The Vogels: On All Fronts (The Half-Bloods Trilogy Book 2)

by Jana Petken

  Marcel, the leader of the Resistance group, drove Max to Saint Quentin in a food delivery van, and during the journey Max explained why he had returned.

  “It’s like coming home,” Max joked to Marcel when they arrived at the farmhouse on the hill. “It seems much longer than three weeks since I was here learning to walk again after my parachute injury. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly.”

  “You did, Englishman,” Marcel said. “You did. Many times.”

  For an hour, Max discussed the group’s progress with Marcel and Pascual. The pair had been busy in his absence, spreading the word about the group via contacts in Paris. The number of fighters in Saint Quentin had more than doubled, with most of the recruits being Dieppe, Saint Quentin and Paris natives.

  Marcel refilled Max’s coffee cup. “And now I’m going to do you another favour. There’s a Polish man here. He came to me a week ago from Paris. He’s the only surviving Resistance fighter from Romek’s group, but more importantly, he knows the communist you’re looking for.”

  Max raised his eyebrows at Marcel. “He’s here? This is good.”

  Marcel then bid the Pole to enter the kitchen.

  Max studied the man that Klara had spoken about at her debriefing in London. Over six feet tall, of medium build, and with a full head of blond hair, Darek Lukaszewicz was an arresting figure. His most interesting features, however, were not his height or build but the contrasts in his colouring: white, almost translucent skin covered in freckles, so very copious that one would have a hard job sticking a pin in between them. But seeming to go against the laws of nature, his eyes were dark brown and surrounded by thick, black eyelashes beneath equally dark eyebrows. Max could understand the man wanting to get out of Paris; that face would stick out in any crowd.

  “Marcel tells me you were afraid to remain in Paris,” Max began the conversation.

  “That’s correct. I was desperate to carry on the fight against the Germans but didn’t want to stay in the capital after the Gestapo and SS rounded up Romek’s people. I heard about Marcel and Saint Quentin, and I knew I had to get here.”

  “I’m glad you did. You’ve made my job much easier. I was planning to look for you in Paris.”

  “You wouldn’t have found me.” Darek frowned. “I didn’t sleep in the same place two nights in a row.”

  Because of Romek and Klara’s trust in the Pole, Max had no reason to suspect him of colluding with the Germans. Nevertheless, he had a few niggling questions that had to be addressed before he could let the man into his confidence.

  “Why do you think you were the only person to escape the German attack on Romek?”

  “I was living in the toy factory’s basement with Romek and had no fixed address. I was what Romek called a ghost. I rarely hung around the factory during the day and didn’t get too close to the other fighters.” Darek paused. “I can see you’re worried, and I understand your scepticism. I still can’t wrap my head around being the only survivor. The guilt keeps me awake at night.

  “On the morning of the German raid on our base, I was at Chirac’s shop delivering Romek’s radio transmitter to Marine. From there, I went to Duguay’s farm. I was supposed to meet Romek at the Petit Croissant Restaurant on the Champs Élysées at one o’clock, but my meeting with Duguay went on longer than expected. That delay probably saved my life.”

  Max believed Darek, for now. “I want to meet with Florent Duguay. Will you take me to him?”

  Darek’s eyes widened in surprise. “No. I don’t like the man. I haven’t gone anywhere near him since Marine went missing. He doesn’t tolerate betrayal, or even a whiff of disloyalty. To be honest, I suspected him of having a hand in Marine’s disappearance. I thought he might have killed her because she knew too much, and he didn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut about his operation. He’s ruthless. I don’t want anything to do with him.”

  Darek’s reluctance didn’t put Max off. It had been a brilliant stroke of luck meeting him, a coincidence that one might call a miracle in wartime. “Marine is safe. I got her to London.”

  Darek looked surprised, but he didn’t demand details. “Good to hear. Why do you want to meet Duguay?” he asked instead.

