“What...what do you mean by that?” Helene asked, her voice guarded.
Gorski raised a hand. “We will not harm you, but we won’t protect you, either. None of us intends to be taken alive, but there are no guarantees. If we are captured, we will not resist in giving you to the Germans. Your first notion that our mission failed will be your door being broken down in the middle of the night, as men with guns and clubs drag you out of your home, then torture you for days before shooting you as spies.”
“Torture and death await us if we assist you anyway!” Helene shouted at Gorski. “Your offer us nothing but fear!”
“Not so,” Verhoeven answered, stepping forward. “With your assistance, our mission has a better chance of success. Success means escape. Escape means we are not captured and tortured for information. And, if something does go terribly wrong, you have our word that we will ensure you are not taken alive.”
“You mean you will kill us,” Helene said.
“Better a bullet from one of us, than the alternative,” Verhoeven replied. “You don’t want to know what the Germans will do to a woman like you if they capture you alive. The torture...well the torture will be the least of your problems.”
“How dare you!” Ethan snarled, stepping forward, his long arms coming up, hands forming claws.
In the blink of an eye, Verhoeven had a pistol in his hand. Gorski tensed, knowing Verhoeven was more than capable of killing Ethan before he took another step. Berger stopped his feeble struggles and looked from one man to the other, while Helene froze, her lips drawing into a thin, bloodless line.
“I am not insulting her,” Verhoeven told Ethan, his voice calm. “I’m explaining the reality of the situation. With us, even if the mission fails, we can help ensure your end is quick and painless, because the Germans will see that it is anything but.”
The anger in Ethan’s eyes cooled, and the color left his features. He glanced back at his wife, and for the first time, Gorski saw the man’s real strength. Helene may be the strongest and most dangerous of the three, but Ethan would die for her in a heartbeat. Gorski filed the information away for later use, if necessary.
“There is also,” Gorski spoke again, “the matter of the money.”
“What do you mean?” Helene asked.
Gorski pulled the wad of francs out of his pocket again. “If you help us, this is yours. You will have more than earned it. In addition, we bring with us twice this amount, and whatever isn’t used, we leave with you.”
Paquet only glanced at the money, but Helene and Ethan stared at it, and Gorski could see their minds working over the possibilities. He decided to sweeten the deal.
“We may also be able to get you back to England with us,” he added.
“England?” Helene asked.
“If you stay with us until we leave France at the end of our mission,” Gorski said. “We will bring you back with us. The government will find a place for you to live, jobs for you to aid the war effort. Perhaps teaching French to other agents and spies. You could do a lot to help win the war.”
“Please, I beg of you,” Berger sobbed, “do not do this! Do not listen to their promises! Can’t you see, they are tricking you into believing their lies, committing their sins for them!”
“Shut up!” Helene cried, and turning, she tore the Luger from Paquet’s hand. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
Taking two steps towards Berger, she leveled the pistol at his face. Berger cried out and twisted his face away, screwing his eyes shut. Helene jerked the trigger, and there was the click of the firing pin, but the pistol didn’t fire. Frowning, she jerked the trigger twice more before looking at the pistol, bewildered. Berger let out a pathetic, mewling whine, his eyes still closed, and Gorski saw his pant leg darken as Berger pissed himself.
“It doesn’t work!” Helene sobbed, and threw the pistol to the ground. She turned and looked at Gorski with intense hatred. “You bastard, you gave us a gun that doesn’t work!”
Gorski ignored her, instead looking to Johansen and giving a nod. The gaunt Norwegian took a long-legged stride towards Berger, grabbed his shoulder, and turned the smaller man towards him. Berger opened his eyes, then gasped with pain, as Johansen drove a long-bladed knife deep into Berger’s chest, the tip of the blade punching through the back of Berger’s shirt. The three resistance members stood and stared in silent horror as Berger’s knees gave out, and Johansen tore his blade free before letting go of Berger’s shoulder and letting the man fall to the ground, where he lay there, feebly twitching for a moment until he went still. A puddle of blood began to seep out from under his corpse, quickly soaked up wherever it touched the piles of sawdust.
