Death Ray

by Craig Simpson

  Max pulled off again. Rounding a gentle bend, he suddenly stiffened and took a sharp intake of breath. ‘There it is, Finn. Château Rochefort.’

  I banged on the cab again. ‘This is it!’ I yelled.

  Max turned off the road and approached the heavily fortified gates. Sentries shone their torches at us and waved for us to pull over. ‘Let me do the talking, Finn,’ said Max. He opened his window and poked his head out. ‘Wozu die ganze Aufregung?’ he shouted.

  He was asking what all the excitement was about. One of the guards called back that there’d been a major raid by the Resistance at the fuel depot and that there were reports of fierce fighting. I thought of Alain and said a quick prayer for him. His mother had already lost a husband and two sons. That was a big enough sacrifice, wasn’t it?

  The guard approached the cab and shone his torch at Max and then at me. Max explained that we had two prisoners in the back. The guard signalled to a colleague who was in charge of a hungry-looking Alsatian and ordered him to take a look. This he duly did, calling out that everything was in order. A few cheerful words later and the gates were swung open: we were on our way again. Max wiped the sweat from his brow, looking extremely pleased. I peered at my watch – ten minutes to eleven. We had so little time.

  The driveway up to the entrance of Château Rochefort was wide, as straight as the barrel of my gun, and a mile long. My mouth grew dry. I knew the hardest part of our mission lay right in front of us. Max leaned forward, peered up at the sky and whistled. ‘Ach du meine Fresse! Look at that, Finn. What a sight!’

  The night sky was peppered with parachutes, dozens of them, some little more than specks, others already large enough to see the men dangling from their cords. Most were drifting slightly to the south of us. A few would miss their landing mark, a handful probably ending up in the trees. It was an amazing, heartening sight. But it also meant we needed to get a move on. ‘Put your foot down, Max!’

  The château was an equally incredible spectacle. It was vast, with row upon row of shuttered windows, towers at each corner, and was constructed in stone that looked solid enough to withstand a howitzer. The facade was lit by the feeble light of a waning moon. A broad set of stone steps led up to the main entrance, above which hung the obligatory swastikas. Two guards flanked the heavy wooden doors. Clutching their rifles in front of them, they gazed up at the parachutes in astonishment. Distracted, the soldiers hardly noticed our arrival. Max stopped opposite the entrance and we climbed out, ran to the rear of the truck and lifted the awning.

  ‘’Raus! ’Raus!’ I shouted, waving the barrel of my machine gun. Jacques and Amélie hesitated and then jumped down. They looked terrified.

  Loki climbed out too, handed me a bag from the back of the truck and gave me the faintest of nods. I slung the bag over my shoulder and together we marched our prisoners towards the main entrance, Max leading the way, his pistol drawn, barking various orders at us in German. The two sentries had overcome their surprise and raised their rifles, aiming them into the sky. Anyone who was a half-decent shot could probably hit a parachutist as they drifted slowly down and came in to land. Realizing this, Loki duly dealt with them using a short burst of his Sten.

  Throwing open the door to the château, Max strode inside with an air of authority. A middle-aged Nazi official sitting behind a desk in the hallway slammed down a telephone, rose abruptly to his feet, snapped to attention and saluted. ‘Heil Hitler!’ His eyes flashed at each of us in turn. ‘Das Telefon – die Leitung ist tot. Was ist los?’ he stammered. He was trying to tell us there was something wrong with the telephone. I hid my delight.

  Max walked up to the guard’s table, lifted the phone and listened. Banging it down, he turned to me and said, ‘Well done, Finn, the lines are down.’ His sudden switch to English caused the blood to drain from the German official’s face and he raised his arms above his head.

  The inside of the château was even more jaw-droppingly splendid than it looked from the outside. Fancy furniture, gilded paintings and mirrors surrounded a large staircase that led up to a galleried landing. The place stank of wealth once belonging to the Moutons, now the property of the Third Reich.

  Alarm bells began ringing throughout the building. There was one in the hall, right above the official’s desk. It was deafening. I couldn’t even hear myself think. A few rounds from my Sten silenced it and punched a nasty hole in the plaster of the wall. The official began to shake from head to foot.