  “I need you to set up a face to face meeting with him. Tell him that you’ll be bringing a British Intelligence agent who wants to offer him and his group British help and collaboration – no names – no specifics. Understand?”

  Darek was silent while Max watched the cogs turning.

  “If I do this, there’s something I want in return,” Darek finally said.

  “In return for helping to defeat the Germans? What is it?”

  “When you leave France, I want you to take me with you…”

  “Impossible,” Max grunted.

  “It’s not impossible. You took Marine back, so why can’t you take me? I don’t know if the Gestapo know about me, but if they do, how long do you think I’ll be able to evade capture? I haven’t got anywhere to live, and if I stay with Marcel, I will put his group in danger.”

  He wouldn’t say it, but Max was not averse to the idea. SOE could use all the agents they could lay their hands on, and the Poles in London were desperate for dedicated soldiers. “I can’t just take foreigners back to England with me at the drop of a hat. We have security procedures and vetting…”

  “Major, I know for a fact that Poles are in the British army or have formed their own units,” Darek cut in. “I know that Poles were evacuated to Britain during the German invasion either by ship or plane or on foot. You strike me as a man who can find his way around procedures when you want to, so either you give me your word that you will take me to England or you can find someone else to set up a meeting with Duguay. You decide.”

  ******

  Max paced the living room floor in the Paris safe house, panicking over his imminent encounter with the communist leader. The meeting was only hours away, and he was very conscious about the promise he had made to Heller. “You know me, Jonathan. I will conduct the meeting in my usual professional manner, and I won’t let my personal feelings get in the way of the job.”

  Promises were easy to make, but sometimes impossible to keep, he thought. The harder he tried to focus on the negotiations concerning collaboration with Duguay, the more he imagined himself sticking a knife in the man’s gut.

  Irritable, he slumped into a chair. For three days, he had waited alone in the Paris flat for Duguay’s answer. Time had dragged, yet the days seemed to have sped by; he had only two more left in which to complete his business before getting on the flight home. Heller’s feelings had been clear; he wouldn’t take the fall should the mission fail, or if Max didn’t make it back to the airstrip near Dieppe in time to meet the plane.

  After having a wash, Max wiped the excess shaving soap from his now-hairless chin, then peered at himself in the bathroom mirror to study his blond moustache. He’d already dyed his blond hair black, so the hair on his top lip looked oddly out of place. Keep it or shave it? He pondered. He went into the bathroom cabinet and took out another razor blade. The moustache was coming off.

  He studied his clean-shaven face and flattened black hair. It was imperative that he change his natural appearance as much as possible, for he wouldn’t get ten metres on the Paris streets looking like himself. According to Darek, posters of Paul were still plastered on walls, lampposts and windows throughout the capital. A reward of four thousand Francs, equivalent to two hundred Reichsmarks, was being offered for information regarding Paul’s whereabouts. It was a pittance for his brother’s life, Max thought, considering what the Reich was charging the French for being in their country.

  One of the conditions of the armistice between Germany and France was that the French pay for their own occupation: i.e., the French were required to cover the expenses associated with the upkeep of a 300,000-strong army of occupation. When the British got wind of that information, they’d been genuinely flabbergasted. The burden on the defeated French nat
ion amounted to approximately twenty million German Reichsmarks per day, a sum that would cripple the country for decades to come, regardless of their eventual victory or defeat.

  The Germans had also set an artificial exchange rate for the Reichsmark versus the Franc, which established a ratio of one mark to twenty Francs. The Nazi gall was staggering.

  Outside, it was an unusually mild early November day with a clear blue sky. Were it any other time, Max would have been savouring the crisp fresh air on the Paris streets or sitting in a café enjoying a café au lait. But he was not enjoying the walk with the aid of a walking stick, he was a bundle of nerves intent on reaching Darek’s vehicle without being closely scrutinised by people walking in the opposite direction.

