by Kate Mosse
There was a man in front of him complaining about the length of the queues in the post office. He turned, half knocked into Raoul, then frowned. He exchanged a look with the tobacconist, looked hard at Raoul, then left quickly. Raoul told himself not to read anything into it, it was just one of those things. Small towns like this, all strangers were treated with suspicion.
‘Do you have tobacco to buy?’ he said. ‘Cigarettes?’
‘Rations only.’
‘Not for cash?’
The tobacconist looked at him. ‘I can’t help.’
Raoul shrugged. ‘A box of matches anyway,’ he said, handing over a note. ‘And if you could point me in the direction of Coustaussa.’
The tobacconist looked at him. ‘New around here?’
‘Passing through.’
He came out from behind his counter. ‘Right out of the door. Long road with trees. You’ll see Coustaussa on the hill, left-hand side.’
The tobacconist stood in the doorway, watching him go. Raoul felt his eyes on the back of his neck. He looked back in time to see the man turn the sign on the door to CLOSED, leave the tabac and cross the square in the opposite direction.
Already Raoul regretted mentioning Coustaussa, but he told himself he was making something out of nothing. He found an unmade path running parallel to the main road running east. Bicycle tracks suggested someone had taken the same route earlier, a single line snaking up towards the village. He hadn’t seen a single patrol, but he’d be less visible away in this quiet neighbourhood. Small houses with neat back gardens, neither quite in the town nor properly in the countryside.
Raoul tried to bring Sandrine’s face to mind. She’d been his constant companion over the past three weeks, snapshots of their brief time together carried in his head like treasured photographs in an album. But today, it didn’t work. His memories were less strong than the twist of fear in his stomach. What if Coursan had already tracked Sandrine down in Carcassonne? His fault. What if she was in Coustaussa, but was horrified to see him? She’d had three weeks to regret the invitation, more than three weeks when anything might have happened.
In the distance, Raoul heard the thrum of an engine. His reactions sharpened. A car driving in the same direction he was walking. Thoughts about the future gave way to the needs of the present. He glanced around, but there was nowhere obvious to hide. Gardens, the open track, few trees for cover. Then he noticed, a little way ahead, a small, squat building, an electricity substation.
He sped up, covering the last few metres quickly, and stepped into the shadow of the building, moments before a police car appeared on the track behind him. Sending gravel skidding, the tyres crunching on the rough surface, disappearing in a cloud of dust on the road leading up to Coustaussa. Raoul leant back against the whitewashed wall, his heart thudding in his chest, remembering the sharp eyes of the customer in the tabac and the glance he’d exchanged with the owner. He’d no way of knowing whether they’d recognised him or simply reported him because he was a stranger in a town that did not welcome outsiders. He looked down at his clothes, dirty from the road, remembered his unshaven, sun-worn face.
Should he go on? The police car was heading in the same direction. Was he a coward to contemplate turning back or simply being prudent?
He looked back at the houses on the outskirts of Couiza, trying to decide what to do. Then he turned and looked along the empty road. There was a slight trace of dust still hanging in the air, whipped up by the tyres. The memory of sitting side by side in the garden of the rue du Palais came back to him. How when he’d described standing on the jetty in Banyuls, being too much of a coward to jump, Sandrine had said she thought it took more courage to go on than to give up.
He carried on walking.
Chapter 72
COUSTAUSSA
‘How do you feel now?’ Sandrine said, joining Monsieur Baillard and Marieta on the terrace.
‘I would feel better if everyone stopped fussing,’ Marieta said, though she didn’t look like she really minded.
‘Doctor’s orders,’ Sandrine smiled. ‘We’re not going to let you lift a finger.’
‘Doctors, what do they know?’ she said gruffly. ‘Now, did you speak to Madomaisèla Marianne?’
The smile slipped from Sandrine’s face. ‘No, as a matter of fact. No one there. I’ll go back later. She doesn’t even know what happened to you and . . .’ She stopped. ‘I’d like to be sure everything’s all right.’
‘And why wouldn’t it be?’ Marieta said sharply.
‘No reason. It’s just odd that there wasn’t anyone there again, that’s all.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Liesl?’
‘She went to call on Madame Rousset,’ Baillard replied. ‘Her son – Yves, is it? – came for her.’
Sandrine grinned. ‘Did he indeed?’
She put her panier down on the table. ‘I got everything you asked for, Monsieur Baillard. And this package they had put by for you in the bookshop, as you’d asked.’ She took a parcel wrapped in brown paper from the basket. ‘There was more in the shops than I’d expected. It’s not like that in Carcassonne.’
Baillard slit the string with a knife and opened the package, then nodded with satisfaction.
‘Yes, this will do.’
‘What is it?’
‘It is a stock of paper they were keeping for me. Nowhere near old enough, of course but, with modification, I think it will pass.’
‘The bookshop owner said she had been keeping it for you for some time, but how is that—’
‘It was kind of her to remember,’ Baillard said, forestalling Sandrine’s question. He put his hand on Marieta’s shoulder. ‘Do you need anything, amica, otherwise, if you will beg our patience, Madomaisèla Sandrine and I have things to discuss.’
