Turning on Bouchard, the officer hurled the papers at him. “Idiot. You said it was to be an agent—the one who escaped. Who is she?”
“Hauptmann Fleischer, I don’t—”
“Bah. Jürgen, search her,” commanded the officer.
Jürgen spun the girl around to face him and patted her roughly up and down. Holding both wrists behind her back, he lifted her skirt, moved his hand up between her legs, and gave a sudden, vicious thrust. Katrinka cried out, and Jürgen’s lips curled upward.
Farr watched, his hand moving spasmodically on the gun.
Val steadied his arm, whispering, “Wait.”
Jürgen finished his search, shaking his head. “Nichts.”
Twisting away, Katrinka asked, her voice strained. “Hauptmann Fleischer, is there a problem? I was told to bring these items to this gentleman, Monsieur Bouchard. You see—”
“Silence!” barked Fleischer.
Seizing Katrinka’s basket, he spilled its contents onto the table. His hand paused at the bottom, feeling around the edges. He gave a tight smile. “It appears, mademoiselle, that there is another bottom to this basket.” Jerking Katrinka’s hair, he tilted her face up to his. “After my interrogation, you will be hung for this, you stupid girl.”
He thrust her toward Jürgen. “Hold her.”
All eyes were on Fleischer as he tore open the bottom of the basket. Outside, the men shifted imperceptibly, hands on their weapons. Fleischer tossed the false bottom away and stood back, staring at the contents. Reaching in, he carefully lifted out the small bottle of port.
Silence followed.
Katrinka pulled away from Jürgen, who also stared at the bottle. She rubbed her wrists. “Hauptmann Fleischer. If I may please explain? I was told to bring these items to Monsieur Bouchard. He pays very well. I know it is wrong, but times are hard, and my aunt does what she can. She has prepared this—”
Again, Fleischer roared, “Silence!” He swung to Bouchard.
The Frenchman was sweating.
“Well, Bouchard?” Fleischer inquired softly. “Have you double-crossed us, perhaps? Do we need to remind you of the consequences?”
“Non. She is lying. I do not know who she is. She has been sent here. She must have the plastique.”
Katrinka turned to Fleischer, pleading. “Hauptmann Fleischer, he has requested items of food, and we have supplied them. I do not know what this is about, but if I do not return with the money, my grandfather will be very angry.” Touching her bruised cheek, she added, “He has been out of sorts lately.” Her lip quivered.
The officer waved the bottle in her face. “Why have you hidden this drink at the bottom of your basket?”
Katrinka offered a small smile. “You see, I must pass soldiers at checkpoints. Sometimes they find no wrong in taking my food. When I return without it, my grandfather is very angry. He shouts that I have eaten the food. My cousin helped me to construct this basket. They seldom look closely, and if they take the food, there are still the best bits left.”
The room became so quiet that Farr could hear the mantel clock ticking. Both Germans looked to the Frenchman. Jürgen’s hand moved to his gun.
“It is a lie,” Bouchard cried. “She is lying.”
Discreetly, Katrinka backed away, glancing at the door. Spotting Farr in the window, her face flooded with intense relief. He signaled for her to move away, just as Fleischer looked up.
There was an explosion of movement. Grabbing his gun, Fleischer ducked for cover and fired at the same time Farr and Val burst into the room, shooting. Both Fleischer and Val fell; Fleisher’s second bullet struck Farr’s gun with a loud crack. Fleischer lay still, but Valentine rolled across the floor for his weapon. Farr leaped onto Jürgen, his knife drawn. In a moment, Bouchard jerked a knife from its sheath beneath his jacket. Seizing Katrinka and twisting her in front of him, he shoved it against her side.
“Arrêtez,” he shouted hoarsely.
The men froze.
Bouchard leaned on the table, pressing down on Katrinka. “Jürgen, get their weapons.”
