The Limoges Dilemma (Alex Kovacs thriller series Book 4)

by Richard Wake

  Again, there was a lot of cheering. And all I could say was, “See, all he gives a shit about is getting even when it’s over.”

  “Don’t you want to get even?” Leon said.

  “I want it to be over first. That’s what we should be concentrating on, what—”

  “Shhh.”

  De Gaulle was still speaking. “At the moment most useful to the Allies, French Resistance, organized at the cost of sacrifices, will be engaged in force against the enemy and his accomplices.”

  “You see?” I said. “But what about in the meantime?”

  I snapped off the radio.

  “We need to kill more Germans,” I said. It just fell out of my mouth, but I meant it.

  “You were always the careful one,” Leon said “You were the one who wanted to think things through. You liked order. Now you just want to close your eyes and kill Germans. That can’t be how this works. There has to be at least some order to what we’re doing, and these people, they have some order about them.”

  “They aren’t about fighting and you know it.”

  “Come on, they fight.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said. “They conduct operations, quote unquote. They await instructions, quote unquote. They basically blow up a few rail trestles and build their bureaucracy and wait for the goddamned Americans — and then they figure they and their almighty bureaucracy will be in place to take over after the Americans are finished mopping the streets.”

  “You’ve really been thinking about this.” Leon was almost whispering.

  “It’s all true and you fucking know it,” I said. “The real fighters are out there in the hills. They’re the ones in a war. They’re the ones who are doing what it takes, killing fucking Germans. They want to win.”

  “But they’re reckless. You know it. I know you, and you know it.”

  “You used to know me,” I said.

  “I’ve always known you.”

  “But since Manon—”

  “I know you better than anyone. And this isn’t you.”

  “Get used to it. It’s the new fucking me,” I said.

  9

  Everybody knew where two buildings in Limoges were: the Benedictins train station and the Saint Etienne Cathedral. To me, Benedictins was the more important because it was kind of a North Star. In many places in the city, all you had to do was turn on your heel until you saw the clock tower, and that would orient you properly — a real boon to a newcomer. The cathedral was different. You knew about it just because, well… just because.

  So there I was, sitting on a bench outside of the cathedral, trying to look holy. That this was an acting job for me went without saying, but I had seen it all before and thought it wouldn’t be that tough to pull off. You sat on the bench, leaned forward, and alternated holding your head in your hands and looking down at your shoes with an occasional peek up at the majesty of the architecture. The look on your face had to be a combination of pain and searching. For me, on that day, it wasn’t hard — because the whole thing was such infuriating bullshit.

  I was a few minutes early for the meeting with my contact, so I felt forced into this public interpretative dance. It was at midday, and the square outside the church was not busy, not exactly, but it wasn’t far from empty. It was lunchtime and more than a few people took whatever they carried in their meager sacks and sat in the sun in the botanical gardens behind the church. There was a smaller number, some carrying those meager sacks, who stopped in for a few kneeling words with the almighty either before or after eating — praying for peace, or a peach. Because for most people, that’s what this war meant: not death or despair, just hunger.

  There were a thousand places in Limoges where I could have met the contact who was supposed to tell me about my next mission — but this is where the bullshit came in. We could have met in a movie theater because they were always crowded, full of people escaping life for a few hours to watch some of the light comedic crap that tended to be on offer. It was as if the Nazis encouraged it. Just keep them laughing.

  So we could have met there, or at the counter of a hundred bars over a cup of fake coffee, or in a food line outside of a vegetable store, hoping for a few spears of asparagus while knowing instead that all that was going to be left when we reached the front of the line was rutabagas. Real life in Limoges provided an infinite number of possible meeting places that seemed real and natural. Hell, the guy could have just sat down next to me on the bench. But no.

  Instead, we had to go through this nonsense — overly organized, dreamed up by people in charge of dreaming, full of complex maneuvers and details that could only have been invented by a bureaucrat. They liked to think they were Resistance fighters, but that’s what they were: bureaucrats. They made plans. They gave orders. They built an organization. Fighting was somewhere below that on their pecking order, and it became more obvious every day.

  The church bells rang briefly on the half-hour and it was my signal to begin the stupid dance. Into the church I went, through the door on the right. Just inside was a big statue of Saint Etienne in a small lobby — at least I figured that’s who it was. I had neither the time nor the inclination to make a more definitive determination.

  And now the cloak-and-dagger bullshit really began. I was to enter the main area of the cathedral through the door on the right. I had been in a few big cathedrals before — the Stephansdom in Vienna, and the big job in Cologne — and they were all a variation on the same idea. They all had a massive main altar fronted by acres of seats. In Vienna, the seats were benches. Here, they were individual wooden chairs, hundreds and hundreds of them. Then, around the perimeter of the building, pretty much starting at the front door and all the way to the back, even continuing behind the main altar, were a dozen or more chapels, small altars with maybe a dozen or so chairs, each dedicated to a different saint or something.