‘Go, go,’ she smiled, making a shooing motion with her hands. ‘I will be quite all right.’
Sandrine picked up her basket and she and Baillard carried everything into the house and unpacked it. As well as provisions and several sheets of woven cream paper, there was a heavy bottle of sirop, a bottle of Indian ink and a horsehair brush.
‘So do you know who murdered Antoine, Monsieur Baillard?’
‘No, not for certain,’ he said. ‘Over the past twenty years or so there has been a great deal of activity in the area around the caves of Lombrives and the Pic de Vicdessos. All such licences were rescinded when war was declared but, once the Armistice was signed, several expeditions returned. A French team funded by the head of an old Chartres family – a man called de l’Oradore – among them. But Antoine’s father said the man asking after his son was German, so . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Surely there can’t be German teams allowed here now?’
‘Not officially, of course, but unofficially, I think it’s probable,’ Baillard replied. ‘The question is whether they are collaborating with one another or working independently.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It is common knowledge that the Ahnenerbe are in the region.’
‘What’s the Ahnenerbe?’
Baillard’s face hardened. ‘An organisation dedicated to finding evidence validating Nazi beliefs of an Aryan race. To that end they have archaeologists all over the world searching for artefacts, for religious texts.’
He broke off and Sandrine saw his amber eyes darken, as if some other, more powerful story had claimed his attention. Then he waved his hand, chasing away his memories.
‘Antoine was friends with a young German, Otto Rahn, who lived at Montségur for some time. A young man in search of meaning. Rahn believed he had found it here, in the Pays d’Oc. Flattered into joining the SS, he was coerced into feeding information back to Berlin.’ The thought lines furrowed deeper on his forehead. ‘It is my intention to do the same, except of course the information we will provide will be false.’
Sandrine looked at the antique paper, then suddenly understood Baillard’s odd shopping list.
‘You’re going to create a forgery,’ she said.
‘And put out that it’s been found in order to flush out Antoine’s killers . . .’ She paused. ‘Or . . . to leave you free to search unhindered for the real Codex? Is that it?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So you do believe it survived,’ she murmured. ‘I wasn’t certain if you did.’
Sandrine looked down at the materials on the table. ‘But can you really make something convincing enough to persuade an expert?’
‘I think I can do well enough for our immediate purposes. Why Antoine’s body has been found now, whether it was deliberate or unintended, I do not know. However, I think matters will accelerate because of it. I have a contact in Toulouse who will help, a leading French expert on ancient manuscripts and documents in the Languedoc. He will verify its authenticity.’
‘But if you’re right, and it’s Nazi money behind this – or even a mixture of French and German – surely they’ll send it to their own experts? However cleverly you produce the forgery, it’s obviously not parchment or papyrus, or whatever the real Codex was made of.’
‘Eventually they will send it to the Ahnenerbe, yes. But they will not wish to run the risk of drawing Reichsführer Himmler’s attention to it until they are completely certain it is genuine.’
Sandrine thought for a moment, but since she realised she would go along with whatever plan Monsieur Baillard put in place anyway, she then sat down and folded her arms on the table.
‘What do you need me to do?’
Baillard stared at her. ‘This is not a game, madomaisèla,’ he said sternly. ‘You cannot be under any illusions. If you become involved with this deception, you put yourself in danger. You understand this?’
Sandrine thought of Antoine’s desperate face, the weight of his body as she dragged him to the riverbank, the words he had fought so hard to say.
‘I’m already involved, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said quietly. ‘So, tell me what I can do.’
She saw his eyes soften.
‘What?’ she said quickly. ‘What is it?’
He smiled. ‘Nothing, filha. It is merely that you remind me of someone.’
‘Léonie, yes,’ Sandrine said. ‘Marieta mentioned her yesterday. She thought I was her, I think.’
Baillard shook his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking of Léonie.’
‘Then who?’
For an instant, she thought he hadn’t heard. He sat so still, his hands resting flat on the table, not a muscle moving. Then he gave a long and weary sigh.
‘Alaïs,’ he said finally. ‘Her name was Alaïs.’
Chapter 73
TARASCON
The two men stood beside Bauer’s car outside the railway station in Tarascon. Laval’s motorbike was parked in the shadow of the trees a little further away. There were freight deliveries coming in and the station was busier than usual. No one noticed them.
Laval handed over the file on Marianne Vidal – with additional information on Lucie Ménard and Sandrine Vidal – then reported what had taken place since Bauer and Authié’s meeting at the cimetière Saint-Michel.
‘Pelletier has the key?’
Laval shrugged. ‘Sanchez had no idea.’
The German looked down at the file in his hand. ‘Herr Authié told me he thought the girl was not involved. He was lying?’
‘No, that was his opinion then. Subsequently he has reconsidered.’
‘You are certain she cannot identify you.’
‘Yes.’
Bauer stared at him. ‘Do you think Déjean said anything to her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You have spoken to this girl?’
‘No. As soon as we’d identified her, the house in Carcassonne was put under surveillance. She isn’t there, though her sister is. Authié’s trying to find her.’
