by Jana Petken
Klara covered her face with her hands, allowing her tears to fall freely. Captain Morris, the only person in the room who had any compassion for her, patted her arm. She dropped her hands and accepted his folded handkerchief. She thanked him, then wanting to end Max’s torment, continued her testimony. “I wanted to set Paul free, but Duguay wouldn’t hear of it. He ordered me out of the basement, and we argued in the kitchen upstairs...”
“And what was the argument about, exactly?” Blackthorn interrupted.
“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “I lost. Duguay had no intention of listening to anything I had to say. He was going to deal with Paul, and I was to go back to Paris.” She looked at Blackthorn. “If you knew Duguay, you’d understand why I was too afraid to disobey him.”
“You left Paul Vogel with Duguay, then?” Blackthorn asked.
She nodded. “I got my things and then went out to the waiting van. I was just about to get in it when I heard the gunshot coming from the basement. I ran back inside the house and tried to go down the stairs, but Claude forced me outside again, and pushed me into the vehicle. He said he hoped I had learnt an important lesson. There were rules in war, and I had broken one of them by taking an enemy soldier into the heart of a rebel camp.”
Klara heard her heartbeat pounding in the silent room. She looked up to see Max wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. The muscles in his jaws danced under his skin, but he remained as quiet as the other two men. “Your brother Paul died because of my stupidity. I’m so very sorry, Max … Major. So sorry…”
“Did you see him die?” Max demanded to know.
“No, but I’m certain he’s dead.”
Max lurched towards Klara, but instead of going around the table, he tried to climb over it. “He was my brother. And you killed him you, fucking stupid bitch!”
“Stand down, Major Vogel,” Blackthorn shouted, then he and Captain Morris pulled Max backwards and pinned him against the wall. “I said, stand down!”
Max glared at Klara over Blackthorn’s shoulder. “He was a doctor. He was my brother, for Christ’s sake. I’ll never forgive you – ever!”
Klara glimpsed Max’s eyes for just a couple of seconds, so full of hatred he looked like a stranger. She slumped forwards and rested her head on her arms, as the other two men frog-marched Max from the room. She had no defence, no response that would ease Max’s pain, or hers, so she remained where she was, her own self-loathing clawing at her broken heart, and her mother tongue bringing her comfort. “Mam nadzieję, że mi wybaczysz – forgive me, Max – przepraszam. I’m sorry.”
Chapter Three
Max Vogel
Max made for the nearest pub and downed two double Scotches in quick succession. Blackthorn had insisted Max continue his convalescent leave and forget the earlier encounter. He lit a cigarette and looked out at the street from his chair by the window. The rain was lashing down. Thunder rattled the pub’s front doors, and lightning periodically lit up the slate-grey sky, making mid-afternoon appear as dark as night. A gloomy end to a gloomy day, Max thought, staring at a woman trying to keep her umbrella up against the wind. A day in which anger and grief were so tightly entwined he could not unravel them or know where one ended and the other began.
You must move on. Blackthorn had insisted before throwing him out of SOE headquarters. Move on to what? To thinking that Paul was in an unmarked grave, that he’d been dumped in a river, or perhaps, by some miracle, was still alive?
His fingers shook as he lifted the cigarette to his lips. He’d have no peace until he saw Paul’s dead body with his own eyes. Only then could he share his twin’s death with their family and purge the terrible secret that was destroying him inside. Klara didn’t see Paul take his last breath, didn’t hear his dying cries. She heard a gunshot that could have hit the damn wall for all she knew. How could he sit his father down and tell him unequivocally his son was gone if there might be a sliver of hope for his survival?
Max left the pub, went to a familiar café at the end of the street, and ordered a cup of tea. He’d changed his mind about drinking himself into a stupor in a bid to forget what he’d just witnessed. Cowards used alcohol to subdue pain and memories, and he was no coward.