  From elsewhere in the building panic-stricken shouts reached our ears. We didn’t have much time. Loki loosened Amélie and Jacques’ bindings, and I handed them Stens and clips of ammunition. With his revolver pressed into the official’s neck, Max took delight in leaning over the desk and politely asking where Odette Ravoir was being held and where in the château the Lefebvres were located. Alone and hopelessly outnumbered, the official was soon spilling the beans. Monsieur and Madame Lefebvre’s room, he informed us, was on the third floor in the east wing.

  ‘I know the way,’ said Jacques. ‘I’ll go and get them.’ He turned and charged up the stairs.

  Gunfire broke out in the grounds of the château. The paratroopers had begun landing and were fighting their way to the cliff top, the location of the radar installation. We had to move fast. ‘The cellars are that way!’ Amélie shouted, pointing to a side door. ‘Through there. It’s a, erm, a servants’ hall. At the end there are steps.’

  Two soldiers appeared on the other side of the entrance hall. Loki and I opened fire and dealt with them.

  ‘Go and get Freya!’ Max shouted. ‘Amélie and I will stay here and keep our escape route clear. Well, don’t just stand there, Finn, get a move on!’

  Together, Loki and I rushed through the side door and pounded down the inner hallway. There were lots of doors to choose from. ‘Amélie said the one at the end!’ I shouted breathlessly. Reaching it, Loki pressed himself up against the wall and held his Sten in readiness as I reached for the handle. I flung open the door and was confronted by a spiral stone staircase. Hurrying as fast as we could, we twisted downwards. I began to feel giddy and had to reach out for the handrail to steady myself. At the bottom we burst through another door and found ourselves entering the château’s cellars. They were vast, comprising long passageways with whitewashed walls and arched ceilings lit by a string of lamps. On both sides lay cavernous recesses, many of which stored thousands of dusty, cobweb-laden bottles of wine on tall racks. I saw the four guards immediately. They were crouching, weapons poised and ready for trouble. They’d undoubtedly heard the alarms.

  Had we not been in German uniform I think they would have opened fire without hesitation. But they did hesitate, thinking we were on their side. ‘Schnell!’ Loki yelled. ‘Odette Ravoir. Wo ist sie?’

  Though clearly confused, the guards relaxed slightly, one gesturing towards a series of heavy iron doors behind them. The others appeared to be looking past us, as if expecting partisans to arrive on our heels. ‘Was ist los?’ one asked nervously. They hadn’t figured out that a whole heap of trouble had already arrived and was standing before them. Together, Loki and I lifted our Stens and let them have it. The loud rat-a-tat-tats echoed and reverberated in the confined space. Wayward bullets pinged as they ricocheted. Dozens of bottles shattered, shards of glass flying in all directions, and gallons of red wine spraying into the air. It looked as if there was blood everywhere, but mostly it was 1934 Château Rochefort burgundy.

  Lifting a bunch of heavy keys from a hook on the wall, Loki called out to Freya and we heard her muffled replies from inside a cell. The third key we tried turned in the lock and Loki shoved open the door. ‘Freya!’

  She was in a wretched state, her clothes torn, her face bruised, but it was her eyes that captured and held my attention. They were defiant, full of fire and determination. I knew she’d resisted, that she’d said nothing, that she’d managed to hold out. Loki seized her tightly and they hugged.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked
.

  Over Loki’s shoulder she nodded to me. ‘Yes, Finn. I’m all right. I knew you’d come.’

  ‘Well you two can save it for later,’ I said. ‘Right now we’ve got to get the hell out of here.’ I prised them apart and handed Freya my Sten, removing another from my shoulder bag as we ran back through the cellar.

  ‘Wait,’ Freya called out. ‘There are others here. We can’t leave them to die.’ Grabbing the bunch of keys from Loki, she fumbled desperately with them as she hurried to unlock the other cells. The ragged, beaten and broken prisoners slowly emerged from their dark holes, all unsure quite what was happening.

  There were four of them, three men and a woman. I berated myself for my unkind thoughts – that in their state they’d slow us down. I remembered Amélie saying that a dozen partisans had been arrested in the last week alone. About to ask where the others might be, I stopped myself. I think I already knew the answer – in the woods to the east of Rochefort with bullets in their heads. ‘We’ll have to get them to the boats somehow,’ I said.

