by C. T. Wells
***
Terese slowed the truck as they passed over a particularly rutted section of road. The vehicle behind them drew closer, before pulling back and keeping its distance. Edouard studied the vehicle as they drove through fields towards a tract of woodland.
Edouard had always had an eye for cars. Even at a distance he could recognise it as a Mercedes–Benz 260D—the sort used in the early morning raid on the farm. ‘We’re being followed.’
Terese stiffened. ‘What will we do?’
‘Just keep driving. If they had wanted to intercept us, they could have done so by now.’
‘How will we get away?’ Terese’s knuckles showed white as she gripped the wheel.
‘Just let me think,’ snapped Edouard. There was a carload of Gestapo agents on their tail, and he was lumbered with a panicky woman in a decrepit old truck. He made some calculations in his head and reached for the attaché case. Opening it on his lap, he checked the load in the automatic, then started work with the remaining plastic explosive and detonator pencils.
‘What is that smell?’ asked Terese.
Edouard pressed his thumb into the explosive, readying it for a timer pencil. ‘A little gift for the Gestapo.’
***
Inspekteur Reile looked Brandt in the eye. ‘I will be interviewing all the Luftwaffe personnel on this list, Herr Staffelkapitan.’
The new squadron leader was a cocky piece of work. He had looked at the Gestapo agent’s identity papers much longer than necessary, just for the sake of rudeness.
‘What would be the nature of your enquiry?’ Brandt turned his attention to Boelcke, sizing him up.
Boelcke glared back at him. He could be counted on to look menacing.
‘That is a police matter actually but it relates to the death of your officer, Hauptmann Claus Langer.’ Reile stepped into the shade of the estate house’s portico and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I just require some time with each one on the list.’
Brandt’s expression changed and he scanned the list. Maybe he was being more cooperative because the investigation was about Langer. ‘Most of them are here. You can speak to them.’
‘Most of them?’ frowned Reile. ‘Where are the others?’
‘You know about Langer. Wedermeyer is on the bottom of the ocean. Schiller is in the infirmary with a broken nose ...’
A Messerschmitt roared down the runway and lifted off, the bold white five unmistakable against the mottled camouflage. It thundered past and they watched as it lifted off the ground and the landing gear swiftly vanished into the wings.
Brandt waited for the noise to die down. ‘And Schafer …’ He pointed up at the 109 banking away from the airfield. ‘… is up there.’
The three men squinted into the glare, watching the fighter plane.
Brandt shrugged. ‘He wanted a flight test before we’re back on active.’
Reile watched the rapidly diminishing Messerschmitt coldly. ‘Very well. I’ll start with you.’
***
Edouard surveyed the landscape ahead. It was a pleasant scene; a quiet road through a beech forest with the sunlight filtering through green leaves and dappling the ground. The curving road and dense tree line would serve his purposes well. With the attaché case on his lap he worked fast. He used the pliers to crimp a detonator pencil and inserted it into a block of plastic explosive. When it was ready he closed the case and lodged it in the footwell of the truck. Then he carefully checked his watch.
Terese’s eyes flicked back and forth between him and the road. ‘What’s the plan?’
Edouard stuffed the pistol into his jacket pocket. ‘Just keep driving slowly. When I say, I want you to slow right down and I will jump out. Drive on for another minute. Half a kilometre. Then stop. The Gestapo will approach a couple of minutes later, but stay calm. Whatever happens, stay in the truck. I will deal with the Germans.’
‘I trust you, Edouard.’
‘Bless you, Terese. Anton would be proud of you. Are you ready?’
‘Oui.’
‘Remember, stay in the truck. Around this next bend, slow down.’
Terese slowed the Renault and, as soon as they passed the apex of the bend, Edouard opened the door and stepped onto the running board. He shut the door again while he perched on the side of the car. Springing from the moving vehicle, he landed on the verge of the road and rolled beneath the low branches of a tree.
