The Limoges Dilemma (Alex Kovacs thriller series Book 4)

by Richard Wake

  As they went around the circle, one guy began to recount a parachute drop of canisters from the Brits that sounded suspiciously like the one that we had crashed without a proper invitation.

  “It’s important that we continue to change the codes,” the guy said, and then he looked over his shoulder at his second, who handed him a sheaf of paper that he distributed around the circle. “The Germans obviously had the old code — either they figured it out or they had a copy all along. Nobody lost one, right?”

  He looked from man to man around the circle. He seemed to look at Maurice longer than the rest, but that might have been my imagination. Whatever, everyone shook their head.

  “It should have been routine but we could have been killed,” he said. “We heard Germans in the woods, and we were under fire. We still managed to get two of the canisters, thank God. Only the uncommon bravery of my men allowed us to accomplish that much. But we were compromised.”

  Uncommon bravery these days apparently consisted of hiding in the woods while people fired their rifles into the leaves of the trees above your heads, and then waiting until the firing stopped and scooping up whatever was left behind. It was all such bullshit — and if that was the level of truth-telling occurring in the room, it was impossible to calculate what a waste of time this was.

  Anyway, there was a lot of head-shaking and mutters of “fucking Gestapo” within the circle in response to the story. In the midst of it, Maurice managed to turn my way and wink. I looked around me to see if any of the other seconds saw him, and I wasn’t sure. But he very clearly could not have cared less.

  The meeting dragged on, each of them talking about nothing. When the last man was done, from the last Resistance group, one of them — he seemed like a de Gaulle guy, but I didn’t really know — stood up and said, “Executive session in five minutes.” They all separated, many heading for the bathroom.

  “Executive session?” I said.

  “That means you’re not invited.”

  “Ohhh, so now it gets serious. Do you have secret handshakes and shit?”

  Maurice laughed. “No handshakes, just shit. It’ll undoubtedly be a communication from de Gaulle, or some other asshole in London. Follow instructions. Respect leadership. Acknowledge our vision. Just another half-hour of my life I’ll never get back.”

  “So where should we meet?”

  “Well…” he said. The single word was followed by a mischievous smile.

  “Ah, you have somewhere to go?”

  “I do.”

  “A red-headed somewhere?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

  “I might,” I said.

  “Is it who I think it is?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “All right, then,” Maurice said, again with the dirty grin. “Let’s keep this simple, just like every other visit. I’ll meet you at 9 a.m. at Place Jourdan, and I’ll arrange a very comfortable hiding place in the ass-end of another lorry for us to travel back after that.”

  As I walked away, I wasn’t sure that I was going to see Clarisse. I needed to think on it, and drink on it. I went to Louis’ bar, figuring that he still owed me at least a couple. He was actually happy to see me, and I was glad both for the conversation and the fact that I drank for free for about five hours.

  Thinking, drinking. One thing was bugging me, and I was glad for the distraction. I summoned it every time my mind drifted to Manon. The thing I couldn’t figure out was why Maurice had led no organized mourning for the men we had lost. These were comrades, people we had traveled with, slept with, killed people with. We had all embraced what was supposed to be a greater good as we had embraced each other. Then two were gone, and we were left to mourn alone. Maurice had never acknowledged their loss to the group. All he did was organize more scavenger hunts for berries.

  Thinking, drinking — and then I began the walk. It was part stumble, part walk, somewhere between impaired and pathetic. I went past the shopping district, then the cathedral, and then into the warren of narrow streets with half-timbered houses, on and on. I never got lost. Finally, I presented myself at the front steps, pushed open the door, and climbed the five flights of stairs.

  36

  It is almost like a dream when I look back on it. I was in Clarisse’s flat for about 10 hours — three awake, seven asleep. I can only remember one word being spoken the whole time. I knocked on the door, and she opened it and said, “Alex.” I didn’t reply. I didn’t say a thing.

