by Kate Mosse
With a practised hand, she leant forward and lit the fuse, hearing the cord hiss. She gave it two seconds, to check it had taken, then blew out the match, shoved the box back into her pocket, and ran.
The railway lines were humming louder now. Soon the buzz would be overtaken by the sound of the engine as the train thundered closer. Sandrine drove herself on, heading for the only available cover in the thicket. There wasn’t enough time to get back to her hiding place. As she threw herself down the bank, she heard a small crump, not much louder than a shotgun in fields in August. Then a massive explosion rent the air. Sandrine felt the force of it like a hand in her back, as she half flew, half rolled down the slope.
She took a second to gather her thoughts, then looked up, desperate to see, the blast ringing in her ears. She heard the shriek of the brakes, then the sound of metal connecting with rubble and concrete, the noise of the collision and derailment echoing through the silent countryside. She raised her head, feeling the heat on her face, watching as a golden cloud of flame, red, blue, leapt into the air. White light sparking as the electricity cables popped and fizzed like the Catherine wheels and Roman candles that used to engulf the walls of the Cité in Carcassonne on Bastille Day before the war. Before the occupation.
Before this life.
Sandrine let her breath out, all feeling suspended for a moment. Then, as always, self-preservation kicked in. She inhaled again, then, forcing the power into her tired legs, she turned and fled. This time she didn’t stop until she reached the cover of the wood. The bag with her change of clothes was waiting where she’d left it. A nondescript summer dress in place of shirt and trousers, a working woman’s headscarf instead of the black beret. Only her rubber-soled shoes might look incongruous. She rolled the clothes into a bundle, unfolded a mesh shopping bag from her pocket, and put them in beneath two damp cloths and a duster. So long as she wasn’t stopped and her bag searched, there was no reason for anyone to think she wasn’t a cleaner on her way home after her Monday-night shift.
It wasn’t until she saw the towers of the Cité in the distance that Sandrine heard the first of the sirens. She looked down from the Aire de la Pépinière as a fire truck, followed by a Feldgendarmerie truck and a black Citroën Traction Avant, the car favoured by the Gestapo, shrieked along the route de Narbonne towards Berriac.
She took a moment to catch her breath, then quickly carried on towards home. Going through residential areas, where there was less likely to be patrols, she avoided the Wehrmacht checkpoints on the Pont Neuf and arrived back in the Bastide as the bells were striking one. She turned into the rue de Lorraine, rather than the rue du Palais, so that she could get in through the back. Her fingers were crossed – as they always were at the end of an operation – that the others had made it safely home too.
Carefully, Sandrine opened the gate and glanced up at the Fournier house next door, to check that no midnight watcher was there. The windows were dark, shutters closed. She crossed the garden and ran up the steps, stopping to listen at the door before going in.
She felt a rush of relief at the sound of voices inside, then a moment of caution. She could hear Marianne and Suzanne, but a man was talking too. Sandrine frowned. Robert Bonnet never came to the house. She hesitated a moment longer, then opened the screen door a fraction to look, to see who it could possibly be at this time of night.
She caught her breath. It had been eight weeks. Eight long weeks. She hadn’t been expecting him. With a smile and a slight stumble of her heart, she pulled off the headscarf, shook out her hair and went into the kitchen.
‘Hello,’ she said lightly.
Raoul stood up. ‘Ma belle.’
Chapter 101
CHARTRES
‘This way, monsieur,’ said the housekeeper.
Leo Authié followed her through the mahogany-panelled entrance hall, past the tapestries and the dimly lit glass display cases. A flight of grand wooden stairs led up to the private rooms on the first floor. Beneath them, a small door led to the extensive wine cellar, which was, Authié knew from his personal experience, as good now as before the war.
In the past two years, Authié had been invited to the rue du Cheval Blanc on several occasions. The courtesies were always the same. Outside, the consequences of months of bombing. Rubble in the streets, the airport destroyed and the threat of Allied forces advancing through western France from Normandy. Here, in the shadow of the great Gothic cathedral, nothing had changed.