Johansen knelt next to Berger and tugged the man’s shirttail free, using it to clean his weapon. It was a German Seitengewehr, the 37 centimeter-long “butcher’s blade” bayonet carried by the Kaiser’s troops in the last war.
Helene turned and looked at Gorski with a bewildered expression. “I...I don’t understand.”
Verhoeven bent and picked up the Luger, examining it for damage before he ejected the magazine and snapped back the toggle-bolt. No cartridge ejected from the weapon. He held up the magazine, and the gleaming brass of a live cartridge was visible at the end.
“No round in the chamber,” Verhoeven explained. He seated the magazine and tucked the weapon into the small of his back.
“But you killed him anyway?” Paquet asked, tears wetting his cheeks.
“We’re too close to the road,” Gorski told him. “We needed to know you were willing to kill him, but we couldn’t risk a passing bicyclist or driver hearing a gunshot.”
“You’re a monster,” Helene told Gorski, her face dark with hatred. “You’re all monsters!”
“That may be,” Gorski told her, “but monsters or no, we’ve got a mission to accomplish.”
“And what is it, this mission of yours?” Paquet asked.
Gorski gave him a thin smile. “We’re here to kill the deadliest man in Europe.”
TEN
After Berger’s corpse had been dragged away and hidden some distance from the barn, Gorski produced a small, folded packet of documents from the lining of his coat. There was a map of the Abbeville area, along with a photo of a German Luftwaffe pilot in uniform, wearing the insignia of a Hauptman, or captain.
“Werner Kohl is one of Germany’s top surviving Battle of Britain fighter aces,” Gorski explained to the three resistance members. “After the autumn of 1940, his fighter squadron was moved to Greece, then North Africa. More recently, the squadron was ordered to return here, to the Abbeville aerodrome, and Kohl was given two weeks’ leave. However, some time within the next three days, he will return to Abbeville and be put back on the active duty flight roster.”
“How many planes has he shot down?” Ethan asked.
“Our numbers are incomplete,” Gorski replied. “But our best estimates credit him with at least fifty kills, possibly more. There are other Luftwaffe pilots with higher kill counts, but most of those men are fighting against the Soviets now. Kohl’s fighter group, Jagdgeschwader 26, is now only one of two fighter groups defending the northern coast of France from allied bombing. Of those pilots, Kohl is the best by far.”
“But he is just one pilot, no matter how good he is,” Paquet said. “Why risk your lives coming to France and trying to kill him? Why not bomb the aerodrome?”
“We are but five men,” Gorski said. “We may be well-trained, but we are expendable, and we know this. Losses among bomber crews are mounting, which means fewer and fewer skilled pilots. And, every bomber shot down means the death of four or more men and the loss of a valuable aircraft. A man like Kohl could shoot down several bombers a mission. His presence here along the French coast endangers every bombing mission undertaken by the RAF.”
“There is also the question of morale,” Verhoeven added. “To the other pilots in France, Kohl is a prince. If he is shot down in the air, it will be a sad day, but they a
ll understand the risks of air combat. Men such as Kohl are meant to die gloriously in the sky, not gunned down or blown up while their feet are on the ground. If his death is no different than any common soldat, it would instill fear and uncertainty among the ranks of the pilots.”
“I still do not understand why a bombing raid wouldn’t be easier,” Paquet said.
“There is no guarantee we would kill him,” Gorski answered. “The aerodrome is a strategic target, this is true, but it is just one airfield among many in this region. In addition, it is quite close to the town, and there is concern that if the RAF attempted a raid, the town would suffer significant collateral damage. No, it is better this way. We find him, we kill him, and if we fail, only we few die in the attempt.”
“You risk your lives very willingly,” Helene said. “and ours as well.”