  I was supposed to meet my contact in the third chapel on the right. There was supposed to be a confessional box there, and I was to go inside and kneel down. My contact would be seated in the priest’s spot. He would tell me what I needed to know, but there was no way he would be able to absolve me of my disdain for the whole stupid rigamarole.

  As soon as I got inside the main church, I had a problem. I was supposed to go to the third chapel on the right — except that the first thing you came to on the right side was an area containing the baptismal font. So did that count as the first chapel, or did I begin counting with the next one?

  As I stood there and tried to decide, I saw a shaft of light quickly flash in the distance as a door from the outside was opened and closed. I was in the back right of the church and the flash came from the front left, a couple of hundred feet away. Standing there was a Gestapo officer, and an observant one at that: he’d removed his hat.

  I don’t think he saw me because it was dark, especially in the back and around the sides, and because there were pillars arrayed to provide cover. But I needed to make a decision, and I decided to keep going. I was here to have my confession heard and that would be my story if the German came upon me. I decided to skip the baptismal font and began counting after that — one, two, three chapels. A little sign said it was the chapel of the two Saints-Jean. To the right, there was a wooden confessional box. I went in. I tried to take a quick peek over my shoulder to spot the Gestapo man, but I did not see him.

  The panel between me and the priest slid open. Then came the final bit of cloak-and-dagger bullshit, my recognition code. I recited it in an almost sing-song of contempt: “Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been 11 weeks since my last confession…”

  “Good, it’s you,” came the reply.

  “That’s not the recognition code.”

  “I don’t have any time for that stuff.”

  “Are you really a priest?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “So I like to think I know what’s important and what’s — you should excuse the expression in here — bullshit.”

/>   This was a priest I could deal with. He made it quick. I was to take a train the next day and get out at the Brielle station. Before getting on, a suitcase would be waiting for me at the left luggage desk. It contained fuses and timers. At the station, after dark, rail workers would meet me and take me to the job. He handed me the ticket I would need to claim the bag at the station.

  “You got it?” He seemed in a hurry.

  “One thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  I told him what happened to Manon and what I was feeling, the despair and the rage. I hadn’t been to confession since I was a kid but it felt good, just expressing my feelings out loud. I probably talked for five minutes straight without stopping about how I wanted revenge somehow. The priest never interjected, waiting until I was done.

  “Are you looking for absolution?” he said.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Let’s try this,” he said. He asked if I remembered the Act of Contrition. He began it, and I found myself able to follow along, mumbling from memory. When we were done, we recited an Our Father and a Hail Mary together.

  Then he said, “You are absolved of your sins. But just know this: You are a soldier fighting in a war. Killing soldiers in such a situation is not a sin. I cannot heal the grief you feel for your wife, but I hope I can clear your conscience of the rest of it. You are a soldier fighting in a war.”

  I thanked him and shoved the claim ticket in my pocket. I actually felt better as I left the confessional box, turned left and headed for the exit. It was only then that I heard the footsteps behind me, leather slapping the stone floor. It was the Gestapo officer. But when I looked quickly over my shoulder, I could see that he wasn’t looking at me. Hat in hand, he was entering the chapel of the two Saints-Jean and taking my place in the confessional.

  10

  I didn’t know what I was anticipating at the left luggage counter — a wink, a whisper, something — but there was nothing. I handed the man the claim check, he handed me the bag, and that was it. He was back in his chair and resuming his nap before I had even managed to turn and leave. I shook the bag, which wasn’t heavy, and neither felt not heard anything. The timers and fuses and detonators were likely wrapped up in a couple of rolled-up shirts.

  My train ticket was for Brielle, about a half-hour north of Limoges. It was late in the afternoon and the Benedictins station was somewhere between empty and crowded, although I’m not sure it ever really got crowded anymore. My story was simple enough: a visit to a sister who had just had a baby. A small wrapped gift completed the tableau as I sat on one of the benches. If one of the Gestapo men stopped me for a chat, he could shake the box and hear the rattle.

  To lessen the chance of one of those Gestapo chats, I sat next to an older woman and immediately engaged her in conversation. She was headed one stop farther than I was on the same train, to Bellac. She was visiting her sister, who was recovering from pneumonia. I practiced my story about the new baby, she enlightened me on the significance of various colors of mucus that her sister was coughing up, and it was all very pleasant. It also worked: two Gestapo men entered the station from the doors right beneath the clock tower, scanned the waiting room quickly, and left within seconds.

  My stop, Brielle, was a nothing kind of place, a crumbling concrete platform. There wasn’t a true station building — it was more of a hut that could hold the ticket seller and maybe a half-dozen people if they needed protection from a downpour. But I couldn’t imagine a half-dozen people ever gathering there at the same time. The town, which was across the street from the platform, consisted of a half-dozen small wooden buildings. One well-placed match and Brielle would be down to a pile of ashes and the concrete platform. I wondered who might notice, either way.

  I had about an hour to kill and debated my options. Part of me thought that waiting alone at the station made the most sense. The problem was that the hut was locked, and I would be a tad conspicuous, seeing as how the schedule tacked to the hut indicated that the next train wasn’t for four hours. It would not be the easiest of explanations if one of my German friends came upon the scene.

