by Lee Jackson
“Ah, but I know what you look like and your name.” Phillippe extended his hand. “May we both work toward better times.”
In the light of the stars and an ascending moon, Meier grasped it. “That’s a good thought. We can share it without either of us being traitors to our countries.”
As Phillippe was about to release the oberst’s hand, Meier took a firmer hold. “Tell the sisters that if their father’s body is recovered, I’ll make sure to deliver it to a safe place so they can bury him properly.” Then he released Phillippe’s hand.
Disconcerted, Phillippe was momentarily at a loss for words. “We’re grateful. Thank you.” He hesitated to ask one more question. “How will we know where that will be and that they’ll be safe?”
“You have my word of honor that they won’t be harmed. They will be able to come and go freely for the ceremony, and no one will follow them. I’ll get a message to you about location and time.”
Dumbstruck, Phillippe stepped closer to Meier, trying to see him in the dark, but all that was visible were reflections of moonlight in the oberst’s eyes. “How?”
“I have ways.” Meier took a deep breath and let it out. “Just one final thing before we part ways.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please give my regards to Fräulein Rousseau. I wish her only the best.”
Nearly an hour later, Meier entered through the security checkpoint at the headquarters. Most of the lights were out and the number of people working was small. He limped through the halls and stopped at Jeannie Rousseau’s desk. Then he continued, passing his own office to the headquarters’ main bulletin board.
In the upper right corner, portraits of Amélie, Chantal, and Ferrand Boulier stared out at him from Major Bergmann’s wanted posters. He studied them for a few moments. Then he reached up, removed the tacks holding them in place, and took them down.
On returning to his office and taking his seat behind his desk, he continued studying the photos. “You raised two fine daughters, Ferrand Boulier. Rest in peace.” Then he lifted the receiver on his phone and dialed the military police. “This is Oberst Meier,” he said when his call was answered. “I need to report two probable deaths.” He described the location. “You won’t be able to get to the bodies tonight. Also, you’ll need to call in the local police. They might have been civilians.” He remained silent a moment as the person on the other end of the line asked a question.
“I don’t know their identities. I was on my evening walk and saw them fall just after sunset. Apparently, one had been climbing and got into trouble, and the other tried to rescue him. Unfortunately, they both tumbled, and that’s the last I saw of them.”
33
January 15, 1941
Marseille, France
Phillippe sipped coffee opposite Fourcade at the table on the veranda overlooking the villa’s dormant gardens and the sea. Although beautiful, the day’s winter chill had compelled them to wear their coats.
“The Boulier sisters are exhausted and grief-stricken,” he said. “Traveling over back roads under threat from Dinard was difficult enough, but doing it while grieving the death of their father was more than anyone should have to suffer. They’re resting at Maurice’s farm. Jeannie is with them. She comforts them, although she also worries about her own parents, wondering if she’ll ever see them again.”
“Those poor girls, all three of them. What this war is doing to individual lives is unconscionable. Were Amélie and Chantal able to bury Ferrand?”
Phillippe shook his head. “The Dinard police couldn’t find his body. It must have washed out to sea. Bergmann’s had been tossed against the rocks to the point of making him unrecognizable. That German officer, Oberst Meier, identified him. He had promised that the Bouliers would be able to bury their father unmolested, but obviously, that became impossible. Anyway, no one from the Wehrmacht’s 10th Army headquarters seemed bothered over the loss of the major. His passing went without a ripple. No accusations of malfeasance, no retaliation against the public. Nothing.”
“And what of Meier? Tell me about him.”
Phillippe thought a moment before responding. “He’s an interesting character.” He related the strange conversation between him and the German colonel in the waning daylight over the cliffs of Dinard. “I will tell you honestly, it was as though he knew or at least spoke based on suspicions that we were with the Resistance, including Jeannie. He warned me that if we disappeared, a search would go out for us.”
“And did it?”
Phillippe shrugged. “I don’t know. We stayed in the cellar below the farmhouse for two days. The old man who owns it with his wife went to the café across from the headquarters and watched from there for half a day. He also spoke with the waiter who had helped us. Neither saw nor heard anything of concern. There were no house-to-house canvasses, no extra checkpoints, no retaliation. Nothing.”
“Do you think Meier is part of a German resistance? Could he be turned?”
“I don’t know. My sense of him is of a professional soldier who is loyal to his country but abhors injustice. Two questions come to mind: when does the corruption in the regime he serves become intolerable to him, and how do we cross the bridge to know we can trust him?”
Fourcade contemplated Phillippe’s comments. “We should find a way to monitor him.”
Phillippe’s brow furrowed. “I think it might be happening already.” He told her of Jeannie’s question about how British intelligence could know about the danger to her. “That’s a good question,” he went on. “The idea to contact her came from London, and so did the information that she was in jeopardy with a request that we rescue her.
“Couple that with Meier’s intimation that he knew more than he was prepared to say, a reasonable conclusion is that intelligence is reaching London about what was going on inside that headquarters beyond what Jeannie provided.”