When a friendly face appeared with a steaming cup of tea with just a smidgen of milk, he tried his luck. “Do you have any sugar?”
“Sorry, Major, we’ve run out again. Gawd only knows when we’ll get more in.”
“That’s all right, Tilly.” He paid her, giving her a tip despite his disappointment. There was no point complaining about not getting sugar if there was none to be had. He knew only too well why it and other commodities were unavailable, and he, like everyone else, had to shut up and put up with the shortages. They’d been inevitable from the outset of war. Less than a third of the food available in Britain at the start of the conflict had been produced at home. The German navy was also very successful in their targeting of incoming Allied merchant vessels, thus preventing vital supplies, including fruit, sugar, cereals, and meat from reaching British shores. What else could the government do to ensure the fair distribution of food but to issue ration books to every person, each connected to only one specific shop depending on where the person lived. He sipped the unsweetened tea and screwed up his face as its bitterness assaulted his taste buds.
Max pushed the unpalatable tea aside and cast his mind back an hour to Klara’s testimony. She had been precise during the interview, which had given him valuable insights into the communist, Duguay. She’d been afraid of the Frenchman who had forced her to put a bullet in Oscar’s head, but had she also wanted to get into his good graces by taking Paul to him, truly believing she was introducing a British Intelligence Officer?
Klara’s biggest mistake had been to knock Paul unconscious in the street behind the Hotel Lutetia before confirming what or who he was. Had she only asked, he would have told her, then hopefully, walked away unscathed. He’d still be alive today had she thought with her head instead of her heart.
Klara had mentioned Darek, the Pole, a man Max had never met but whom Romek had once described as being trustworthy. Darek had introduced her to Duguay, which meant that he was still active even after Romek’s group was wiped out. He was the key, the person who would know where Duguay was hiding, and more importantly, where he might have buried Paul.
Outside, the rain pounded the streets, but instead of waiting for a cab in the shelter of a doorway, Max began to walk towards his destination. He could manage. His leg still gave him trouble, dragging a bit behind the other like a wooden pole, but he was finally on the mend. A thoughtless cabbie driving too close to the kerb splashed the bottom of his greatcoat with filthy water. After shouting a few fervent expletives, he kept going until he managed to hail one that was letting off a passenger.
As always, MI6 headquarters was a flurry of activity. Max greeted people as he headed to Heller’s office, stopping only once to shake a friend’s hand and ask about his family. He had no time to chat or tell people what he was doing in the building. He’d abandoned MI6 for the SOE, a sore point for some of the intelligence officers he’d worked with in the past and still a small source of guilt to him. The fewer people that knew about his job and his plans, the better.
Marjory, Jonathan Heller’s secretary, beamed at Max from her chair behind the oak desk upon which sat a shiny black typewriter and a neat pile of papers and files ranged in rows beside it, along with an empty cup and saucer with a silver spoon sticking out the top.
“You look like a drowned rat, Major Vogel,” she declared.
“I feel like a drowned rat. Don’t go out there, Marjory. If this rain keeps up, people will be swimming down the Mall. Is Mr Heller in?”
She nodded. “You’re lucky to catch him. He’s just come back from a meeting.”
Five minutes later, Max sat in Heller’s office. The latter sent for a pot of tea and, joy of joys, he had sugar tucked away in a desk drawer.
“I can’t tell
you how sorry I am, Max. Bernie Blackthorn and I have had our differences when it comes to operations, but we both think very highly of you. He told me about Paul. It explains why you were so down in the mouth the other day at your sister’s house. You must be devastated.”
“Thank you, Jonathan. I don’t think there are any words to describe how I feel.”
“I take it your father and mother don’t know yet?”
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way for a few more days.”
Heller raised his eyebrow. “I’m surprised you want to do that. It would be terrible if they were to find out from another source who let it slip that you already knew. Your family needs to heal with honesty, not more deceit.”