  The alternative was to go into the town, as it were, and find something to eat. On the plus side, it was exactly what a traveler might do. On the minus side, it would show my face to whoever might be in the town’s cafe, which could be a problem if the Gestapo came looking after our little explosion took place. On the plus side again, it wasn’t as if the Gestapo would be walking around with my picture — there were a hundred locals who were more likely on their radar when the subject turned to acts of sabotage. And besides, I was hungry as hell.

  As it turned out, the cafe was beyond good — at least by war standards. Only the owner, an older couple and I were there, and the only item on the menu was listed simply as “stew,” but it was superb: carrots, potatoes, peas, onions, a bit of asparagus, and two actual pieces of meat, all swimming in a creamy but tangy gravy. Oh, and wine and bread — although it was a little stale, and I had to pick out a few small pebbles of unrefined salt. Still, this was a real meal, and I mopped up every last bit of it with the bread.

  “Chicken?” I asked. The owner had come to top off my wine and take the plate.

  “Veal,” he said, in a whisper. “One of the advantages of living in the middle of nowhere. I have a tiny patch that I farm, hidden back behind the trees. Most people here do. If a German ever comes in, he gets the usual shit: rutabagas, Jerusalem artichokes, maybe a little carrot. But only one has ever been here. I’m pretty sure he was lost.”

  “Well, this was an unexpected pleasure,” I said. He told me what I owed him and said he would need a couple of ration tickets, for show. I pulled mine out and shuffled through what was left.

  “One square for bread, one for rutabagas — that’ll do it,” he said. In his apron, he carried a small pair of scissors, the same kind that merchants wore on a string around their necks.

  “No ticket for the wine?”

  “No, I make that myself.”

  “Again, this has been wonderful.”

  “Glad to be of service,” he said. Then he pointed with his right arm. “And now, what you want to do is walk that way about a mile. There will be a small shack there that looks as if it should have blown over in the last storm. Paul will be inside.”

  I looked at him. Paul was, indeed the name of my contact. I had already been given directions to the shack by the priest.

  “There aren’t a lot of secrets here,” the cafe owner said, with a small smile. “Besides, I think you’re carrying the exact same suitcase as the last guy.”

  I walked in the dark. The shack was there and Paul was there, along with two others. They were all rail workers. They were locals who knew the equipment and the weak spots in the security. This was going to be a simple job, blowing up a small railroad bridge. They didn’t really even need me — they just needed the stuff that was in my suitcase.

  “But we do want another set of eyes on the connections, after we set it all up,” Paul said. “We’re pretty sure we know what we’re doing, but just in case.”

  “No problem,” I said. I had learned enough about explosives in Lyon to be their extra set of eyes. But my specialty had always been the planning of the operations, and I couldn’t resist asking them to walk me through what they were expecting. They did but sounded pretty annoyed.

  “But what about security? I mean, you have to be expect there to be some guards—”

  They stopped me with a knowing look among the three of them.

  “Quit talking for a second,” Paul said. “You’ll see.”

  We piled into a beaten-up sedan and drove the last mile or so, stopping a few hundred yards from the bridge. It was a pretty dark night, but even in the light generated by a sliver of a moon, you could see the silhouette of a soldier carrying a rifle.

  “You see,” I said. “There’s a soldier.”

  “Shut up,” Paul said.

  “But—”

&
nbsp; “Marcel? Is that you Marcel?” Paul called out, not even bothering to lower his voice.

  This was not a German soldier but a member of the local garde. They all very clearly knew each other.

  “Oh, shit. Not tonight,” Marcel said.

  “Sorry, my friend.”

  Paul hugged him and took the rifle from Marcel’s hands.

  “What is this thing?”

  “It’s a fucking pop gun,” Marcel said. “You couldn’t stop a rabbit with it. And get this — I have to bring it back at the end of the shift.”

  “What time is that?”

  Marcel checked his watch. “A half-hour.”

  “Still the same ass-backwards system?”

  “Yep.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Ass-backwards?” I said.

  “My friend Marcel drives out here from the barracks,” Paul said. “When his shift is over, he drives back to the barracks and his replacement drives back out here. The bridge is uncovered for 10 minutes every eight hours that way.”

  “More like eight minutes, if my replacement is ready and waiting as he should be,” Marcel said.

  “Plenty of time,” Paul said. And it was. There was a time when the moment of the explosion had been almost orgasmic for me. But that night, really not so much.

  We were back in the beaten-up sedan when I asked Paul if Marcel could get in trouble.

  “Nah,” he said. “It’s not his fault their system is fucked up. But this one was easy. There are others where the garde just has to make himself scarce and say he was off sneaking a drink or getting laid. They almost always get away with it. The Germans know that they can’t really trust a lot of the gardes but they don’t have a choice. They don’t have the manpower to do it themselves.”

  “Not with all the men they need in Russia, I guess,” I said.

  “You guess correctly.”

  “First time for everything.”