Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  “You,” I say.

  “Expecting someone else?”

  “I didn’t know what to expect.” This isn’t entirely true, of course. If I’d had to put money on it I would have bet on the gendarme at the gate. I make a note to pay more attention in the future.

  Harelip looks me over, assessing. There is nothing lewd in his glance. He’s trying to determine what I’m worth. Finally, he makes a guess.

  “Five hundred thousand francs for the Scotsman,” he says.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do. And don’t bother saying you don’t have the money. You’re practically dripping money.”

  “I only have ten thousand francs on me.”

  We stare at each other for a moment in silence.

  “That’s a pity,” he says, “because I require a deposit of fifty thousand.”

  “You make a lot of demands for a man who hasn’t assured me of anything.”

  “I can assure you, madame, that if you want your friend out of Mauzac, I am the only person who will do it. But my price isn’t negotiable. You have five hours to meet me back here with my deposit or we will never speak again. And what’s more,” he says, “should you ever visit the Scotsman again, I will tell the prison authorities that you tried to bribe me.”

  “That’s not enough time. My train leaves in three hours,” I say.

  “Then you have two and a half.”

  I watch Harelip leave the café as I swallow the remainder of my cold tea.

  Damn. Damn. Dammit. I have no choice but to call my husband.

  * * *

  Henri

  There is a clicking noise when Henri picks up the phone, like someone is flicking a fingernail in his ear. He taps the receiver three times on the heel of his hand and then says, “Henri Fiocca a l’appareil.”

  “Hello, love,” Nancy says.

  “Noncee.” His voice is a purr. He can’t help himself. “How has your weekend gone? Done any brilliant painting?”

  Again with the clicking, only longer this time. Henri holds the receiver away from his face and looks at it, his jaw clenched.

  “What’s that?” he asks after a moment. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

  “It’s been perfect. I got exactly the landscape I came for.”

  “Wonderful! When will you be home?”

  “Tonight. But…”

  “What?”

  “Well—” She laughs, but it sounds forced, and even from this distance, on a clicking line, he knows something is wrong. “It seems I’ve gone over budget at my hotel and I need you to wire some money so I can pay my tab.”

  “Of course. How much?”

  He hears her take a deep breath, then hesitate. “Forty thousand francs.”

  “How much?” Henri asks.

  She repeats the sum. “I only brought ten with me.”

  “I…” His voice trails off. He grunts twice, editing out the questions he would like to ask. What has she gotten herself into? What the hell is going on? What has gone wrong?

  “I have never asked you for anything,” Nancy says.

  “Have you forgotten the ambulance?”

  “That was for a good cause. But I see your point. I have never asked you for money.”

  “It’s our money. You don’t have to ask me for it.”

  “And yet here we are,” she says, and Henri winces. She has always been touchy about this.

  Henri leans back in his chair and looks out over the harbor. Yachts bob in the water, their sails furled tight against their masts five stories below him.

  “Henri? Are you there? Are you angry?”

  “Non, ma chère. Of course not.” I am terrified for your safety, he thinks but does not say aloud, because the clicking has begun again and Henri Fiocca now understands what is happening. His phone line has been bugged. “I will wire it to the post office immediately. It should be there in an hour. I am delighted you’ve enjoyed your stay. And I cannot wait to see what you’ve painted. I love you.”

  “I love you too! Thank you, Henri. Thank you!”

  He sets the receiver into its cradle and leans away from the phone, as though it might bite him.

  “Merde,” he says, then adds in English, on behalf of his wife, “Bloody hell.”

  Henri lowers his face to his hands and shakes it back and forth.

  “Something wrong?”

  The female voice startles him and he looks up to find Marceline standing in the door of his office. She is wearing a gray dress and a bright smile.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  Marceline takes this as an invitation. She steps into his office and closes the door. Wanders through the room, looking at things, touching things. Finally, she sits on the edge of his desk, crosses her legs, and picks up his pen.

  “I just stopped in to say hello,” she says.

  It’s a lie and he knows it, but he does not want to argue with her. “Why?”

  “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends are allowed to do such things.”

  Henri doesn’t want to debate the definition of friendship with this woman, so he says, “I’m working.”

  “It sounded like you were arguing with your wife.”

  “I wasn’t. But it doesn’t matter. Because you shouldn’t have been listening to my conversation.”

  “It’s not my fault you were shouting.”

  “I wasn’t—” Henri takes a deep breath and glares at her pointedly, about to order her out of his office, but then he sees the gold necklace hanging around her neck. “I wish you wouldn’t wear that.”

  She pinches the H between two fingers. “Why not? You gave it to me.”

  “A long time ago. When we were—”

  “Lovers?”

  “Young.” He is exhausted. “What do you want?”

  “To see if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m not.”

  She scoots closer, dislodging a pile of papers. “Thirsty?”

  “No.”