‘Monsieur de l’Oradore will be with you shortly,’ said the housekeeper, showing him into the library.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking off his hat. Authié did not wear the uniform of the Milice, preferring to remain in civilian clothing as in his days of attachment to the Deuxième Bureau.
The library was more like a gentlemen’s club than a room in a private house, the atmosphere one of cigar smoke and old money. A large three-seat leather sofa stood beneath the window, and armchairs either side of the fireplace. The shutters were closed, with the blackout curtains drawn. A single lamp pooled yellow light on a side table. Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling along three sides of the room, with sliding book ladders set on metal rails in the oak floorboards.
‘Ah, Authié.’ François Cecil-Baptiste de l’Oradore walked into the room, his hand outstretched in greeting. ‘Forgive me for getting you out of bed at such an unconscionable hour.’
‘I was still up, monsieur,’ Authié replied. However cordial his host appeared to be, there was never any question of them being friends.
The two men were of a similar age, both in their mid thirties. But where Authié was of medium height and broadly built, de l’Oradore was very tall and thin. His black hair, touched with grey, was swept back from a high forehead and prominent cheekbones. He was, as always, immaculately dressed and had clearly come from dinner. A white dress shirt, bow tie, silver cufflinks just visible beneath the sleeves of his jacket, and a purple cummerbund. Like Authié, he wore a crucifix pin on his lapel.
‘Good of you to come all the same,’ de l’Oradore said, waving his hand to indicate that Authié should sit down. ‘Please.’
Whatever the matter was, it had to be serious for de l’Oradore to summon him at one o’clock in the morning.
‘Smoke?’ He offered a box of Cuban cigars.
Authié shook his head. ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Monsieur de l’Oradore?’
His host sat on the sofa and rested his arm along the back. ‘The situation in Chartres is, how shall I put it, precarious.’
‘But Montgomery and his troops have failed to advance,’ Authié said.
De l’Oradore waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’m sure the Panzer divisions are more than capable of containing them, yes,’ he said. ‘However, my most pressing concern is the question of safeguarding my collection. A great many of the pieces – in particular the thirteenth-century books and manuscripts – are irreplaceable.’
As well as the wine cellar, Authié was aware there were extensive other chambers beneath the house. In May, there had been an attempted burglary. Two Waffen-SS officers who had been dining with de l’Oradore that night in the rue du Cheval Blanc had shot the intruders. Authié had been summoned to dispose of the bodies.
He had never seen the extent of the underground space, but he knew de l’Oradore was one of the most successful private collectors in France. Jewellery, tapestries, medieval manuscripts. At the centre of his collection were objects acquired from Napoleon’s Egyptian expeditions at the end of the eighteenth century. Recently, these had been supplemented by pieces from the Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume in Paris, amongst other galleries. Works stolen from Jewish deportees and artists.
‘Do you not consider your storage facilities here to be adequate?’ Authié asked carefully.
‘They will be of little use should Allied troops reach the city.’
Authié paused. He had not thought things so serious. Thanks to his position, his inform
ation about the truth of matters between the Axis and Allied forces was good. But de l’Oradore’s intelligence was better.
‘Are there reasons to think that is an imminent possibility?’ he asked.
Now it was de l’Oradore’s turn to pause. ‘There are rumours that more American troops will disembark on the northern coast,’ he said eventually. There was no suggestion of alarm or fear in his voice, only the thoughtful concern of a businessman for his investments. ‘I am sure the threat is exaggerated, but, as a precaution, there are certain objects I intend to remove from Chartres until the situation is clear.’
‘To Berlin?’
He shook his head. ‘America.’
‘I see.’
‘My intention is to close up the house.’ He fixed Authié with a sharp look. ‘I would like you, therefore, to return to Carcassonne. To resume the investigations for which I engaged you in the first instance.’
Authié was surprised, though he kept his expression impassive. He wondered what had changed. De l’Oradore had suspended his search for the Cathar treasure, after the Nazis had invaded the zone libre, without explanation. For nearly two years he had not mentioned it. His interests appeared to have shifted.