  We made our way back to the entrance hall. The others were waiting for us; Amélie was hugging a middle-aged woman – Madame Lefebvre, I presumed. Wearing a sickly yellow dressing gown, her hair dishevelled from sleep, she looked frail and bewildered.

  ‘Where’s your father, Jacques?’ Loki asked.

  ‘Mother says he’s working late in his laboratory.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll have to fetch him.’ Jacques studied the four partisans we’d just released, nodding hello to two of them. Evidently he knew them, and I wondered if he’d been responsible for their capture. If he had, then it must have been a strange moment for him to see them reappear before his eyes, like ghosts returning to haunt him.

  Deciding now was the time to dispense with our uniforms, Max, Loki and I put down our weapons and hurriedly began tearing them off. We could still hear gunfire. Jacques and Amélie slipped outside to see what was happening. Freya covered the other doorways in the hall with her Sten while we changed.

  I was midway through yanking my outer trousers off when I caught a whiff of something odd and strangely familiar – strawberries! Someone behind me cleared their throat extremely loudly, almost theatrically. Instinctively I looked round and then up the sweeping staircase. Renard! He was pointing his pistol at me. To his left was Véronique. Her pistol was trained on Freya. I froze, as did Loki on spotting them. Freya was willing to have a go at shooting but I shook my head at her. Véronique would have beaten her to the trigger.

  ‘So what do we have here?’ Renard began, casting his eyes over the partisans. ‘A rescue attempt? I must congratulate you on getting this far. Bravo! Unfortunately this is as far as you go.’

  Jacques and Amélie came back in through the front door, spotted Renard and stopped dead in their tracks. I don’t know who appeared more surprised, Jacques or Renard. But it was Renard who reacted quickest, bringing his pistol to bear and forcing Jacques and Amélie to drop their weapons.

  Renard was also first to speak. ‘Jacques, I’m most disappointed. I was hoping to recruit you, but I see you’ve already made up your mind about which side you’re on. Still, never mind. I must admit, I did think it was a little strange bumping into you back in London. A bit too much of a coincidence. I should have realized you were on to me. What are you, SIS?’

  ‘No. Special Operations.’

  Renard looked blank. ‘Never heard of them,’ he declared. Then he sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Jacques, but you do realize this is the end of the road for you. For old time’s sake I wish I could let you go, but alas my work in England isn’t yet finished. I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoot you along with everyone else.’

  I noticed Véronique squinting at me. I think she suddenly recognized me from The Melksham hotel incident. Because of it, I resigned myself to being second on Renard’s list for execution.

  ‘Cover me, Véronique,’ Renard ordered. He strode down the steps towards Jacques. When he was three feet from him, he stopped and held his pistol at arm’s length, the barrel almost touching Jacques’ head. ‘Adieu, Jacques!’

  Madame Lefebvre and Amélie screamed, and the other partisans shielded their faces in horror.

  A single shot rang out.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The Great Escape

  A TINY WISP of smoke wafted from the end of the pistol’s barrel. Only it wasn’t the barrel of Renard’s gun, but Véronique’s!

  Renard slumped to the floor. Véronique’s shot had struck him in the temple. From a distance of about thirty feet it was a tricky shot with no room for error. It was by far the best shot I’d ever seen with a handgun. Madame Lefebvre ran and embraced Jacques, sobbing hysterically.

  I looked at Véronique as she descended the rest of the stairs. She smiled at me. ‘Hello, Finn,’ she said coolly. ‘I had a feeling we’d meet again.’

  Jacques prised himself from his mother’s grasp and called out angrily, ‘Why did you leave it to the last possible second? That was far too close for comfort. Supposing you’d missed. I’d be dead!’

  ‘I never miss,’ she replied. ‘Now, shouldn’t we get out of here?’