  Marcel’s food delivery van was already parked on the corner of the street. Max glanced at his image as he passed a shop window and was startled by the mop of black hair that was no longer flat but bouncing with curls. His confidence rose; if he didn’t recognise himself as Max Vogel, no one in Paris would see him as Paul. Wearing black trousers, a black jacket, white shirt and braces, he had taken the added precaution of donning dark glasses to hide his turquoise eyes.

  Before reaching the van, Max reminded himself that he was one step closer to Duguay and finding out what had happened to Paul. He’d given himself a good talking to before leaving the flat; he was a professional, and he would hide his murderous impulses. This was a small victory, for he’d not been confident of getting the communist’s permission for a face-to-face meeting. He was angry, yes, and still wanted to kill the man, but he acknowledged that murdering Duguay would be foolish. That, he was not.

  When Max arrived, Darek was leaning against the side of the van. He hopped into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.

  “If it hadn’t been for that expensive-looking walking stick, I might not have recognised you,” Darek said.

  “Good, then neither will anyone else in Paris,” said Max, wincing as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  Darek checked the rear-view mirror then pulled away from the kerb. “We’re going twenty kilometres south of here. But before I put myself in danger, I have one condition.”

  “Another one?” Max responded, without looking at the Pole.

  “Yes, another one, and it’s important.”

  “Go on then, out with it.”

  “Duguay’s men have enough weapons to repel a German assault, or at least put up a damn good fight. I know you want vengeance, Major, but I can’t let you go in there with that gun you’re hiding in your sock. Hand it over.”

  Max had lain awake throughout the previous night, his rage against Duguay bubbling over, and his disbelief that Paul was truly gone still plaguing him. It just didn’t feel right. The memory of Klara’s testimony was also replaying over and over in his mind as if hearing it again and again would change it. He needed closure, but Darek had been right to warn him against violence, and he was right to ask for the gun now. Still, he wasn’t getting it.

  “No. I don’t think I will.”

  Darek pulled the van to the pavement, slammed on the brakes and cut the engine. “Look, I did as you asked. I told Duguay’s man that you were from British Intelligence. I said you were acting on behalf of your government and wanted to offer your assistance and cooperation. I won’t get myself killed because you’re hell-bent on vengeance, so you will either leave your pistol in the car before we get out of here, or I will throw you out of this vehicle now.”

  Max’s muscles twitched in his jaw. He could refuse to follow the instruction, but he wasn’t quite ready to tell Darek to piss off. To keep the peace, he removed the gun and put it under his seat. “Satisfied? Now drive, or we’ll be late.”

  Chapter Nine

  Max got out of Darek’s food delivery van minus his gun. He watched Darek drive off, then approached Claude who was standing close to the back doors of his Post Office van. The shock on the Frenchman’s face was priceless; the lift of his eyebrows, the widening of his eyes and the step backwards spoke volumes.

  “Get in,” Claude said.

  After he closed the door behind him, Claude banged his fist against the dividing wall between the driver’s compartment and the back of the vehicle. “Let’s go, Pierre!” Then he asked Max, “Do you have a gun?”

  “No,” said Max, amused at the Frenchman’s blatant security errors, thus far. “And that is your second mistake. You don’t know me or if I’m the ally I claim to be. You should have searched me before I got in here. And you shouldn’t have let Darek drive off before making sure I was not a danger to you or your driver.”

  Max got on his knees, trying to keep his balance, as the floor of the van vibrated. He raised his arms. “Search me. You won’t find anything but do it anyway.”

  Claude grunted, but gave no response as he patted Max down. When he finished he pulled a hessian sack over Max’s head. “Lie flat on the floor and stay there.”

  Max did as he was told without protest. It was not the first time he’d gone through this song and dance routine with foreign counterparts. But he was disappointed in the Frenchman called Claude – a name he remembered from Klara’s interview. The man had been much too trusting. If he saw to security in Duguay’s camp, he should be replaced; sloppiness in the Resistance movement was the main cause of death for its members.