Fourcade thought a moment and added, “We need to stay on top of this. Meier has already been useful to us, and he could be again. I’ll send in a request for information about him and see if anything comes back. On another subject, what will happen to the Boulier network now?”
“It will go on. Ferrand’s brother and nephew were there in Dinard, and Jacques too, the man who led the SOE team. All three are capable. Jacques is young, and so is Nicolas. They listen to the older man. Between the three of them, the network should continue to be effective. They recognize that Jacques is overall in charge.”
The door from the house swung open, and Horton walked out with Henri and another man. Phillippe’s face lit up when he saw them, and he leaped to his feet to greet them.
“I found this chap lurking out front,” Horton said with a grin, indicating Henri. “He says he came over to retrieve something.”
“It’s good to see you,” Henri told Phillippe, ribbing him. “Madame Fourcade called to let me know you were back in town. I came to pick you up and put you to real work.”
“Good,” Phillippe replied, and turned to Fourcade. “Now that my mission with you is complete, can I go blow something up with these bums?”
Fourcade laughed. “Go, my friend, and thank you.”
“Maybe not so fast,” Henri said. He indicated the other man he had brought with him. “This is Major Léon Faye. He’s a pilot in the Vichy air force and he currently leads Alliance Resistance operations in North Africa with your colleague, Navarre. He brought a plan to discuss with you. Navarre is in favor of it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Fourcade said, rising. “I was rude. By all means, let’s hear the plan.”
As Faye took the hand she offered, Fourcade felt a sudden and unexpected deep stirring, one she had long ago subdued. She caught her breath and hoped no one noticed.
The officer before her stood straight and tall, with thick dark hair and an aquiline nose. Despite his perfect gentlemanly manner, a roguish spirit shone from his gray-green eyes. She found herself entranced and had to mentally s
hake off the feeling.
“Please sit,” she said. “Tell me what Navarre is up to in Africa. This Alliance organization was his idea. I helped him organize it, and then he took off to try to turn a hundred and forty thousand Vichy troops down there to support the Resistance. Did he succeed?”
Behind a controlled smile, Léon replied, “He is still working on it, Madame, and I do not believe he will give up until he gets the job done.” Then he added, “He has told me much about you. He says that the Alliance is in very capable hands.”
Despite herself, Fourcade blushed. “What is your purpose here?”
Having taken his seat, Léon drew a deep breath before speaking. “I propose to dethrone that swine in Vichy.”
Fourcade stared at him in disbelief. “A coup? You intend to stage a coup against Pétain?”
Léon nodded.
“I hope you dismiss that thought before it develops further.”
Léon’s face reddened, his brow creased, and he coughed. Clearly, the reception to his plan was not the one he had expected.
“But Madame—”
“Let’s just suppose you succeed,” Fourcade said with a ferocity that was unusual for her. “What do you think Hitler will do? Accept the coup as a fait accompli?
“The French military in Vichy is all but disbanded. We are in no way prepared to face the Wehrmacht across southern France. Our Resistance is still in an organizational stage with British aid without which we couldn’t hope to mount much of an opposition.”
As Fourcade warmed to her argument, her cheeks turned red. “How would our people survive a blitzkrieg? And I promise you, it would come. Hitler already plans to move our citizens out of their homes in the occupied zones. Do you think he would speed up or slow down those plans?
“I’ll tell you what I think. He would move the people who would go easily and kill those who resist. He’s already doing exactly that in Poland—and in France too, to the Jews, and he’s pressuring Pétain to do the same thing. If he invades, he’ll do it throughout all of France. Your plan accelerates our extinction as a culture and as a country.”
Léon listened, stunned. “I’m sorry that you disagree so vehemently, Madame. I thought you would be more receptive. Navarre did as well.”
“Navarre is in Africa,” Fourcade retorted. “I’m here dealing with today’s realities. I joined his Alliance network expecting to take his orders, but he asked me to lead here in France. I know he’s doing important work in Africa, but since he left, I’ve gained formal relations and funding through SOE and put together groups that operate across most of France. Our people are on the ground and report daily, and I doubt that any of them would support such a proposal. It’s foolish.”
She caught herself and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.” She let her eyes stray over his muscular build and then spoke again, aware that her cheeks were fully aflame. “You’re a man with passion for France, and no one doubts your daring or determination to defeat our occupiers, but your plan will not work.”
Startled at the spiritedness of the exchange, the others had sat silently listening. Then Phillippe ventured to join the discussion. “If I may,” he said, turning to Léon. “I agree with Fourcade. We have no army, we have no air force, we have no navy. What remains is outside our borders and incapable of facing a Wehrmacht blitzkrieg. Most of our Resistance fighters are untrained amateurs. We teach them what we can for every mission. They give their best, and quite often, they succeed. Too often, their failure is fatal. To expect them to meet and defeat a full, blooded army, well equipped and ready for combat, is to ask our people to commit personal and national suicide. I cannot support the plan.”
Léon regarded him with surprise. “You are the person I least expected to oppose it. You were known within the navy for wanting to surrender French warships to Great Britain to keep them out of German hands, and you were even supportive when the British destroyed our navy at Mers el-Kébir in Algeria.”
