The Escape

by Robert Muchamore

  The German didn’t seem happy to have drawn guard duty on his first night in Paris and he looked up miserably and pointed into the kitchen with his thumb. ‘Go ahead.’

  Savage heat blasted Marc as he stepped inside. A filthy corridor took them into the hotel kitchen proper, where three men as rough as any Marc had seen leaving the Dormitory Raquel stood in front of a trough, scrubbing massive pots. Another man barged past, carrying a crate filled with empty champagne bottles.

  It seemed impossible that anything could be hotter, but as they reached the centre of the kitchen Marc felt as if the sun had crash-landed on his head. It seemed impossible to breathe, let alone work in such heat, but dozens of kitchen staff carted ingredients, chopped, boiled, seared and dragged heavy trays out of ovens.

  Marc and Henderson caught a few odd glances, but nobody had time to stop and ask questions. When the waiters passed through the swinging doors leading into the restaurant they were able to glimpse a room filled with black uniforms. At the far end, someone was making a speech to a chorus of drunken laughter.

  ‘It’s good if they’re pissed,’ Henderson said, smiling as he stepped out of the kitchen into a narrow corridor with great clumps of mildew growing on the walls. ‘Remember, Marc: confidence is key. Always look like you know where you’re going, even if you haven’t got a clue.’

  Marc was scared and felt slightly woozy, but at least the corridor was merely stifling, rather than unbearable. They walked twenty metres until they came to a wooden staircase that went down to the hotel basement. A door at the bottom led them into a room containing two giant washing machines. Beyond the machines a woman worked flat out, stretching white hotel sheets over a steam-press, then taking off the flattened sheets and folding them into neat squares.

  She stared oddly at Marc and Henderson. Clearly she didn’t get many visitors.

  ‘Hello,’ Henderson said. ‘We just started work here. I’m supposed to unblock a toilet for someone called Mannstein.’

  The woman raised a single eyebrow. ‘How the hell does that bring you down here?’

  ‘I just came along the corridor.’

  She looked at Marc. ‘And you’ve brought your son to work?’

  ‘Shoe-shine,’ Marc said.

  ‘We’ve never had that before,’ the woman said. ‘Night porter does the shoes when reception is quiet.’

  ‘They wanted him special,’ Henderson said. ‘All those Germans need their boots cleaned.’

  ‘Germans,’ the woman said, as she spat on a sheet before folding it. ‘I’ve been having a nice time these last weeks with Paris so quiet. Now they’re turning everything upside down. Threw out all our guests, including residents who’ve lived here for years, then went down to the cellar and dragged up all the best wines and champagne. You can bet they won’t be paying their bills and if I don’t see my wages I’m out of here.’

  ‘That’s the breaks, I guess,’ Henderson said uncertainly as he turned towards the door. ‘You wouldn’t know how I can find out what room Mannstein’s in would you? I don’t want to go back upstairs and make myself look stupid.’

  The woman tutted with contempt, but pointed towards a telephone on the wall. ‘Dial zero, zero for the front desk. They’ll give you his room number.’

  As Henderson grabbed the phone, the laundress walked over to a clothes rail and grabbed a set of pressed overalls. ‘You’d better put them on,’ she said. ‘If the floor manager catches you in a public area without a uniform he’ll go spare.’

  Then the woman looked at Marc. ‘We’ve never had a boy shoe-shine before. The only thing I’ve got that will fit you is a messenger’s uniform. But don’t go getting polish on it because it’ll never come out of white cuffs.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marc nodded to her as he grabbed the hanger. His uniform comprised a white shirt, black trousers and a velvet waistcoat with gold buttons.

  ‘Very fetching,’ Henderson teased, as they stepped back into the corridor.

  ‘Did you get the room number from reception?’ Marc asked.

  ‘Six-one-two,’ Henderson replied. ‘Now we need somewhere to put these clothes on.’

  They headed back upstairs and passed a janitor’s cupboard that was big enough to change in. Henderson closed the door behind them, switched on the light and unzipped the bag, taking out the compact machine gun and showing Marc how to take off the safety catch, fire and reload. On the way out, he grabbed a mop, plunger and bucket.