  She took my hand and led me into the bathroom. She sat me on the toilet and turned on the taps of the bathtub. I must have looked pathetic, sitting there, head in my hands. I lifted up to look at her, and I guess I was getting ready to say something — I just don’t remember. All she did was put her finger to her lips. The teacher was telling me to be quiet, and so I was.

  She undressed me slowly as the tub filled — shoes and socks first, then unbuttoning the shirt, then pulling off my undershirt, then the belt and the pants and the rest. She was mothering me. It wasn’t sexual, not at all, not at that point.

  She stood me up and eased me into the tub. I scrunched down and instinctively dunked my whole head underwater. I was so — I couldn’t remember the last time I had bathed in legitimately hot water. Even the baths I had been able to get at Louis’ place had been relatively cold affairs. Since then, I hadn’t taken a bath at all. Even in my drunken state, I was able to appreciate the luxuriousness of the thing.

  Clarisse had a big sponge and some girly-smelling soap — where she found that in 1943 in occupied France was beyond me. She washed me everywhere. I had been close to tears when I arrived, but whatever those feelings were, they melted away in the warm water. And then it was sexual.

  I stood and Clarisse dried me, dried me everywhere. Then she led me by the hand to her bed. I laid on my back and watched her undress. I must have been ready to say something again — I have no idea what. All I can remember is Clarisse standing there, naked, with her finger on her lips. And so I was quiet as she lowered herself on me, doing all the work. The next thing I knew was that I was suddenly awakened in her bed, and she was sleeping next to me.

  That’s when I panicked. I opened my eyes and saw just the tiniest bit of sun creeping between the curtain and the windowsill. Then I felt the hangover — the headache, and the dry mouth, and the vague nausea. When I closed my eyes again, I thought I might still be drunk. And then it all hit me, every bad emotion — but mostly guilt. Crushing, excruciating guilt.

  I was physically paralyzed by the effects of the alcohol and emotionally paralyzed by the rest — but I had to get out of there. There were a hundred things I needed to say to Clarisse, but I couldn’t summon the courage to say any of them. I didn’t need to apologize — she knew my story, and I had done nothing to lead her on. I hadn’t done anything but show up drunk and kind of weepy at her doorstep, and she took it from there. I really did not owe her an apology, just an explanation, but I couldn’t. The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t manage even a sentence. I hadn’t said a word and I still couldn’t think of a word to say.

  Thanks for the lay but I still love my wife…

  The sex was great, but this never happened…

  So I bolted. I got out of bed and looked around and couldn’t find my clothes. I walked into the living room and saw them there, washed and ironed. She must have done it while I slept. I got dressed as quietly as I could and managed to open the locks without a noisy incident. And then I was gone, carrying my shoes, down the steps and out.

  I sat on the front steps of the building and tied my shoes. Then I leaned over and threw up. It was the hangover mostly, but only mostly. I stood up, and I turned and almost went back inside to explain. Or maybe to write a note. Then I thought the note would be even more cowardly than just disappearing. So I turned again and left, the morning still quiet, my head still aching and my conscience not much better.

  37

  I tried to stand at the
bar and drink my first coffee, but I couldn’t manage it. So I walked over to a table, with a coffee and a glass of water and my troubles. I nearly missed the chair when I fell into it, making enough noise that the man behind the bar and the two leaning against it turned and looked.

  The barman stared long enough that I said, “What, you’ve never seen a hangover before?” He didn’t answer, instead going back to wiping down the dull zinc surface upon which he conducted most of his daily business, the bar scarred over the years and decades by thousands of stray cigarettes, dented by hundreds of slammed glasses. The place where I was originally standing and waiting for my coffee featured a Cross of Lorraine, the Resistance emblem, that had been etched into the surface, likely with a key or a knife. That was the place the barman was wiping down. It was probably just a coincidence. That, or maybe I had drooled a little on the spot.