Gorski shrugged. “There were other assets in the area who might have done the deed, but they are no longer available.”
“What assets?” Paquet asked. “What do you mean?”
“There was another, more active resistance cell in the area,” Gorski explained. “But it was compromised.”
“The Butcher of Calais,” Paquet said, nodding. “We have heard of this man. It is said the SS captured and killed him last month.”
Helene looked down at the ground. “They said he was ruthless beyond measure. As bloodthirsty as the worst of the Germans. That he hunted them because they killed his family.”
“I do not know any more about him than you evidently do,” Gorski said. “But his cell was the only one in northern France taking direct action against the Germans. Now that they are gone, there is no one left.”
“There was a train, two months ago,” Ethan said. “A train passing through to Calais. The Butcher and his men attacked it, derailed it. They killed everyone on board. The Germans wiped out a nearby village in retaliation. Dozens were killed.”
“Is that what will happen here?” Helene asked Gorski. “If you kill this pilot, will the Germans shoot everyone in Abbeville?”
“I don’t know,” Gorski replied. “It is possible there will be reprisals, yes. But I cannot say what will or will not happen after we kill Kohl.”
“Do you at least have a plan as to how to kill him?” Helene asked.
“The intelligence report on Kohl indicates that he is something of a libertine,” Gorski said. “He likes fine food, fine liquor, and fine women. He will be returning here from two weeks of leave, but he has been away from the rest of his squadron for even longer. We suspect he will want to celebrate his return with his comrades, one last hurrah before they are back to the business of war.”
“There are many restaurants and cafés in Abbeville where he might go,” Ethan spoke up. “You would have to know where he will be, and when, and move with short notice.”
Gorski nodded. “That is where you may be of the most use to us. You sell wine, and I imagine you provide it to local establishments as well?”
“We do,” Ethan answered.
“Excellent. Then you will have to find the information we need,” Gorski told him. “When Kohl returns, he and his men will drink a restaurant dry, so wherever he goes, the proprietor will need to fortify their wine cellar beforehand.”
“If we ask questions, it will look suspicious,” Helene said.
Gorski shook his head. “The proprietor will come to you, and they will surely say something to make plain what is happening, even if they are told to keep the exact details a secret.”
“And then what will you do?” Helene asked.
“It is best if you don’t know every aspect of our plans,” Gorski told her. “Besides, we need more time to reconnoiter the town and decide on the best course of action.”
“And so what, we go back to our homes as if nothing has happened?” Paquet asked. “My friend is dead, his blood staining the floor. The Germans will continue to investigate what happened this morning. I am known to be a business associate of Berger’s, so it is likely they will come and talk to me.”
Gorski shrugged. “You will have to do your best to lie. If you disappear as well, the Germans will grow suspicious, and it is likely someone will come out here to investigate. Just tell them you haven’t seen him, and if they bring up his involvement with black market goods or English spies, feign ignorance and surprise. The less information you give them, the less likely it is you’ll slip up and give yourself away.”
Paquet’s lips twisted in a sour expression. “That is not very reassuring.”
Gorski raised his hands in a placating gesture. “It is the best I can offer.”
“And us?” Ethan asked.
“As far as everyone knows, you have never met Berger, yes?” Gorski asked him.
“Correct,” Ethan replied. “We only ever met here, and that was but a few times.”
“Then do as we discussed, and be observant. Return here in twenty-four hours and let us know what you’ve learned. Otherwise, do nothing different.”
“I want a portion of that money,” Helene told Gorski. “There is no telling what may happen to you in the next day. If nothing else, we should have the money that was promised to us.”
Gorski smiled and pulled the bundle of francs from his coat pocket, then tossed it to Helene. “Here, take it all. Do not spend it unless you have to, though. Flaunting unusual wealth is an easy way to find yourselves in a Gestapo interrogation room.”
“Also,” Verhoeven added, “you should take these.”