  ‘Now we’ve got to find the lift.’

  The staff area on the ground floor was a warren and it took several anxious minutes of wandering badly-lit corridors until they found themselves near the hotel’s reception desk with the main elevators facing directly towards them.

  Several Gestapo officers were returning to their rooms. The lift stopped at the second and fifth floors and on each the departing officers were saluted by two German infantrymen on guard duty.

  ‘Seems they’ve got this place sealed up pretty tight,’ Henderson said.

  They were alone for the final ride to the top floor and Henderson used the opportunity to check that his silenced pistol was ready to fire.

  ‘You sure you’re OK with the machine gun?’ Henderson said. ‘Remember to hold it exactly how I showed you or you’ll rip your shoulder off.’

  The two guards stepped forwards as the lift doors opened. ‘State your purpose,’ one guard said, in truly awful French.

  Henderson began to mumble a convoluted explanation about blocked pipes in room 612 and how the messenger boy’s little arms would be needed to reach behind a sink and undo a valve. Of course, the Germans didn’t understand a word.

  ‘Blocked toilet,’ the German said irritably. ‘That’s all you need to tell me.’

  Henderson nodded apologetically as he walked off with Marc in tow. But after a few steps he realised he’d gone the wrong way and he turned around. Once they’d passed the guards again, one spoke to the other in German.

  ‘Useless bloody French,’ he sneered. ‘Too much wine. It’s no wonder they lost the bloody war.’

  Henderson and Marc both thought it best to pretend that they hadn’t understood and carried on towards Mannstein’s room. Fortunately there were several turns in the corridor and two sets of fire doors.

  ‘As soon as Mannstein opens the door I’m going to shoot him in the face,’ Henderson said. ‘Stand well back unless you want to get splattered in blood.’

  ‘Right.’ Marc nodded, taking a deep breath as he poised his knuckles in front of the door. Henderson dropped his bucket and mop and pulled the silenced pistol.

  Marc knocked and waited.

  ‘Who is it?’ a German said.

  ‘Messenger boy,’ Marc shouted.

  Henderson panicked. ‘That’s not Mannstein,’ he gasped.

  Marc didn’t have time to ask what to do as a Gestapo officer opened the door. ‘Message from Oberst Hinze—’ he began.

  But before Marc knew it, Henderson had fired his shot and a mist of the officer’s blood had spattered his face. Marc was stunned as Henderson burst into the room, just in time to hear Mannstein cry out and run for the bathroom. The bolt slid across the door a second before Henderson barged into it.

  ‘I just want to talk, Mr Mannstein,’ Henderson lied. ‘It’s not too late. I can still get you out of France.’

  Inside the bathroom, Mannstein was going frantic. Banging against the wall, stamping on the floor and screaming for help. He wasn’t a fool and he knew Henderson wasn’t here to talk.

  ‘Machine gun,’ Henderson shouted, pointing towards the bag.

  Marc handed the gun over and Henderson stepped away from the door and let rip. The bullets shredded the door. Henderson used his fist to punch through a large hole and then aimed directly at Mannstein, who’d taken shelter by lying flat in the bath.

  A second blast from the Sten gun turned him into red goo, but Mannstein’s cries and the gunfire had been heard by the guards down the corridor and by several Gestapo officers
in their rooms.

  The first black uniform came out of the room directly across the corridor. Marc dived to the floor as the officer took aim with his pistol, but Henderson spun around and annihilated him with the machine gun.

  ‘Shit,’ Henderson howled. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  ‘Never mind shit,’ Marc said, as he grabbed the pistol from the dead German’s hand. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘What do you think we do?’ Henderson said as he charged towards the door. ‘Run like hell!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Charles Henderson and Marc Kilgour belted down the corridor. The German guards were out of sight, but could be heard barging through the fire doors behind them.

  Marc’s greatest fear was a dead end, but the carpeted corridor ended with a door leading on to a fire escape. As they ploughed through, Henderson noticed a fire-alarm handle on the wall and gave it a pull.