  “Another,” I said, holding up my coffee cup. The barman was quick, bringing me not just my coffee and a small glass of water, but a carafe. A peace offering, then. It was appreciated.

  I was sitting in the front window, and the sun felt good on my face. Outside, Place Jourdan was quiet. There were just a few people crossing the street, no cars, one bicycle rolling past. It had likely been a bustling spot before the war, the square lined by businesses and restaurants. But, as everywhere in France, it was as if the clock had not only been stopped in the spring of 1940, but turned back.

  The clock. I looked over at the bar where a clock ticked loudly. The meeting with Maurice was still about 30 minutes away. Below the clock was a calendar, and I thought: how long since I lost Manon?

  Two months. Two months. That’s how long I had remained faithful to her memory. Two months.

  I forced the thought out of my head, fixating on the statue in the square which was actually a big rectangle. In the center was a large green space, the perimeter shaded by trees, the middle bisected by walking paths in various directions. I thought about gulping down my coffee and water and heading for one of the benches that surrounded the green, but the idea of standing up before it was absolutely necessary kept me in place.

  A statue of Marechal Jourdan dominated one segment of the green. It was a tall, classical depiction on a tall stone base. Noble, caped, hand on his sword, preparing to withdraw it from its scabbard and take on some approaching evil — that was the statue. But I knew nothing about him or his career. Right after I had arrived in Limoges, Leon and I had been walking through the square with a local Resistance fighter we had just met, the three of his drunk already and in search of more. I asked the guy — I don’t remember his name — about Jourdan, and he said, “He fought during the revolutionary wars.”

  “With Napoleon?” I said.

  “Usually, I think. But if I remember right, not always. And — again, I’m a little drunk here — but he wasn’t some invincible general. If you compared his career to a football game, it was like he won 5-4 on a late penalty.”

  “And that gets you a statue?”

  “Well, that and being a native of Limoges,” the guy said. He shrugged. “We don’t have much.”

  The second cup of coffee had raised my metabolism to the point where I was feeling at least sub-human. The hangover would pass — long experience had taught me that. The rest, I just didn’t know.

  Two months. I thought back to what Leon had once said: “Living through this shit, a month is like a year in regular times.” And he was right. There was almost never a moment of relaxation. There was almost never a time when even the most safe and innocent acts were either safe or innocent. There was always a purpose. Every step you took seemed to have a purpose. You never just screwed around. Even getting drunk had a purpose — to forget, or to aid sleep, or both.

  But even if I could come to some kind of acceptance of all of that — that Manon really was gone, that two months wasn’t really two months, that the idea of fidelity to a memory was stupid, that nothing that had just happened did anything to diminish my love for Manon — there was the other issue. That I couldn’t find a way to express those feelings to Clarisse, and that I had just fled with the dawn. Even if I wasn’t a shithead the first way, I was definitely a shithead the second way. Then again, if I still couldn’t even articulate my feelings to myself, not really, how could I possibly tell Clarisse? And wouldn’t she understand that? Didn’t it all just speak for itself?

  Even though my head was still foggy at best, and the thought of taking a drink actually made me gag, the notion that I would be able to get through this day sober seemed impossible. I didn’t have any ration coupons, but I had some money. Maybe I could bribe my new friend behind the bar. I reached into my pocket to see how much I had when I saw Maurice walking across the square. It was a slow amble. He was even turning his head a few degrees to the left so that he could catch the full sun on his face.

  I didn’t see the lorry pull up. I just heard the squeal of tires as it stopped short. Maurice obviously didn’t see it, either, and by the time he heard the sound, it was too late.

  Three men piled out — one from the passenger seat and two leaping out of the open bed in the back. The passenger had a rifle. The other two had clubs of some sort. They were on Maurice immediately. The lorry blocked some of what they were doing, but I could tell that Maurice was on the ground. I could see the two clubs taking alternating downward swings. I could see the clubs above the side of the lorry at the apex of those swings, but I couldn’t see the nadir. I could only guess.