The Dutchman pulled the Luger from his waistband and handed it to Paquet, who took it with the expression of a man who was being handed a live hand grenade. The German officer’s P-38 was given to Ethan, and the .32 automatic belonging to the younger gendarme was given to Helene.
“None of us have ever fired a gun before,” Ethan pointed out, holding the P-38 as if it might bite him at any moment.
Verhoeven shrugged. “Hold the grip with both hands, get as close as you can, and pull the trigger. Aim for the stomach, though. New shooters have a tendency to bring the gun up as they fire. But don’t worry, these are just a precaution.”
“A precaution against what, exactly?” Helene asked, as Verhoeven demonstrated to her how to fit the magazine and work the slide and safety.
“Being discovered by the Germans,” Verhoeven told her. “Use these to rid the earth of a few first, if you would, but I suggest saving the last bullet for yourself.”
And with that, the meeting adjourned. The three resistance members took their leave, with Paquet giving Berger’s body one last, long look before he climbed onto his bicycle and departed with Helene and Ethan. By now it was dark outside, and in a moment, the three riders were all but invisible, only the squeaking of wheels and bicycle chains giving away their presence as they rode further away, until there was nothing left to hear.
Lambert descended from the loft, and Gorski sent him to stand watch along the road. While Verhoeven took up watch inside the barn, the other three Revenants dragged Berger’s corpse further away before using an axe and shovel to hack a shallow grave out of the earth. They rolled Berger’s corpse into the grave and threw the dirt over him, tamping it down with their feet and carefully replacing the grass as best they could. In the dark, it was hard to see if the grave was obvious, but for now, it would have to do.
“Do you think they will cooperate with us?” Dumond asked Gorski as they walked back to the barn.
“I don’t think they feel they have any choice in the matter,” Gorski replied. “The question is, will their cooperation be worth the increased risk of exposure?”
“To hell with risk,” Johansen said in a low voice. “We are here to kill Germans.”
“So we are,” Gorski said. “So we are.”
ELEVEN
Their second day in France passed largely without incident. The Revenants stayed alert all night, wondering if their reluctant allies would attempt to follow the example of their late comrade and rat the Revenants out to the gendarmes. Howe
ver, hours passed and nothing happened, although there was military activity along the road, several armored cars and trucks carrying troops passing by in the night.
At first light, Gorski and Lambert set out cross-country, heading for the aerodrome north of Abbeville. It was risky moving during the day, but the two men were skilled at stealth and reconnaissance, and they traveled light, carrying only weapons and ammunition. Lambert had his Swedish Mauser and Browning 9mm automatic, while Gorski carried one of the two captured MP-38s, as well as his own pistol. Sticking to irrigation ditches and keeping to the inside of hedgerows, it took the two men about three hours to circle along the eastern side of Abbeville, and finally approach the aerodrome from the east.
Working their way into a clump of brush about half a kilometer from the aerodrome, Gorski used his binoculars to observe the airfield, while Lambert took notes. The two men counted fighter planes and noted their make and model, sketched a map of the airfield and the maintenance hangars, and counted the men they saw, as well as the anti-aircraft defenses ringing the aerodrome.
“The defenses are surprisingly light,” Lambert noted. “eight emplacements with one two-centimeter flak gun apiece, and a pair of flak 88s. I would have expected more.”
Gorski shrugged. “There are defense batteries along the coast, and around docks and factories. Airfields are not that high a target. Craters can be filled in, aircraft scrapped and replaced. Ordnance depots restocked. Better to bomb a power plant or factory, which takes months or even years to replace, than a place like this, which can be repaired and operational again in a matter of days.”
At one point, sirens sounded within the aerodrome, and men poured out of the barracks and ran to their Bf 109s. One by one, the planes’ engines started, and the fighters taxied into formation and took off down the runway, climbing into the air as quickly as possible. Within a few minutes, the entire fighter wing was airborne, heading north-west.
Assault on Abbeville Page 6