  ‘Should set the cat among the pigeons,’ Henderson gasped, as they raced down the stairs with the alarm ringing in their ears.

  There were two flights between each floor and as they reached the fifth floor a Gestapo officer in a dressing gown was peering down the hallway, wondering if the alarm was for real. Henderson took aim with the machine gun, but the magazine jammed. At the same moment one of the guards above them leaned over the banister and blasted several automatic rounds, tearing chunks of soft plaster out of the wall and shattering a tall window.

  Henderson ditched the machine gun and used his silenced pistol to kill the German standing in the doorway. More random shots came from above as the pair made it down to the fourth floor, where a small group of German officers stood on the landing.

  ‘French troops,’ Henderson shouted, hiding his pistol as he pointed upwards and tried his best to sound like a panicked maintenance man. ‘They’ve shot two officers and started a fire.’

  Marc barged through the crowd with his German pistol tucked inside his trousers. The Germans dived for cover as more bullets rained from above. One daring officer decided to go upstairs and investigate. He was machine-gunned by a green-uniformed guard coming the other way before he made it up three steps.

  All Marc could hear as he made it to the third floor was a lot of swearing and yelling in German. Men were filing out on to the staircase, some heading up to investigate the shots and screams up on the next landing, some evacuating because of the fire alarm and the remainder milling about looking as if they needed someone to give them orders.

  Henderson reckoned the staircase would become dangerous when the Germans stopped arguing and worked out who they were really after, so he led Marc through the double doors and into a corridor identical to the one they’d evacuated three storeys further up.

  ‘Don’t run,’ Henderson said, as he slowed to a brisk walk.

  Because of their hotel uniforms, the Germans they passed in the hallway accepted their presence and some even looked to them for advice.

  ‘Probably just a false alarm, sir,’ Henderson explained, sticking to French because it might be suspicious if he used his near perfect German. ‘Go downstairs to the lobby and the fire marshals will direct you out of the building.’

  Once they’d passed a dozen rooms and two sets of swinging doors, Marc reckoned they were relatively safe.

  ‘Chaos is the best disguise of all,’ Henderson said.

  Immediately ahead of them, a door clicked open and a young Gestapo officer emerged from his room, buttoning his tunic. His movements were calm and he clearly assumed that the fire alarm was fake.

  ‘What’s happening here, gentlemen?’ the officer asked.

  Marc expected Henderson to politely tell the officer that he didn’t know and point him towards the fire escape, but before he knew what was going on, the German officer was backing into his room with Henderson’s silenced pistol aimed at his head.

  ‘Get in here, shut the door,’ Henderson ordered.

  Marc rushed into the plush hotel room and shut the door as Henderson forced the Gestapo officer to sit down on the bed.

  ‘Strip,’ Henderson ordered, before turning towards Marc. ‘Where’s your pistol?’

  ‘Tucked in here,’ the boy said, as he pulled it out of his trousers.

  ‘I’m going to put on his uniform,’ Henderson explained. ‘Keep your gun aimed at the Boche while I change. If he makes a move, shoot him in the head.’

  Henderson rested his gun on a wooden chest as he unbuttoned his overall. Marc stood with his gun aimed at the German, who didn’t seem to be in any rush to undress.

  ‘You’ll both end up before a firing squad,’ the young officer said, as he unbuttoned his shirt.

  ‘Maybe,’ Henderson said curtly. ‘But you’ll be dead a bloody sight sooner than that if you don’t get a move on.’

  The gun felt heavy and Marc was alarmed as the officer dropped his trousers, revealing a jock-strap and a leather sheath containing an ivory-handled dagger set with a gold swastika. Henderson could see the tension in Marc’s face and tried to reassure him.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Henderson said. ‘If he’s in the Gestapo, he’s bright enough to know that a bullet travels faster than a knife.’

  Once the two men were both stripped down to underwear, Henderson took his silenced pistol and ruthlessly shot the German through the head. A great red splat hit the wall behind the bed and a chunk of hair and skull slid down the wall. Marc was so shocked that he stumbled back towards the door and almost dropped his gun.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ the boy gasped. ‘Couldn’t you have tied him up, or knocked him out?’