  Marceline reaches for his tie and loosens the knot. She looks at him through lashes heavy with mascara. “Lonely?”

  Henri knocks her hand away and stands up. He pushes his chair back and steps around his desk.

  “I don’t understand what happened to you. There was a time you loved going to bed with me,” she says, and her mouth twists into a jealous pout. “She isn’t even French. Don’t you miss our lovemaking?”

  “No,” Henri says. He doesn’t have the time or interest to play Marceline’s games. “Unlike you, my wife has curves and a heart.”

  He grabs his coat and walks to the door.

  “Where are you going?” she demands.

  “None of your business.”

  * * *

  BERGERAC

  I buy a newspaper and apply a fresh coat of lipstick before walking to the post office. It’s a small building with a counter running the length of the lobby and a man standing behind it. The postmaster is entirely bald and has the arrogant look of a former military officer.

  “I’ve come to collect a wire transfer,” I say, approaching the counter. “For a Madame Fiocca.”

  “You have papers?”

  I hand them over, and he takes longer than necessary to inspect them.

  “Forty thousand francs is a large sum of money for a Marseille housewife visiting Bergerac.”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “Vichy business. I am under orders to report all large money transfers.”

  I lean against the counter, allowing him a good glance at my face and the absolute lack of concern I feel regarding his suspicions. “Well, I suppose that forty thousand francs would seem like a great deal of money fo
r a man on your salary, but it is nothing to me. I’ve had bigger bar tabs than this.”

  The postmaster reaches behind him and pulls an envelope from one of the slots. I make a show of spreading it out and counting it. Then I tap the bills together, slide them back into the envelope, and say, “I will be making a formal complaint about your actions to the main post office in Bergerac. How dare you harass an innocent Frenchwoman for the crime of going about her business?”

  He flinches and I take the win. A guilty woman would scuttle from his presence, whereas an innocent woman, wrongly accused, would be indignant, so that’s what I let him see. I believe that the only way I can convince him of this part I’m playing is to believe it myself.

  Nose up, hips swinging, I walk out the door, slamming it as I go. I pause in the street, taking note of my heart rate and my breathing. Only slightly elevated. I’m getting better at this. A glance at my watch shows that I have less than fifteen minutes to get to the café and complete this deal with Harelip or I lose the chance to rescue Garrow.

  * * *

  —

  I make a quick trip to the ladies’ room so I can count the money and tuck the envelope inside the newspaper I bought. Then I freshen up. My eyes are bright and my cheeks are flushed, but neither looks out of order for a society lady about to make a shady business deal. I return to my earlier table and wait.

  As he was on the bridge last night, Harelip is late. But not quite so late that I’ll miss my train. He slides into his chair and looks at me.

  “Well?”

  “Only bad news, as usual.” I slide the newspaper across the table and tap a headline declaring food shortages across the country.

  “I thought that was the case.” Harelip tucks the rolled newspaper into an inside pocket of his coat. “Meet me back here in four weeks—”

  “That’s a long time—”

  “—not if you want people to forget the pretty lady from Marseille who collected a lot of money at the post office.” He glares at me. “Like I said, four weeks. Bring the rest of the money and a prison guard’s uniform.”

  Harelip walks out of the café and I count to one hundred before following him and turning toward the train station. I arrive just as it begins boarding and I go through the hassle of showing my papers and ticket. The Sarlat-Bergerac line does not have a first-class carriage, so I board with all the other passengers and we step onto the train, only to find that it is already half-filled with German officers. I hesitate only one half step before finding a seat next to an elderly man with a book on his lap.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  The old man closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat as though going to sleep. His lips barely move as he answers, “The Allied forces have arrived in North Africa. So the Germans are tightening security throughout the Free Zone.”

  Madame Andrée

  CHAUDES-AIGUES PLATEAU, CANTAL, FRANCE

  June 10, 1944

  “Where the hell have you been?” Hubert shouts the moment I throw open the door to my bus.

  “Bathing. And be glad for it, otherwise I’d be far less pleasant to deal with right now.” I point back out the door. “Where is everyone?”

  “At their battle stations. They left the moment we heard the first shots.” He takes in my wet clothing and damp hair and shakes his head.

  “Who’s taking fire?” I ask.

  “Several of Fournier’s groups to the east. He went to back them up.”

  Denis Rake seems to have taken up permanent residence in my bus. His radio is set right in the middle of my stump and he’s got the receiver to one ear, listening intently. Every few seconds he lifts his right hand and taps out a frantic message, then bends his ear to the receiver again.

  “So?” I ask. “What have we got?”

  “Armageddon,” Hubert says. “Our scouts are reporting roughly twenty-two thousand Boche. They say all the paths and roads are crowded with Germans and that they’re supported by almost a thousand vehicles, including tanks and armored cars, all of them armed with artillery and mortars. They’ve also got ten aircraft circling the southeastern rim of the plateau and heading toward us.”