“I was, and I think I was correct,” Phillippe replied. “I didn’t want to allow Germany to gain the most powerful navy after Britain’s. You’re proposing to make the rest of France a battleground, running with the blood of our people with little to no chance for them to survive, much less prevail. We must take a longer approach, and I think the plan the madame pursues is the right one. It’s in line with De Gaulle, who fights in London every day to unite and build a French fighting force to join the British when the time is right to invade and take back the Continent.
“Besides, if you’re looking for support from French navy and army officers still in North Africa—particularly in Algeria—you’re deluding yourselves. They’re bitter about the British bombing, and they are anti-Gaullist precisely because he’s in London. More importantly, they’re pro-Vichy, the same government you’re asking them to take down.”
He turned to Henri. “You command probably the largest and most effective section of the Alliance network. Would you support Faye’s plan?”
Henri looked grimly from Phillippe to Léon, then to Fourcade, and back to Phillippe. He shook his head. “No. I would not support a coup.”
Fourcade stood and extended a hand to Léon. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m sorry that we do not see things the same way. Please relay to Navarre that the Alliance, at least the part of it in France, will not support the plan. Tell him I am confident that I speak for our British friends.”
Fourcade asked Horton to stay as the other three men departed. “You gave that major an earful,” he quipped as he poured a cup of coffee. “How do you think Navarre will react?”
“He’ll be angry at first, but eventually he’ll see that I’m right, and he’ll come around. That doesn’t mean that he won’t try something before coming to his senses.”
She changed the subject, relating her conversation with Phillippe prior to Henri’s arrival with the air force major. Filling Horton in on what had taken place in Dinard, she said, “Oberst Meier is the German officer who helped Phillippe and his group avoid arrest. We don’t know if what he did was deliberate or inadvertent. I’d like as much information on him as we can get from London. Would you please handle that?”
“Consider it done, mum.”
“There’s one other thing.” She told him of Ferrand Boulier’s passing and the way the old man died. “Please request that they inform Jeremy. I’m sure he’ll want to know.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Ferrand. I’ll see to it.”
While they talked, Maurice arrived, bringing Amélie, Chantal, and Jeannie with him. “You can’t keep sending young women to my house,” he joked. “People will wonder what kind of enterprise I’m running.”
His humor appeared to have had a positive effect on the girls, although all three looked tired and drawn. Fourcade noticed that Chantal’s eyes regained life and she blushed when she saw Horton. She tucked the observation at the back of her mind and rose to meet her new visitors.
“I’m sorry about your father,” she said, putting her arms around Amélie and Chantal. “He was a good, good man.”
She held the sisters for several moments, and then, extending her hand and kissing Jeannie on both cheeks, she said, “What an honor to meet you. Your success in Dinard was astounding.”
“I did a small thing, Madame, that my country needed to be done.”
“Our country will be very grateful, I’m sure, and you are welcome here.” Shifting her attention to include Amélie and Chantal, she said, “I want all three of you to stay at the villa for as long as you like. Rest, relax, and restore perspective.” She swept her arm around to take in all of their surroundings. “Look, it’s a beautiful day, a beautiful place, and you are surrounded by people who love you.”
Seeing a lift in the girls’ faces followed by reserved smiles, she gestured toward the table. “Sit. Maurice and Horton too. Let’s enjoy the day and celebrate that people we care about are returned to safety.” She looked around ag
ain with an exaggerated anxious look. “Relative safety, that is. I’ll get some food brought out.”
Later, as the sun warmed the day, conversation turned to chatter, and spirits rose, Fourcade sauntered by Horton. “That girl likes you,” she kidded, thrusting her chin in Chantal’s direction.
Horton followed her view. “Don’t be silly, mum. She’s a schoolgirl, and I’m three and a half years older. She’s more like a little sister.”
“Ah. I see you’ve done the math,” Fourcade said, laughing quietly and moving on.
Amélie approached her, looking in better spirits but still mournful. “Have you heard anything—” She dropped her eyes.
“About Jeremy?” Fourcade finished the question for her. “I’m sorry.”
“I think maybe he’s forgotten me.”
“Oh, my dear, no,” Fourcade said, throwing her arms around Amélie’s shoulders. “The war is all that stands between you two.” She released her embrace, stepped back, and chuckled. “It’s a pretty big obstacle, but remember, Jeremy’s already proposed; and your father gave permission—that’s what Phillippe told me—so the one holding back now is you.” Seeing a slight smile playing on Amélie’s lips below shy eyes, she added, “I’ll include a direct inquiry with the next documents we send to London. I imagine our new friend, Jeannie, might give us reason to make that happen soon.”
“Oh, thank you,” Amélie said, looking hopeful. “Thank you.” She hugged Fourcade and went to join Chantal, who had moved next to Horton and engaged him in conversation. The sergeant shot Fourcade a dismal look, like that of a cornered bear.
She observed Jeannie leaning against the railing at the edge of the veranda, taking in the beauty of the landscape and the low whisper of distant waves from the Mediterranean shore. “May I join you?”
Jeannie turned. “Madame Fourcade. Of course. I was admiring your view. This is so beautiful. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”