The old Renault drove away along the dirt road, throwing up dust. Edouard stayed low in the shadows for another minute until the black Mercedes came around the bend and followed the Renault into the quiet, wooded valley.
Edouard crawled through to the other side of the tree and started jogging through the woods in the same direction as the vehicles, keeping out of sight. He got glimpses of the road, and could see that Terese had estimated well as the old truck drew to a halt in the middle of the road. He just hoped she stayed in the truck.
Running faster, he pulled the automatic from his pocket as he saw the Mercedes approaching the farm truck. It was close now, and Edouard checked his watch.
The Mercedes drew to a halt fifty metres behind the Renault. Three black–coated Gestapo men got out, machine pistols in their hands. There was a fourth man still at the wheel of the Mercedes.
Edouard was still well over a hundred metres behind, but he ran on through the trees, trying to keep tabs on each of the men. He thumbed off the safety. He would have to get all four of them. He glanced at his watch. Any second. He watched the lead Gestapo agent approach the driver’s window.
Edouard drew almost level with the Mercedes. He was out of breath and he leaned against the bole of a tree, gasping and trying to steady his hand. He glanced at his watch. Nine minutes. And it was hot. He covered his ears, awkwardly holding the pistol in one hand.
The Gestapo man on the driver’s side shouted something, but it was lost in the flash and crack of the explosion. The plastic explosive in the footwell of the truck blew the Renault’s cab to pieces. Terese was incinerated immediately and the metal fragments of the cab shredded the three Gestapo agents alongside the truck. In the second that followed, the fuel tank blew up and momentarily engulfed the truck in a fireball.
Edouard peered around the tree, his heart pounding. The truck was a twisted mass of metal panels with the noxious smoke of burning rubber drifting across the road. The fourth Gestapo man stepped out of the Mercedes, clearly disoriented by the blast. He staggered forward trying to find his comrades. Edouard stepped out onto the road and levelled the automatic. He shot the driver twice in the back.
Four down.
Edouard approached the vehicles. The Renault was unrecognisable. The Mercedes, however, was almost unscathed. Some of the shrapnel had peppered the hood and one of the headlights was cracked. He confirmed that all the Gestapo men were dead, putting a bullet through the skull of one, just to be sure. He didn’t care to look in the remnant of the cab, but it was not necessary. Terese could not have survived. She had been less than a metre from where he had placed the case in the footwell.
Edouard pocketed the pistol and walked back to the Mercedes. He found the key in the ignition. He settled into the comfortable driver’s seat and put the vehicle into gear. It would be easy to cruise south to freedom in a German vehicle. He paused for a moment to check that he still had the title deed to Joubert’s Farm in his jacket pocket. It was prime country. Should be worth a small fortune. Content, he started the Mercedes. Such a better ride than the farm truck.
He had to drive carefully around the smoking carnage on the road before he could accelerate away. He also noted his hands weren’t shaking at all.
He revelled in the thought of his vengeance being whispered amongst the Résistance. One day it would be legend and the likes of Martin and Giselle Alegre would respect him when they learnt the truth about Edouard Tierney. He
laughed out loud. It was Le Spectre’s finest achievement to date.
XXXIV
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Jurgen Brandt placed a cigarette on his lips and reached for his lighter.
‘Yes, I do mind.’ Reile eyed him from the other side of a dining table.
Brandt paused, surprised.
‘Smoke later,’ suggested Boelcke.
Reile flicked a glance at his partner. Hypocrite. He returned his gaze to the fighter pilot. Brandt was staring down Boelcke. He showed his contempt for the Gestapo agent with an exaggerated display of returning the cigarette to his pocket. In its place he pulled a white tablet from his pocket and tossed it into his mouth.
Reile sighed. There were two giant egos in the room, and both were getting in the way of his investigation. Whatever pill Brandt had just taken probably wouldn’t help things. He decided he better get on with the interview before Brandt became even more irritable and delusional. He locked his eyes on Brandt’s. ‘I intend to ask you about Hauptmann Claus Langer.’