Jürgen grabbed Farr’s knife and turned, giving Val a vicious kick in his wounded arm as he reached for the man’s gun. Doubled up in pain, Val lunged for the table legs, wrenching them violently, and tripping Jürgen. Bouchard pitched back, as Katrinka fell. Farr rammed the Frenchman, and they wrestled to the ground. Jürgen surged to his feet and grabbed the bottle of port, shattering it on Farr’s head, while Bouchard struggled to get his knife into position on Farr’s throat. Still on the floor, Val found his gun, just as Jürgen tackled him. Screaming with fear, Katrinka seized a knife from Fleischer’s belt and plunged it deep into Bouchard’s back. The Frenchman shrieked as his body convulsed, then lay still.
Farr lurched upright, hauling Jürgen off Valentine, and kneed him brutally in the balls. Jürgen’s legs crumpled, and he kneed him again, before spinning him around, holding the man’s head in the crook of his elbow. “This is for your search methods, you son of a bitch.” With a sharp crack he snapped Jürgen’s neck, and the limp body slipped to the floor.
Katrinka ripped the knife from Bouchard’s back and fell to her knees next to Jürgen, slashing at the man’s hand and hacking each of his fingers to pieces. Farr leaned down, resting his palms on her shoulders until she quieted. Then taking the knife, he pulled her up.
Val retrieved his pistol from the floor, and the two men limped outside, Farr’s arm wrapped tightly around Katrinka’s trembling body.
* * *
That night, a series of explosions destroyed the Pont du Namandie Bridge. Word came back of several German casualties, as well as a few Maquis. The German troops were forced to wait for supplies and to find another route. Farr guessed London HQ would be jubilant once he sent them the message. In turn, HQ would contact the appropriate field officers in Normandy.
Their new shelter was situated between Ange de Feu and the larger town of Trois Cloches. A local farmer working with the Resistance had offered them a portion of the stable and a few outlying storage structures.
Exhausted, Farr took the radio and antenna to a distant outbuilding, and hooked into its electrical mains. Katrinka bedded down for the night in a feed storage shelter behind the stable. Both she and Farr had been given castoff clothing to replace their bloodstained ones.
A trusted medic was sent for to repair Val’s arm where the bullet had grazed. Farr returned to camp after his transmissions, limping and bleeding, so the medic wrapped his ankle and applied salve to the cut on his neck. He continued to work, hobbling into the stable to clean his weapons and replace his gun. When finished, he glanced at Valentine’s pallet in the corner. He was sleeping, with his arm wrapped in a large bandage and a smaller one still around his cut hand. He looked much younger than his eighteen years.
Farr realized he was hungry. He limped outside to see if the farmer’s wife, Aimee, had made her promised food delivery, when Katrinka’s panicked cries ripped through the stillness.
Struggling to the storage shelter, he found her sitting on a rumpled blanket in the major’s arms. He was stroking her hair, and she was clinging to him.
“Katrinka.”
Both turned at his voice. Releasing her, the major heaved himself up, his face gaunt.
“Can you sleep now? Do you need a tablet from the medic? It might help.”
She shook her head.
Nye turned to Farr, who had not moved. “Sergeant, if you’re done with the radio, I need your briefing on this evening’s activities.”
Still Farr did not move, grappling with his emotions and the fact that the man standing before him was his commanding officer.
Katrinka looked up, “I’m all right now. So stupid of me. Wills heard me scream.”
Farr forced his muscles to relax. Avoiding the major’s eyes, he followed him out. The two men walked in silence to the
stable, where Nye wheeled on him.
“Bloody hell, man. I was close by and reacted. I know how it is between you two.”
Farr nodded, abashed. “It’s been a rough night, sir.”
On entering the stable, Farr noted that Nye had fashioned a tiny office in one of the cleared-out stalls. There was a folding table and a few chairs. Both men sat.
Nye nodded to the stacks of reports. “Nicely done, don’t you think? The cozy smell of horse and dung.”
Before he could continue, Aimee appeared through a small doorway, carrying a basket of food. She was an older woman whose heavy makeup did not succeed in covering a large facial scar. Placing the basket on top a wooden crate, she stood back, hands on her hips. “The young lady, she is all right?”