  The van was bumping along what was probably a rough gravel road, judging by the amount of stones being thrown up by the wheels. Max heard Claude moving around despite the racket of the old engine and ineffective suspension.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” Max said from under the sack.

  “Be quiet.”

  “What did you do with the German doctor’s body after you murdered him?”

  “Shut up.”

  Max groaned at the boot to his ribs. Claude didn’t have to answer; he’d already showed his hand. He knew exactly who he was dealing with.

  Max relaxed his muscles and closed his eyes. His identity wasn’t important now that he’d got this far. His mission was straightforward: meet with Duguay, offer him an alliance with British Intelligence, establish Paul’s fate, then leave. Simple. Only it wasn’t. Heller’s orders were not compatible with Max’s desire for revenge.

  Heller had repeated his instructions at least three times. “Don’t raise a hand against Duguay and his men. Don’t ask a single question about Paul unless Duguay makes it clear he’s willing to give you answers.” Well, bollocks to that.

  Max rehearsed the words he would use to do his job properly and stay alive, going so very deep into himself he barely noticed that the van had come to a stop and its squeaky back door was opening.

  Claude ripped the sack off Max’s head. He squinted as a shaft of sunlight hit his face but was given no time to adjust to the brightness before being manhandled out of the van into a cobblestone courtyard.

  There, Claude strode towards a two-storey farmhouse, motioning Max to follow him. Max looked around. It was apparent that the property was situated well away from the main road. He spotted a narrow dirt track with trees on either side beyond a perimeter fence. And beyond that, he saw nothing but trees and more trees. The Germans would find this place if they were intent on looking for it, but they wouldn’t stumble upon it by chance. It was as perfect a set up as a hideout could be, the sort of place he would have chosen himself as a base of operations.

  While keeping pace with Claude, Max noticed a well-kept garden, vegetable patches on his left and a barn on his right, obscuring whatever lay beyond it. Geranium-filled flower pots hung in baskets in front of the stone house while frilly net curtains adorned the windows. The style of building was typical for the area, as were the wooden basement trapdoor and narrow basement window, almost at ground level and close to the front porch.

  Inside the house, Max was ushered along a narrow entrance hall. He passed a spacious living room where a rowdy group of men were seated around a circular table playing cards. They stared at him as he passed, and
he nodded politely, his sharp eyes falling on the German Gewehr Mauser rifles piled against the wall. The group had been busy stealing from the Germans. Good for them, Max thought.

  Darek was already in the kitchen sitting at a rectangular table laid with a cream lace cloth, two jugs of wine and four tumblers. A plate of olives and another with hard lumpy cheese floating in olive oil sat next to a breadboard with an uncut loaf and a serrated kitchen knife. Max, relieved to see a friendly face and the welcoming repast, sat down next to the Pole.

  “Wait here. Eat. Drink wine,” said Claude, before leaving the room.

  Darek sipped the rich burgundy wine then leant across the table as if to emphasise his point. “Remember, Major, I will make the introductions, and you will not say a word until Duguay speaks to you directly. He likes to look people over.”

  Max nodded. “And you will remember our deal, Darek. I’ll offer him the British terms, and then I will get answers about my brother.”

  After a ten-minute wait, Duguay entered from an outside door. His left arm was wrapped in a white cotton sling, his hand hanging limply over the edge. He wiped his feet on the doormat then stood open-mouthed, his disbelieving eyes, wide. “Mon Dieu, it’s true,” he muttered.

  Max stood up and returned Duguay’s pervasive gaze with one of his own. It took only seconds for him to see the Frenchman as an adversary, to recognise the man Klara had been terrified of, and to get the measure of his cold, unapologetic eyes.

  Duguay came to the table. He pulled out a chair opposite Max. Max returned to his seat, his eyes necessarily guarded but his hatred welling inside him like a burst pipe. He pictured the German rifles in the next room and for a split second wondered if he could get to one of them and pull the trigger on Duguay before being shot down.