Brandt rocked back in his chair. ‘He was an experte. Twelve kills.’
‘Rest assured that we got his murderer. Herr Boelcke, here, was the one who shot him.’ Maybe he could remind them that they were on the same side. ‘Langer was killed because he knew something about a link to résistance operatives.’
‘What did he know?’ Brandt was finally showing some degree of cooperation.
‘A name maybe. A suspicion. That’s what we want to find out. The résistance used Langer’s uniform to infiltrate a Luftwaffe installation.’
Brandt frowned. He looked genuinely surprised by the fact.
‘I need to know who from JG27 had access to Langer’s uniform.’
‘Could be anyone. Maybe one of the household staff. A maid.’
Reile nodded. True. Any number of people could have stolen a uniform. He had another line of enquiry. ‘I also want to know who accessed a Citroën staff car from the motor pool. Your motor pool cannot find the record of one being used yesterday. But somebody used it, and it wasn’t a maid.’
‘That’s easy.’
‘Who? Give me a name.’
‘Shaka.’
‘Who?’
‘Josef Schafer. He was Langer’s wingman. Schafer visited him in the hospital yesterday. He took a staff car.’
‘Schafer? The one flying right now?’
‘Yes.’
‘When will he be back?’
Brandt shrugged. ‘He only has around an hour of fuel, but it won’t take that long to do a trim check.’
‘We’ll wait.’
‘You think Josef has something to do with the résistance? With Langer’s death?’
‘Herr Schafer is in it up to his eyeballs. And Willi, here, is rather gifted at helping people to share their feelings.’
Boelcke smiled cruelly.
‘You think Josef is in league with the enemy?’ Brandt’s lip curled. ‘That’s stupid. I’ve seen him shoot down Englishmen. He is a fighter pilot … his loyalty to the Reich is beyond question. He has proven this in combat not twenty four hours ago.’
‘People are more complicated than you realise, Herr Staffelkapitan.’
***
Josef levelled the wings of White Five at fifteen hundred metres. Sunlight poured through the clouds and the Messerschmitt was in perfect trim, responding to his every touch. He was still over French soil but the vast emptiness of the ocean stretched out ahead, shimmering silver at the horizon.
It was time to be decisive. This would be his final flight; an aching farewell to every deep aspiration. But it had to end here. There had been too much regret, and there was only one way out. Josef fixed his eyes on the horizon and aimed the fighter towards oblivion.
***
The noise of an aero engine overhead woke Giselle. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The interior of the mill was filled with diagonal slashes of sunlight from the windows. It must be well into the afternoon. She had slept away much of the day, overcome with stress and fatigue.
Her first waking thoughts were of Josef. How stupid of her to think she could change him. And how wretched it was that war had forced Josef to become just another one of Hitler’s violent automatons. In different circumstances …
‘Sleeping Beauty arises.’ Martin was sitting against the wall with the MP–18 across his knees. A half–smoked Gauloises cigarette hung from his lip. She realised he had been watching over her, probably for hours.
‘I can’t believe it’s afternoon.’
‘Ah, it’s good you got some sleep. You may not get much tonight.’
Giselle nodded. It seemed strange that she would be leaving France. She had always wanted to visit England, but now she didn’t want to leave Martin. ‘How long do you think I’ll be in England?’
‘Maybe months. But you’ll come back ready to lead a new résistance. It will take a long time to rid France of Nazis. And if you can come back to train men and women it will be worth the time in England. If we are honest, the résistance is a rabble. Poorly trained. Under–equipped. Fragmented. We will need arms and ammunition from the allies and you will become the source.’
Giselle smiled. ‘Six months ago I thought I was training to be a music teacher. Now you think I’ll become some sort of commando.’
‘A career change can be very refreshing. You will be free from all those oppressive waltzes and minuets. You’ll be able to devote yourself fully to the art of eradicating Nazis.’
