the uniform tilted his hand to one side, studying her face quizzically.
“I’m here to help you,” he spoke, at last, his black eyes gleaming in the dark. Giselle shuddered and inched further away from him.
“You’re not real, Karl. Go away.”
She heard his steady breathing, even felt it on her cheek when he leaned closer, leaning over her. “I’ll help you get out of here. You just have to tell me your name.”
Giselle’s brows moved into a frown as she tried to process his request.
“You know my name well enough.”
“I want you to say it to me. Just say it.” He smelled of aftershave and slightly of cigarettes. Too human for a ghost who had returned from the underworld to torment her. Giselle shifted her weight onto one elbow, trying to make out his features.
“Tell me your name,” he implored softly.
Giselle held his gaze and finally stretched her mouth into a grin. “I don’t know how you survived, but I’ll kill you again.”
“Fair enough. But I deserve to know the name of the woman who will take my life, no?”
Giselle chuckled and cringed as a sharp pain pierced her side. “Laure Vignon. Now, go back to the hell from which you crawled from, and leave me alone.”
He rose and disappeared behind the door, leaving Giselle in darkness once again.
Jürgen Sievers looked up from his morning newspaper as one of his uniformed orderlies appeared in the doors of his office.
“Well?” he demanded i
mpatiently, without bothering to reply to the man’s usual salute.
“Nothing, Herr Standartenführer. She repeated the same alias, Laure Vignon. Only…” He stopped mid-sentence as if contemplating if the information he was about to give was useful enough to report to his superior.
“Only what?”
“She called me ‘Karl’ and told me to go away because I wasn’t real. Because, apparently, she had killed me.”
Sievers rose from his seat and circled his desk, stopping in front of the young agent.
“Is that so? Interesting. Very interesting.”
“I thought that maybe it was from a concussion or she had lost it after the shock. It happens to them sometimes…”
“No, it’s not a concussion. I gave strict orders not to touch her face or head, so that can’t be it.” Sievers rubbed his chin pensively. “Karl, you said?”
“The man must have been a German.”
“Do you recall any cases of any Karls disappearing lately in our area?”
“No, Herr Standartenführer. That’s why I decided at first that she was not in her right mind and was imagining things.”
“Check all the police reports for the past year, just in case. If she indeed killed some Karl, that can point us to who she really is. Most likely she took this new identity after the murder. If it actually happened, of course.”
The Lyon Affair: A French Resistance novel Page 23