Nye spoke reassuringly, his French fluent. “Oui, madam. All is well now. Thank you for the food.”
“It has been a trying evening. There were bad dreams?”
“She is sleeping well now. There is no concern, madam.”
“It is a concern to both my man and me when one screams as loudly as that one. And she will have many more before this is over. She is no good for this job. Let her go back to where she is from.”
Before Nye could answer, Aimee was called away by her husband’s voice.
There was an extended silence. The major cleared his throat, “It seems Bouchard was the only leak.”
“He caused enough grief,” replied Farr.
“Yes. And, of course he assumed it was another agent bringing the plastique. Must have been a complete shock to the man. What happened at Bouchard’s? I take it she was not found with the plastique? Or her knife?”
“No. She hid them in the bushes before going in. Said she had a premonition. They grabbed her right away.” He finished relating the events.
“Well, whatever it was, intuition or damned good luck, it saved her life and our hides. What was she doing with a bottle of port?”
“Her father gave it to her.” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“It was her reaction when it was over, sir. It has me worried, especially with her nightmares.” He told Nye about Jürgen.
Nye winced. Refusing to meet Farr’s eyes, he became very busy with loading his pipe. “So. The plastique was retrieved and delivered. The bridge has been destroyed.” He paused, frowning. “I need to tell you. There was—”
Farr interrupted, “I want her out of this, sir.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“She needs to stand down.”
Nye stopped what he was doing and glanced at the sergeant’s troubled face. “Don’t reproach yourself, man. She’s tougher that you give her credit for. And has a cool head, it seems.”
“She needs to stand down. She’s lost both a mother and a stepfather. And… the trouble with the deserters. This isn’t her first nightmare.”
“No, she’s had them before.”
Farr started.
“Always has. Used to wake up the entire ship with them. Look, you and I both know she’s not the only person in this war to have disturbed dreams. God only knows how Raphael gets to sleep at night. No man will share the same room with him. I’ve had them. I daresay you’ve had a few yourself. Besides, we’re going to need her.” Nye sighed wearily. “There was a skirmish near the bridge tonight. Some Germans were killed, along with a few Maquis.”
“Who?”
“Sébastien.”
Farr jerked back. “What’s that?”
“He’d gone back after the explosions, taking a message to one of the SAS members. He was caught out in the crossfire.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes. The village priest will see to his mother. There will be a service in Ange de Feu in a few days’ time.”
Farr gave no reply. He was remembering a young boy streaking along the road dressed in racing stripes, practicing for the day he would compete in the Tour de France. Well, the race was over for him now. Christ, he was sick of this war.
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Farr. There are going to be a lot more patrols roaming about in the coming days, and a lot more retaliations after this incident with Bouchard. I want Katrinka to replace Sébastien as our courier—your courier, really. It will be safer for everyone if you’re moving.”
Farr’s mind snapped back to the conversation. Katrinka as their courier? Immediately, he grasped the unexpected consequences of this tragedy. Being fluent in French, she could rendezvous with the Maquis, coordinate drop zones, and deliver messages. She could work as a liaison between the team and safe houses. Maybe even do a bit of sabotage. She would be perfect for the job.
Farr stopped, filled with sudden remorse at his selfishness. Was he willing to put her life in jeopardy? Was he thinking of the team or himself? He sat sweating in the little horse stall, considering the risks. The image of Sylvia’s battered face came back to him, and he shuddered.
Nye seemed to be reading his thoughts. “She’s perfect, Farr; we both know it. As a female, she can keep a low profile and blend in, which none of us are able to do. She can move openly, where we cannot. She’s smart and has strong nerves.”
Farr protested. His voice sounded half-hearted even to his own ears. “Sir, I don’t need to remind you that she’s had no training for this.”
Nye shook his head. “Look, you don’t have to make up your mind immediately. We’re all dead tired. I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow. Let’s see how it goes; I think she’ll be agreeable. Your transmissions are done for the night?”
Farr nodded.
“Good.” He hesitated. “Just one more bit. I’ve… that is, Raphael has scheduled an appointment for Katrinka.”