  Filing out of the door, we took up defensive positions at the top of the steps behind low walls. I scanned the scene. Our truck remained where we’d left it. Straight ahead of us the mile-long drive stretched off into the night and towards the road to Rochefort and Le Havre. The restricted area and our route to the beach lay to our right. The sounds of gunfire came from that direction too. This wasn’t going to be easy. ‘We should use the truck,’ Max suggested. ‘Ram our way through the gates to the restricted area. It’s got to be better than risking going across several hundred yards of open ground. The other partisans are in no fit state to fight or run that distance.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Load everyone up. Get them to lie down on the floor. Freya, Amélie and Véronique, you three offer covering fire out the back. Loki and Jacques, you two hang onto the doors of the cab. Max, drop us off at the entrance to the laboratories.’

  Once we’d climbed into the truck Max revved fiercely and wasted little time in driving towards the barbed-wire fencing and the arc lights bordering the restricted area. I could see flat-roofed, single-storey, partially buried buildings beyond – the laboratories. The gate had already been blown open, the twisted remains dangling on bent hinges. Soldiers from both sides lay dead in our path. Max swerved to avoid them. Small fires – the aftermath of the explosions – lit the night with a flickering orange glow. ‘Stop here!’ Jacques shouted, pointing to a doorway.

  Max slammed on the brakes. Jacques and Loki jumped down and I tumbled out of the cab. ‘Don’t hang around, Max. Try and get as close to the cliff top as you can!’ I swung the door shut.

  The entrance to the Mouton laboratories was closed but the lock proved no match for the drilling burst of fire from my Sten. Loki kicked the door in and the three of us advanced down one whitewashed corridor after another, alarm bells ringing in our ears, our guns poised, our hearts in our mouths.

  Jacques knew the way and led us through labs containing long benches piled high with amazing equipment that hummed and buzzed, and lines of radio valves that glowed like weak light bulbs. Vacuum pumps clacked and snorted. Bright-green dots tracked their way across the screens of cathode-ray tubes and the needles of a hundred dials flicked back and forth while tiny lights winked at us from the depths of a bird’s-nest tangle of wiring. The place was deserted.

  Jacques reached another door. ‘This is Father’s office – at least it was before they took him to Berlin.’ He grabbed the handle, twisted it and threw the door open.

  Inside we found a frightened Monsieur Lefebvre with a handful of his fellow scientists and technicians huddled together in one corner. At the sight of Jacques, he looked astonished; holding out his arms, he ran and hugged his son. Jacques spoke quickly to his father and I struggled to understand what he was saying, although I think he mentioned
something about rescuing him and about fulfilling promises he’d made a long time ago. Monsieur Lefebvre was overcome with emotion.

  Loki ordered the others to lie on the floor. There simply wasn’t time to work out whose side they were on.

  Still grasped in a bear hug, Jacques informed his father that he was taking the family on a very long holiday to England, a prospect that was greeted favourably by Monsieur Lefebvre, especially when he was told that within about half an hour the whole site was going to be blown to smithereens.

  ‘The blueprints,’ I shouted. ‘Where are the blueprints for the magnetron?’

  Jacques tore himself free and repeated my question to his father in French. Excitedly Monsieur Lefebvre rummaged through a filing cabinet, yanked out the stolen documents and handed them to Jacques, who hurriedly stuffed them inside his jacket.

  ‘Can we get the hell out of here now, please?’ Loki pleaded. ‘The boats are due to leave in twenty minutes.’

  Outside the laboratories the gunfire had grown louder and was interspersed with the flashes and thunderous cracks of grenades and mortar fire. I feared the worst. Our paratroopers were engaged in a ferocious firefight with German troops from the barracks. They had to hold them off. They needed to keep the gully to the beach open or everyone would be trapped on the cliff top.

  Monsieur Lefebvre showed us a short cut between the laboratory buildings. Zigzagging from one area of moon shadow to the next, we hurried as fast as Monsieur Lefebvre could run. He was out of shape and quickly began gasping for breath.

  Approaching the edge of the laboratory complex, I took the lead, racing on ahead, slamming myself up against the wall, ready to risk taking a peek towards the radar installation and cliff top. I could hear an engine, and voices too. As the others reached my shoulder, I glanced round the corner and let out a cry of fright.

  Our truck stood thirty feet in front of me. Its engine was running but its windscreen was shattered and the canvas awning was on fire. The driver’s door was off its hinges and Max was kneeling on the ground beside it, his face splattered with blood. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he cried. ‘We’re Special Ops. We’re on your side. Don’t shoot!’