‘And this Pelletier?’
‘We’re still looking for him.’
‘What about the Jew and his girlfriend?’
‘Blum is in Le Vernet. Lucie Ménard is in Carcassonne. She was the one who identified Sandrine Vidal for us.’
Bauer frowned. ‘In my absence, two of my men were arrested and taken there also. Do you know anything about this incident?’
‘I wasn’t in Tarascon when it happened, Herr Bauer.’
Bauer waved his hand impatiently. ‘You hear things, Laval.’
Laval shrugged. ‘As I heard it, they were indiscreet. Got into a fight in a bar over a girl. The local police, unaware of their privileged status, arrested them.’
‘I shall expect Authié to expedite their release.’
Laval nodded. ‘I will make sure he is appraised of the situation.’ He could see Bauer suspected some kind of sleight of hand, but was struggling to work out what it was.
‘Herr Authié has returned to Carcassonne?’
‘On Tuesday,’ Laval replied. ‘He’s suspicious.’
‘Of you?’
‘Of you, Bauer. He thinks you intended Déjean’s body to be found.’
‘That’s absurd.’ Bauer’s pupils dilated slightly. ‘Has he any reason for thinking so?’
Laval held his gaze. ‘Not from me. I can’t answer for your men.’
‘They know how to hold their tongues.’
‘The guards in Le Vernet can be persuasive.’
‘They will not talk.’
Laval paused, then said: ‘Did you intend Déjean to be found?’
‘Of course I did not,’ Bauer snapped. He dabbed again at his neck, which was glistening with sweat. ‘A poacher was using dynamite for setting traps. It caused the land to give way.’
‘It was a coincidence that you buried the body where the French team was working.’
Bauer didn’t answer.
‘It’s what Authié thinks.’
‘It is none of your concern, Laval,’ Bauer said, spittle forming in the corner of his mouth. ‘You are in the business of buying and selling information. That is the limit of your interest.’
He put his hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. ‘It is as agreed.’
Laval slit open the package with his bone-handled clasp knife and counted the notes. He was not unhappy with the situation. It was easy to fan Bauer’s suspicions about Authié’s reliability. The less they trusted one another, the better for him in the long run. He put the knife back on his belt and looked up to see Bauer staring at him.
‘I do not either like or trust Authié,’ Bauer said, ‘but I do understand him. You, Laval, your motivation is not clear to me.’
‘Nothing to understand, Herr Bauer,’ he said, rubbing his fingers together. ‘You claim to act out of duty to your masters in Berlin, that you’re following orders. Authié claims to act in the name of faith. You both make pretence of higher motives to justify what you are doing. You are both prepared to torture, to kill, to do anything to get what you want.’ Laval put the envelope in his pocket. ‘I, at least, am not a hypocrite.’
Chapter 74
COUSTAUSSA
Sandrine and Audric Baillard looked up at the sound of the knocking at the door, both immediately alert. The evidence of their labours – paper, a dish filled with castor oil and hair dye, ink, old tallow wax candles and a box of matches – covered the table.
Sandrine didn’t expect trouble in Coustaussa, but her stomach lurched all the same.
‘Do you want me to go?’ called Liesl from the terrace. She had come back from visiting the Roussets in a cheerful mood.
‘Best if I do,’ Sandrine answered, standing up.
Without appearing to hurry, Baillard gathered up the things and carried them across the room. Sandrine opened the sideboard, moved a couple of boxes to one side to make space, then helped him put everything away out of sight.
‘I shall sit with Marieta,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it’s only a neighbour,’ said Sandrine, though she felt nervous as she walked along the corridor to
the front door. In the old days, it always stood open. Now, they kept it closed.
Marieta’s Bible was still lying on the hall table. Sandrine’s hand hovered over it, suddenly tempted to look inside. She traced her fingers over the battered leather cover, rough beneath her skin, then jumped at three more heavy blows on the door.
‘All right, all right,’ she muttered under her breath.
Cross with herself for being so edgy, she covered the last few steps quickly and pulled open the door more forcefully than she intended.
‘Mademoiselle.’
Sandrine felt the air had been sucked from her lungs. For a split second she struggled to catch her breath, staring at the uniforms, the police car in the empty street behind. What did they want? Why were they here? She didn’t recognise either of the officials, though she supposed they came from Couiza.
She forced herself to smile, not to shake. ‘What can I do for you, officers?’
To her own ears her voice sounded unnaturally high, but they didn’t seem to notice.
‘We have reason to believe a fugitive is in the vicinity and heading for Coustaussa,’ the younger man said. ‘We’re here to warn residents.’
‘Have you seen any strangers in the village?’ the older man demanded. ‘It’s your duty to report anything suspicious.’
Sandrine had to stop herself from laughing out loud. They hadn’t come for Liesl or to question her about the false papers. Nothing to do with them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone.’
‘The man in question has dark hair and a beard, wearing a brown trilby hat.’
Sandrine gave a jolt as a thought scuttled across her mind, but it was gone before she could catch hold of it.
The older officer narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you seen anyone fitting that description, mademoiselle?’