Giselle laughed. Martin had always had a keen sense of the absurd. ‘And you? What will happen to you?’
He was serious again, passion lighting his eyes. ‘Many résistance cells are gathering together in the south. I want to do my bit in uniting them to the common cause, forming up an Army of Free French. It might sound presumptuous, but I think I can do it …’
‘No, Martin. It is not presumptuous. You are a natural leader. You will gather them. Just don’t be reckless. You don’t have to be in the thick of the battle every time. And look after Edouard, won’t you?’
‘Ah, Edouard. What will we do with Edouard?’
‘Listen, he might be mixed up, but he has a good heart. It was kind of him to take Terese.’
‘I think you bring out the best in him. He wants to show you how noble he is.’
‘Then let him show me when I get back to France.’
Martin reached into the case they had brought up to the windmill. It contained some clothes and food grabbed from the farmhouse before their departure. It also contained Giselle’s clarinet. ‘Would you play for me?’ He offered her the instrument. ‘One more time. I know I always make fun of your playing but I’m going to miss it while you’re in England.’
Giselle smiled and reached for the clarinet. She held it tenderly, feeling the familiar smoothness of the African blackwood, and the coolness of the metal keys. It had been hers for a long time.
‘Maybe some of that jazz, something mellow to remind me of nights in the clubs. Take me back to ’39 …’
Giselle put the clarinet to her lips and played a low note.
Martin leant back against the stone wall and closed his eyes.
***
Reile sat in the parlour of the manor house occupied by the men of Jagdgeschwader 27. He was watching the empty airfield and regularly glancing at his watch. Over an hour had gone by and there was no sign of the Messerschmitt returning. Where was White Five?
Boelcke was outside, pacing back and forth and smoking like a chimney pot in winter. He was ready to take the fighter pilot into custody the moment he stepped out of his plane.
They had finished their questioning and everything pointed to the young pilot, Josef Schafer. He was South African, not fully German. That alone raised questions. He had recently spent three days in England, only to escape miraculously and find his way back to imm
ediate active service with JG27.
That made him the prime suspect, and a link to a dangerous résistance cell. However some pieces of contrary information had emerged from the interviews. Brandt and his staffel had made it clear Schafer was highly regarded as a fighter pilot. Different ones had commented on his courage in the air, his fast reactions, his aerobatic skill, his gunnery, his ruthlessness—all the attributes these men held in high regard. No–one acknowledged he was the better pilot. Still, in acknowledging Schafer’s skill, they could also maintain their own conceit.
Reile had listened to them one by one, trying to ignore the supreme confidence that coloured every comment. Their hauteur was immense. He had to see beyond their egos and their fanatical loyalty to establish facts.
Reile got the impression Schafer was distant from the other pilots. There was a brotherhood amongst them, but his comrades actually knew very little about his family or his background in South Africa. He was known as a good flyer, but not really known as a person beyond that.
Unlike many of the pilots, Schafer was not usually a hard drinker, though he had certainly joined the party last night. It seemed Schafer was not part of the inner circle that groups naturally formed—but in the eyes of his comrades his loyalty to the staffel was beyond question. Hadn’t he proven it in aerial combat? He was an experte!
The staffelkapitan himself had explained how Schafer had shot down three English aircraft in one sortie, which made it hard to believe he was entirely in league with the enemy … so Reile was forming the opinion that Feldwebel Josef Schafer had been coerced into assisting the local résistance cell.
What had happened to him in England? What kind of leverage had been applied? And, more importantly, where was he? Surely his Messerschmitt must be running out of fuel by now.
Reile stood at the window, scanning the sky above the strip. Still no sign of a Messerschmitt, though. Could Schafer have flown somewhere else? Flown the coop?
Reile’s thoughts were interrupted by a telephone ringing in an adjacent room. A Luftwaffe aide de camp stepped into the parlour.
‘Herr Inspekteur, there is a call for you …’