“You mean for the—”
“Nothing to be concerned about, just to be safe.”
“It’s a damn good idea.”
“As for the nightmare, she’ll be all right.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
A short time later, Nye finished his work and put out the lamp. He stared into the darkness for a long time, troubled by Farr’s story. He did know Katrinka. But something was off now; different and disturbing. He wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to her in that farmhouse.
He gave himself a mental shake. Whatever it was, she would come out all right. People witnessed horrible things during war, went through unspeakable, unimaginable trauma, and they came out all right in the end. She would be all right as well. He thought again of Farr. Bloody lucky man. But God help him.
* * *
After the men left, Katrinka tried to sleep, but images of the evening haunted her. Taking her blanket, she climbed up a small hill to a clearing just beyond the hut. Sitting with her knees drawn up, she wrapped the blanket around her. It was worn thin, and very soft. She stared into the star-strewn sky, willing her heart to quiet.
Her talk with Josef had stirred memories. He had been homesick, just as she was homesick. But for what home? Le Flâneur was her home. Ever since that bright summer morning when she and her mother had boarded it, and never looked back.
Katrinka had spent her early childhood among the sea gypsies of Burma. The Chao Le conducted their entire lives aboard small covered boats called kabangs. They came on land only during monsoons, when they constructed temporary housing on stilts.
She had called this limitless expanse of turquoise water her home, and knew how to gauge the soft, moist winds that trailed through the islands like gentle fingers, ruffling her hair. The swells of the sea were forever entwined and in harmony with the fluids of her body.
When she was four years old, a tall, thin-faced man with straight, dark hair and mustache had arrived in a ship. He seemed to know her mother. He was Captain Amparo of Le Flâneur, and when he left a few days later, they went with him.
Katrinka was entranced with the size of
her new home. In warm seas she slept on deck, watching stars fall from the sky, and feeling the steady rocking of waves and thrum of engine, until this new rhythm became part of her. Sometimes at night, she heard strange moans and laughter coming from behind the cabin door, after her mother and the dark-haired captain went to bed. She was told to call him Papa, and he gave her the name Katrinka. She’d never had a name. Her mother had called her Thamee, the Burmese word for daughter.
The next summer, Amparo took them far across the ocean to America, and a town close to the Mexican border. It was a place of sunshine and tumbling blue seas. Papa gave her a pale-green bicycle and she learned to ride it, speeding along the sea wall past large lawns of flowers and graceful houses. At the end of town was a dazzling white hotel sprawled graciously on the shore, and just beyond that, an entire small city of gaily striped tents.
During the year when her father worked with the fleet of commercial fisherman, she and A-mah took a room in a boarding house surrounded by fragrant smelling roses. But when summer came, they would rent one of those tents for the season. Tent City had its own main street, shops, restaurants, and cafés. Katrinka would watch trained seal and monkey shows with other groups of children. They would swim in Tent City’s large swimming pool and ride the merry-go-round. Tent City even had an ostrich farm. But her favorite show was a horse called Paycheck. Three times a week, Paycheck would mount the steep ladder to the top of a tiny platform. Three times a week, he would plunge head first into a pool of water, popping to the surface like a cork. It thrilled Katrinka every time.
Often in the early mornings, Papa took them horseback riding out along the beach at low tide. In the evenings, there were long walks along the seawall and rowboats with colorful lanterns to take out into the calm waters of the bay. There was a large dance pavilion with an orchestra. Her mother worked there sometimes, as a singer.
Amparo obtained certain documents, and in the fall, enrolled her in a public school. When she entered the third grade, Papa gave her a book. He said the author had lived in this very town and often read to children in the park.
All of this came to an end in the winter she was eight years old. News came that Amparo’s father was ill. So Katrinka packed up her book in a small knapsack, and they moved out of their room at the Cherokee Roses Boarding House. Papa set a southern course along the Mexican coast, passing through the Panama Canal, then crossing the stormy Atlantic to Porto. And somehow, they never made it back to that sun-spattered seaside town of brightly colored tents.
Just Another Girl on the Road Page 7