‘I thought you were of the opinion that there was no value in continuing to excavate the area around Montségur or Lombrives?’
‘There is a suggestion,’ de l’Oradore said, ‘that a Languedocien scholar, one of the significant authorities on the history of the region, might have information. It could influence where we look next. I want you to find him, Authié. See if there is any substance to this rumour.’
‘How has this new information come to us?’
‘That bookseller of yours. Saurat.’
Authié narrowed his eyes, remembering the strange man with his high-pitched voice and his dark bookshop in Toulouse.
‘Saurat?’ he said. ‘Is it possible I could talk to him myself?’
‘I regret he is no longer with us. He was arrested in Lyon. Helping the partisans, it seems. He was very helpful, however. The information he shared seems credible.’
Authié was not convinced, but he kept his expression neutral. He was aware of the reputation of Hauptsturmführer Barbie, head of the Gestapo in Lyon. Many suspects would say anything, true or false, to bring their interrogation to an end.
‘There is a transcript of the conversation,’ de l’Oradore added, perhaps sensing Authié’s scepticism. ‘If that would be useful.’
‘It would, thank you.’ There was nothing to be gained by voicing his true opinion or going against de l’Oradore’s orders.
‘This scholar Saurat mentioned, is he attached to the university in Toulouse?’
‘An author rather than an academic, I gather.’
‘I see,’ Authié said again. ‘Do you have a name? An address?’
De l’Oradore pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘He’s called Audric S. Baillard. I’ve heard of him, in fact. Quite an expert on Ancient Egypt. Wrote a biography of Champollion, the man who first deciphered hieroglyphic text.’ He paused. ‘Baillard lives in some tiny village in the Pyrenees. Los Seres.’ He handed the envelope to Authié. ‘It’s all here. I can’t imagine he’ll be hard to find; he’s an old man, judging by the date of publication of most of his books. He might also know something about a book I am most interested in acquiring. Extremely interested. To complete part of my collection here, you understand. Medieval. Perhaps with the symbol of a labyrinth on the cover, distinctive. I have had these notes prepared for you. To help the process.’ He fixed Authié with a look. ‘I would be most appreciative of any information. However you see fit to acquire it. Do you understand me, Authié?’
Authié took the heavy cream envelope and put it in his breast pocket. ‘I do.’
De l’Oradore held his gaze for a moment longer, then glanced away. ‘I have spoken to your superior officer, who is prepared to release you immediately. I have arranged transport south for Friday. Bastille Day, rather appropriate, I thought. The announcement has already been given to the radio stations.’
‘Announcement?’
‘That you are taking over the battle against the Resistance. Who better than a local man? Take Laval with you.’ He gave a slight smile, then stood up. ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Major Authié.’
Authié also got to his feet, impressed by the extent of de l’Oradore’s influence.
‘I hope to live up to your faith in me,’ he said.
‘I hope so too.’ De l’Oradore paused. ‘I know you have made several visits to the south in recent weeks, Authié.’
‘I have.’
‘Satisfactory?’
‘Effective, certainly.’
‘Will you be pleased to return for good, I wonder?’
Authié met his cool, appraising gaze. They both knew he had no choice. It would have made no difference if he hadn’t wanted to return to the Midi. But he took care over his answer all the same.
‘I have very much enjoyed my time in Chartres, but of course I am happy to do whatever best serves our cause.’
‘Quite right,’ said de l’Oradore. From the slight smile on his face, Authié knew he had said the right thing.
Perhaps to underline Authié’s new position, de l’Oradore showed him through the dimly lit hall to the front door himself, rather than ringing for the housekeeper.
‘Keep me informed, Authié. Send any communications via the normal route. I shall be travelling, of course, but any message will get to me, even if it takes longer than usual.’
‘Of course.’ Authié put on his hat. ‘I am grateful for your support, monsieur.’