Max lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke, and sat back in his chair. “Jonathan, I wasn’t the one keeping secrets. Those belonged to you and my father. And by the way, he’s supposed to be dead, so I hardly think the German High Command or anyone else will notify him of Paul’s … situation.”
Max sipped his tea, savouring its warmth and sweetness as it slid down his throat. “Talking about letting something slip, Bernie told me that my father is leaving again. I was hoping he’d still be here.”
“He left an hour ago. He’s gone, Max. You must have known he couldn’t stick around London. We’ve disposed of many of them, one way or another, but the city might still have a few operational German agents milling around.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “What do mean he’s gone? Gone for good? I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where he’s being sent?”
“No, best I don’t, at least not yet, eh? Maybe when he’s settled.”
“Does my mother know her husband has disappeared again?”
“She will – tell you what, how about you tell her when the time is right?”
Max shook his head and muttered, “And the lies continue.”
Heller pushed his tea aside, went into a desk drawer and brought out two glasses and a half-full bottle of Scotch. “I keep these for emergencies,” he said, while pouring the drinks. “I’m sorry we’ve got off on the wrong foot, Max. Earlier, you mentioned Paul’s situation? What did you mean?”
Max accepted the glass, tossing the whisky to the back of his mouth. “Marine didn’t see Paul die, and she didn’t see his dead body. She didn’t see him, Jonathan, and I can’t tell my family Paul’s dead when I don’t … can’t believe it myself. I need proof … I have to have that.”
Heller let out a sympathetic sigh. “Blackthorn sent me over a copy of Marine’s official report yesterday. As far as he’s concerned it was a tragic mistake, one she says she will never repeat – look, Max, I’m saying this as a friend – your brother has gone, and the sooner you deal with it, the quicker you’ll move past your grief. I’ll get word to your father, but you need to tell your mother and sister. They have a right to know.”
“I know that!” Max snapped at Heller, then raised his hand in an apology. “Sorry … sorry.”
Max took the liberty of pouring himself another tot of whisky. He lifted the glass in a toast to Paul, drank the Scotch then banged the glass down on the desk. “I always went above and beyond for you, Jonathan. I conducted unsanctioned missions, knowing they were off the books. I’ve covered your arse on more than one occasion. I have never asked you for anything, not one favour or day’s leave that wasn’t owed to me. You hid Big Bear from me for years … years, and you would have kept his identity hidden had my father not turned up here. You caused irreparable damage to Paul and my father’s relationship, and you made me list Dieter Vogel as a Nazi collaborator in my reports – there’s something I need to do, and I can’t do it without your help – you owe me.”
Heller’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Max in the silence that ensued. Max held his ground. Heller already seemed to be considering the unspoken request.
“Blackthorn will cause a stink. It can’t be done – Max, you cannot go back to France on a wild goose chase using this section’s resources,” Heller eventually said.
“I’ll get to Paris under my own steam, and I’ll be in and out before my leave is up and anyone is the wiser, but I will need a return lift on one of your courier planes. This won’t come back to you.” Max leant in. “Jonathan, I need to see Paul’s grave, and the man who killed him.”
“This could sink you … both of us.”
“I know.”
Heller tapped his fingers on the desk and gazed out the window. Then he mumbled something and reached for a file on his desk. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this. I have a Westland Lysander flying to the Dieppe area tomorrow night. You can hitch a lift. One of your agents from Saint Quentin is supposed to meet the plane and take a couple of crates of rifles and correspondence off the pilot…”
“Pasqual? But he’s SOE, not MI6.”
“True, but this is a joint mission between Blackthorn and me. Agencies tripping over each other seem to be the norm nowadays, and sometimes operational parameters get blurred and we work together. Blackthorn asks me for favours, I do the same for him, and we’re both happy. I suppose before long we’ll all get used to who is supposed to be doing what and, more importantly, what we should keep our noses out of.”
Max exhaled a long breath. “Thank you, Jonathan.”