  Henderson shook his head as he stepped into the dead officer’s black trousers. ‘Tying up takes for ever and knocking out is an imprecise science at best. If you stick a bullet through his brain, you know he won’t be coming back at you.’

  Marc could understand the logic, but the ruthless act had dented his faith. Henderson had seemed different back at the house when he’d given Marc water and cleaned his face, but was he really just as bad as Oberst Hinze?

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Henderson snapped, as he pointed towards a battered suitcase lying on the floor. ‘See what you can get. That’s a German pistol you’re holding and he might have spare ammunition.’

  As well as two clips and a box of ammo, Marc found three grenades on a belt, wrapped inside a set of battle fatigues that stank of urine and sweat.

  ‘Are these any use?’ Marc asked.

  Henderson broke into a broad smile. ‘The ability to blow stuff up is always useful,’ he said, nodding. ‘So what do you think of the uniform? It’s not perfect, but I think I can pull it off.’

  Marc nodded. ‘He was a bit taller than you, but it’s OK.’

  ‘I’d lose the velvet jacket,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s distinctive and they might be looking for it.’

  ‘So what’s our plan?’ Marc asked, as he took off the waistcoat. ‘Or are you still working on it?’

  Henderson looked at the striped markings on his black uniform as he placed a grey, peaked cap on his head. ‘Looks like our friend Mr Corpse was a senior officer. Nobody will expect us to head out the front of the hotel and get in a German car, so that’s exactly what we’ll do.’

  Marc looked aghast. ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘We’ve caused panic,’ Henderson said, as he stared into the mirror and looked at his stubble. He didn’t quite look the part, but there was no time to shave. ‘Once the panic dies down they’ll lock this hotel down tighter than the Führer’s toupee.’

  With that, Henderson placed his silenced pistol into a leather holster and passed one of the grenades to Marc.

  ‘Once you pull the pin, you’ve got about fifteen seconds before it explodes.’

  ‘OK,’ Marc said weakly, as he stared briefly at the grenade before forcing it into his trousers.

  With a gun tucked into the waistline and a grenade bulging from his pocket, Marc worried that his trousers were going to fall down as he left the hotel room and followed Henderson’s blac
k uniform down the corridor.

  The fire alarm meant the lifts were out of action, so they walked down the staircase that ran beside it. The alarm itself had stopped ringing, but the plush lobby was crammed with confused Gestapo officers. Nobody paid the blindest bit of notice as Marc and Henderson shuffled between bodies.

  Marc caught snippets of conversation. Depending upon who you listened to the situation varied from French commandos holding men hostage on the top floor, to a fire, to a hoax played by a drunken officer.

  ‘Coming through,’ Henderson said, speaking his most pompous German and holding Marc firmly by the shoulder. ‘Urgent message from the Oberst.’

  As Henderson approached the doors at the front of the lobby he pulled the pin from the grenade and dropped it into the earth beneath a potted palm. Marc had never been through a revolving door and looked perplexed, but it wasn’t the right moment to hang around and Henderson gave him an almighty shove before shuffling around inside the door. They stepped out into fresh air and a line of officers smoking and holding glasses of wine. It was almost nine and the sky was purple.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Henderson said, as he pushed Marc through the line of officers. ‘I must escort this messenger.’

  As soon as Henderson broke clear of the officers and started down the steps a German infantryman who looked no more than eighteen stood in front of Henderson, clicked his heels and gave a Nazi salute.

  ‘Heil Hitler. Do you require transport, sir?’

  Henderson was counting in his head and knew that the grenade would explode within four seconds. ‘Something fast,’ he said, pointing towards a motorcycle with a sidecar. ‘Are the keys in the ignition?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Major,’ the infantryman said, nodding. ‘Fully fuelled and ready to—’

  A white flash erupted from the front of the hotel, followed by a shower of glass and smoke that sent a dozen Gestapo officers toppling down the hotel’s front steps. Screams rang from inside as Henderson grabbed Marc and dragged him towards the motorbike.