  They weren’t German soldiers, but Vichy militia. The Free Guard. I had never actually seen them before, but their uniforms were notorious: blue jackets and pants, brown shirts and floppy blue berets. Within a few seconds, the two with the clubs were lifting Maurice and throwing him into the back of the lorry. I didn’t know if he was dead or not — such was the lifelessness of his body as he was tossed around. Only an extra swing of one of the clubs after everyone was back in the lorry told me that Maurice was still alive. I mean, why hit a dead man?

  I suddenly noticed the barman. He was standing behind me and holding a tin tray with another coffee. He was watching what I was watching.

  “The worst,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The militia. Our French brothers. The fucking worst. The worst of the worst.”

  He dropped the tray on the table. The cup clattered on the saucer but it didn’t spill.

  “On the house,” he said. He spit on the floor of his own bar and then thought better of it, wiping it with the sole of his shoe.

  38

  I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t just let them go. I needed to follow the lorry, somehow — but running after it would prove to be equal parts conspicuous and futile.

  Then I remember the bicycle leaning against the wall, half behind the bar.

  “Your bike?” I said. The barman nodded.

  I grabbed whatever bills I had in my pocket and dropped them on the bar. “I need to borrow it. Take this as a deposit.”

  The barman considered for a second. “Your friend?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Keep your money. Keep the bike — I hardly ever ride it anymore, and it’s a piece of shit, anyway. But bring it back if you can.”

  I scooped up half of the money I had dropped on the bar, and just like that, I was outside on the bicycle and on the street. The lorry hadn’t been gone for 30 seconds. I could see it about two blocks ahead of me — maybe two-and-a-half, but I could see it. The bicycle wasn’t a complete piece of shit, but the front tire was a little low. Even so, I was ignoring the stop signs and making up ground at a decent clip. When I was a little less than a block behind, I settled into an easier rhythm. I was close enough.

  Catching my breath, I tried to think. The questions came a lot easier than the answers. How did they know Maurice was someone worth arresting? Could it possibly have been just an unlucky coincidence? Had somebody betrayed him? Could it have been one of the other Resistance groups?

  If the questions
all seemed to have been dipped in a vat of paranoia, so be it. If you weren’t entitled to be paranoid in the French Resistance in 1943, then who was? This just didn’t smell right on a bunch of different levels — and the fact that it was the militia doing the arresting, not the Gestapo, added another layer of intrigue.

  Like I said, I’d never seen them before. Their reputation was, as the barman’s words and his spit suggested, the worst. They were French citizens, working for Vichy, working aggressively against their countrymen. They weren’t like the local gendarmes, who were really just working men trying to feed their families. They were caught in a bad spot, and most of them took a pretty relaxed view of their sworn task to arrest members of the Resistance and prevent sabotage attempts. The truth was that probably half of the gendarmes were on our side, actively tipping us off to potential problems. Of the other half, most were willing to turn at least one blind eye where the Resistance was concerned. I almost felt bad for them when they ever did find themselves in a spot where they had to make an arrest. Like I said, they were just trying to make a living in an unlivable situation.

  When the Gestapo injected themselves into the situation, it meant the arrival of evil — but at least they were foreigners and at least you could understand their motivation, however depraved it was. The Free Guard was something completely different, evil taken to a higher power.

  The story I had heard repeated more than once concerned a militia squad in Nantiat. They’d only been organized for a few months, but I heard this one twice — once from one of the de Gaulle lovers in Limoges, another time from JP when we were still in the farmhouse. Seeing as how the two sources didn’t travel in the same circles, I believed it — and it was horrible.

  In Nantiat, just outside of Limoges, a farmer and his wife sheltered a four-man Resistance cell in their barn for two nights — hid them, fed them, and then saw them leave at dawn after their second night’s sleep. The next day, a militia squad arrived at the farmhouse to question the couple. They put them in separate rooms, the man in the kitchen, his wife in the bedroom.