“Don’t thank me yet. The Lizzie won’t be returning to Dieppe for eight days. If you get caught, you’ll be put through the ringer for piggy-backing a government operation without an official stamp. They’ll crucify you for using their resources to look for a lost Wehrmacht soldier. And you can bet your life I will deny any knowledge of it.”
“Understood, though to be clear, Paul wasn’t a soldier, he was a doctor and an officer.”
“Doctor, brother, or whomsoever he was to you, the bosses will see him as the enemy because that is what he was.”
Max swallowed a retort. What he was asking for was beyond the pale, and he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Heller.
Jonathan shuffled some papers, his eyes losing focus for a moment. He went into another file and pushed it across his desk to Max. “If, and that’s still a big if, I allow you to go, I will need something from you in return. You won’t like it, but it will make your mission a tad more legitimate should I be forced to explain your actions to the top brass.”
Max cocked his head to one side, hesitant to say yes to an order he might not like. “So, if I do this something for you, is it a go?”
Heller nodded. “Yes.”
“And is your something going to step on Blackthorn’s toes?” he asked.
Heller chuckled. He sat back, pointedly ignoring the question. “I was particularly interested in Marine’s account of the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans…”
Max raised his chin. “The communist group that had Paul.”
“The very same. I ordered Romek to reach out to a member of that group a couple of months ago. I wanted him to offer collaboration to the Partisan leader, which Romek managed to do. Unfortunately, he was taken down before we could get any further with the negotiations and I never got the leader’s name.”
“Romek didn’t mention this to me.”
“Why should he have? You were transitioning to SOE at the time, and Romek was still an MI6 asset.”
Max would always feel guilty for switching to another agency and leaving Romek and Klara in the cold. It was during that short period that everything had gone to hell for the Paris Resistance group. “Romek should have been covered during my transition period to SOE.”
“He was. He still had access to my radio operator, and to me. It was you who disappeared, not us.”
Max nodded, acknowledging that Heller held the higher moral ground. “What do you need?”
“We don’t know where the Communist group is based, but I’m guessing that the man who leads it could be this Florent Duguay that Marine spoke of. If it is, I want you to offer him a deal. They work with us and, in return, we’ll supply them with weapons and other resources.”
Max’s cal
m exterior belied his true feelings. Duguay was the man he planned to kill, not to negotiate with. “Those Commies killed Paul, and you want me to make nice with them?”
“Your brother probably wasn’t the only German officer they assassinated, Max,” Heller said, emphasising that Paul had been an enemy soldier. “Put any thought of vengeance out of your mind. I want this man on board with us, not dead. So, you will conduct yourself as a liaison officer for MI6, or you will not go to France using my plane. That’s the deal.”
Max swallowed the hard lump of revenge. It tasted rotten, like a stinking cancer at the back of his throat. He had reservations. Providing he found Duguay, how was he to look the man in the eye as he begged to be taken to Paul’s grave, and in the same breath offer to supply him with British resources? How would Duguay react when he met a carbon copy of a man he had shot? Heller was a hard bastard who never backed down, Max thought, both admiring and resenting his old boss. If he didn’t comply with his demands, someone else would have the face to face with the Communists, and he wouldn’t find out a damn thing about Paul’s death, or final resting place.
“Duguay will be trouble, Jonathan. According to Marine, he’s hell-bent on getting biblical pay back by killing high-ranking Germans. He’s very dangerous,” Max said.
“I agree. Last week, Karl Hotz, the commanding officer of the German occupation forces in Loire-Atlantique, was assassinated, and I suspect that Duguay and his communists had a hand in that. I’ve just heard that Pierre Pucheu, the Interior Minister of Marshal Pétain’s government, chose upwards of thirty communist prisoners from various prisons and handed them over to the Germans as hostages. I imagine he did that to avoid the executions of innocent French people. The communist hostages were shot in three groups in the town of…”