  “When did they approach? And why didn’t we see them coming?”

  “They came in during the night, infantry first, and picked off some of our scouts. By the time we heard the vehicles it was too late.” Hubert shakes his head, furious. “I told you it was only a matter of time.”

  Denis hasn’t said a word through all of this. He’s kept his eyes down and is tapping furiously at his radio. “What’s he doing?” I ask.

  “Trying to get through to London. We have to cancel the airdrops. There’s no way we can receive them while under attack.”

  Hubert stands up, straps his revolver to his thigh, and walks toward the door. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “To confer with Gaspard. Based on what I’m hearing, Fournier is already losing ground and I want us all to be on the same page if we have to retreat.”

  * * *

  —

  I didn’t get enough sleep. Not anywhere close to enough, in fact, and I can feel the exhaustion claw its way back into my bones.

  “How long before we can expect word from the others?” I ask.

  “A couple of hours,” Denis says.

  “Okay. I’ll be back.”

  “Good grief, where are you off to now, Duckie?”

  “Strawberry Field. I’ve got containers to unload and deliver. I can’t just leave them sitting around for the Germans to confiscate in case they take the plateau. And besides, that might be the last shipment we get for a while and we’re going to need every bullet. You keep trying to get through to London.”

  It takes twenty minutes to reach Strawberry Field and the sight that greets me almost brings tears to my eyes. Jacques and his men are hard at work emptying the crates. I don’t know whether they left when I told them to or they stayed, and I don’t ask.

  “I could kiss you!” I say as I find Jacques beside a crate of cleaned and stacked Sten guns.

  “Your h-h-husband would n-n-not like that,” he says without looking up.

  “He’d understand, given the circumstances.”

  Smiles are few and hard-won where Jacques is concerned, but he graces me with one now. “My wife w-w-wouldn’t.”

  Then there’s nothing for it but to get to work. We finish unpacking the remaining crates and put the weapons in working order. It takes three hours but soon there’s nothing left in Strawberry Field except a pile of crates, and those are promptly burned. All the weapons are loaded onto flatbed trucks and each man is given instructions on where to take them. Jacques takes five men and drives the heaviest artillery to Fournier and his men at the front. I take the position closest to the encampment and drive to where I can see a group of men, led by the fingerless Louis and Anselm.

  Once they’ve helped me unload all the arms and ammunition, Anselm gives me a sloppy, unapologetic kiss on the forehead and thanks me. He’s like a little boy let loose to play in the mud.

  Louis’s group has an oncoming section of Germans pinned down in the valley below. They’re taking heavy casualties amidst the volcanic rocks as Louis and Anselm rain down on them with Sten guns and mortars. The entire valley booms and rattles as though some small boy has been left to destroy a set of drums.

  I’m just about to congratulate them on their work when a boulder, five yards away from us, explodes. I stumble backward and shield my eyes from the bits of rock flying in every direction.

  “Keep your eye on their fire!” I shout. “That was too close.”

  Anselm looks around, eyebrows pinched together. “Did you come alone?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Where’s Jacques? Why isn’t he with you?”

  “Because he’s taking
a load to Fournier, off that way,” I say, pointing down the valley to the left of the Germans below us. “Besides, I can take care of myself.”

  “I know! I know. I just…shit…Nance. London will murder me if you’re killed. Please get back to camp. I’m assigning someone to look after you.”

  The thought makes me laugh. Like I need a babysitter! “Oh, Bazooka,” I say, using the nickname that I know irritates him, “I didn’t know you cared!”

  “Whatever. Just scram!”

  As I drive away I notice that the shelling becomes heavier, and I worry that Louis will end up with some new body part blown off and I won’t know how to explain that to his wife.

  * * *

  —

  Denis is still glued to his radio when I arrive back at the bus.

  “Got through to London yet, Den?”

  “Yes. I’ve canceled the airdrops for tonight and tomorrow. And they’ve given me a time to radio back if we need another transmission. But there’s more.”

  “What?”

  “Hubert came back. He met with Gaspard and was told that it doesn’t matter what we decide, he has no intention of withdrawing.”

  “Where’s Hubert now?”

  “Gone back to try and talk some sense into him again. Fournier has agreed to pull out at nightfall. We’re meeting in Fridefont and then heading out in individual groups. Our rendezvous point is Saint-Santin, a hundred kilometers away.”

  “Merde,” I hiss. “Gaspard l’enculé!”

  “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

  “It means Gaspard can shove the next red-hot poker he finds up his own arse,” I say. “It’s not our job to fight to the death. Fight, yes. But fight to live another day. This war could last years. If Gaspard and his men die stupidly on this hill, we’ll be crippled.”

  I didn’t even have the chance to comb my hair after bathing and it has dried in clumps against my skull. I rake my fingers through them now, thinking. “Den?”