De l’Oradore opened the front door on to the dark street. No street lamps; the blackout was rigorously observed after months of night-time bombardments on Luftwaffe aircraft at Champhol airfield to the northeast of Chartres. In the moonlight, the twin spires of the magnificent cathedral stood tall against the sky.
‘By the way,’ de l’Oradore said, ‘Saurat said something else of interest before he died.’
‘He did?’
‘About that alleged fourth-century text you brought me. The Codex.’
Authié became still. ‘Alleged?’
‘It appears it was a forgery,’ de l’Oradore continued casually. ‘Saurat admitted he’d known, even though he authenticated it. The Ahnenerbe have confirmed it. A very high-quality forgery, but fake all the same.’ He paused. ‘Good night, Major Authié. I shall expect to hear from you when you have settled in on Friday.’
The door was closed before Authié had the chance to react. He stared at the painted door, the polished handles and letter box. He realised that de l’Oradore’s timing of the information about the Codex was deliberate. He had been set the challenge to find Audric Baillard to compensate, in part, for his mistake with Saurat.
For two years, Authié had regretted handing the Codex to de l’Oradore. He’d assumed he would destroy it as a heretical text, although perhaps not before analysing it to test the truth of the power it was said to contain. Instead, he had given it immediately into the custody of the Ahnenerbe, where it had remained ever since.
Now, it seemed, there might still be a need to find the true Codex. For himself. To do what he should have done in the first place: put his loyalty to the Church above his loyalty to de l’Oradore.
Authié turned and walked quickly along the rue du Cheval Blanc, a cold anger growing inside him. Saurat was beyond his reach, but Raoul Pelletier was not. Sandrine Vidal was not. Someone must have hidden the forgery in the cave within the Col de Pyrène. Pelletier? And Vidal had told him of the discovery, in innocence or put up to it, it didn’t matter. He would find out soon enough.
At the front of the great Gothic cathedral, he stopped and looked up at the three stone arches of the Royal Portal. A book in stone, Authié had heard it called. Not only New Testament images of redemption and faith, but also older stories of judgement and vengeance from the Old Testament.
He hesit
ated a moment, turning over in his mind what de l’Oradore had said about the medieval book. If this Baillard knew about that, as well as having information about the Codex, Authié did not think it would be difficult to persuade him to talk.
He knew God was on his side. He was doing God’s will.
Authié looked up at the west Rose Window, depicting Christ’s Second Coming as judge. To condemn all those who had turned away from the true faith. To save only those who had adhered to the precepts of the Church. In the faint light of the moon, the blood red and death blue of the glass was just visible.
He lingered a moment longer, then gathered himself. There were few résistants left operational in the centre of Chartres, after another successful raid last week, but his face was known. It only needed one lone marksman. Authié walked fast until he reached the cover of the rue des Changes.
The time was right to return to the Midi. He would find Audric Baillard for de l’Oradore. Then he would hunt down Pelletier and Vidal for himself.
Chapter 102
CARCASSONNE
‘We should get going,’ Sandrine said.
‘All right, little man,’ said Lucie, leaning over the pram. ‘Off to get the bread. You like to fetch the bread with Mama, don’t you, J-J?’
Jean-Jacques looked up at her with sleepy eyes, surprised to be out in the morning so early, but he smiled all the same. Perhaps it was too early to say, but he didn’t appear to be short-sighted like his father.
While Lucie continued to fuss and tuck in his blankets tightly again, making sure the sheets of blank paper hidden underneath the mattress could not be seen, Sandrine glanced up at her bedroom window. Inside, Raoul was sleeping. He was even thinner than when she’d last seen him in May and, like they all were, exhausted. There had been several Allied parachute drops recently that had missed their target and much-needed weapons hadn’t got through. There had been many arrests too. Raoul looked worn out and it had taken all her self-control to leave him and carry on as planned. But it was essential to get the news out of the attack on the Berriac tunnel before the Nazi and Milice propaganda machine got going. Besides, Raoul needed to sleep. They would have time to talk as soon as she got back.
