Citadel

by Kate Mosse

  Lupa frowned. ‘Must he who speaks the words die? Or only be prepared to give his life for others?’

  Arinius shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Lupa thought for a moment longer. ‘And only the good may see this?’

  Arinius paused. ‘We each see what we deserve to see. So you, my brave, courageous Lupa, would see spirits, angels. Men with dark hearts will be brought face to face with the worst of their fears.’

  ‘I think God is with us all the same, Arinius.’

  ‘As do I.’

  ‘Will you teach me the words you know?’

  Arinius looked at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘I would like to know them,’ she said simply.

  He looked at her a moment longer, then whispered softly the few phrases he had heard spoken by his brother monk. Lupa listened, her face lit up with the beauty of what she was hearing. When he had finished, she put her hand upon his arm and smiled.

  For an instant they stood together, forgetting everything but one another for a moment.

  Then a roar went up from the woods below and, suddenly, the invaders broke out from the cover of the trees. At his side, he heard Lupa catch her breath. They were outnumbered seven to one, perhaps more.

  ‘May God protect us,’ he said.

  Arinius drew his sword and let out an answering shout of his own. At his side, he felt Lupa steel herself. She drew her knife from her belt, looked at him one last time. Then, together, they ran forward into the fray.

  ‡

  Chapter 142

  CARCASSONNE

  AUGUST 1944

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  It was Friday the eighteenth of August and the cathédrale Saint-Michel was empty so early in the morning. Except for him and the priest, there was no one. Authié had insisted upon it. He did not wish there to be any possibility of someone overhearing his confession.

  He had chosen to kneel rather than sit. He could feel the chill of the stone seeping through the knees of his trousers, comfortingly austere. His hands were loose by his sides and he felt a deep peace and power in the rightness of his cause. He believed it was how the crusaders of old might have felt. Holy warriors pursuing a just and holy war.

  In a matter of days, it would be over. Sandrine Vidal had made a fool of him twice. She had defeated him twice: the first time through her lies, the second time through her silence. He knew the Gestapo officers, even Laval, admired how she had withstood the interrogation and still not talked. Few men lasted so long.

  Authié did not admire her. Like the Inquisitors of old who felt no pity for those who chose to defy the teachings of the Church, he knew there was no honour in disobedience. By her actions, Vidal defied scripture and allowed heresy to flourish. The fact that she might not possess the Codex was no longer of relevance to him. She had collaborated with the enemies of the Church, had helped them. That was enough.

  She might have escaped, but she would not stay at liberty for long.

  ‘I have dissembled and lied for the purpose of bringing the enemies of the Church into plain view,’ he said. ‘I have consorted with those who deny God. I have neglected my spiritual salvation.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.’

  As Authié catalogued his sins of commission and of omission, he felt the wordless horror of the priest from behind the grille. Could smell the man’s fear, rank on his skin and his breath.

  ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,’ the priest said, stumbling over the words of absolution.

  ‘Amen.’

  Authié made the sign of the cross, then stood up.

  He took his gun from his belt and fired through the mesh. The world turned red, blood staining the metal and the curtains and the worn, old wood. Authié came out, genuflected to the high altar, then walked back down the nave.

  The secrets of the confessional. Everyone talked in the end.

  Sylvère Laval looked up and then down rue Voltaire, into the cross streets and over the garden in front of the cathedral. For Authié’s security, he had put a police block on the road at both ends; even so it was possible a car might come out of nowhere. But, after the latest raids, which had finally caught the leadership of the Resistance in Carcassonne, the streets had been quieter.

  Laval glanced at the west door, wondering how much more time his commanding officer was going to waste. He couldn’t complain. Authié’s obsession had served Laval well and he had become rich on the back of Authié’s links with the Church in Chartres. But now things were coming to an end. Laval intended to tell Authié what he had discovered about Citadel, but keep from him the fact that he had found Audric Baillard. Although Baillard had not been seen since the late summer of 1942, one of their informers in Tarascon had reported that a retired police inspector had an old man staying with him. Since it was common knowledge Pujol and Baillard had been friends, Laval had put two and two together.

  The Allies had landed in Provence. The Germans were preparing to withdraw from the Midi. If Laval was to go with them, he had to get the Codex in the next twenty-four hours.

  Laval heard footsteps on the pavement and turned, the list in his hand. As Authié got closer, Laval saw he had blood on his face.

  ‘We’ve found Vidal, sir,’ he said.

  Authié stopped dead. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Coustaussa,’ Laval replied. ‘Seven or eight of them, all women. It’s all here. The réseau “Citadel”.’

  Authié snatched the paper and ran his eyes down the names. ‘Vidal, Peyre, Ménard . . .’ He broke off. ‘Who’s Liesl Vidal? Have we come across her?’

  ‘It seems she’s been living in Coustaussa with the housekeeper, Marieta Barthès. They put it about she’s a cousin from Paris, but I think she might be Blum’s sister.’

  ‘The Jew Ménard visited in Le Vernet?’

  ‘Yes. He had a sister who vanished, about the right sort of age.’

  Authié looked back at the list. ‘Who’s this Eloise Breillac?’

  ‘She’s the sister of Geneviève Saint-Loup, who’s also part of the network. Breillac was arrested in the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon in Limoux.’

  Authié was nodding. ‘This is good work, Laval. Where did you get this information?’

  ‘It seems Liesl Vidal – Blum – has taken up with a local boy, Yves Rousset. Another chap felt edged out, wanted to get back at them. Talked to one of his friends in the Milice in Couiza. The links between them started to show up on various lists. Rousset’s with the Couiza Maquis. It all fell into place from there.’

  ‘Is Pelletier with them?’

  ‘Not so far as I’ve been able to find out, sir.’

  ‘What about Baillard? Have you managed to track him down.’

  ‘Baillard’s file is incomplete. I haven’t been able to locate him.’

  Authié stared, then shrugged. ‘Keep trying. I would like to have something to tell Monsieur de l’Oradore.’ He paused. ‘You’ve done well, Laval.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, opening the car door.

  Chapter 143

  COUSTAUSSA

  Sandrine rubbed her forehead. Her headache was bad again. ‘I don’t like it. We should have heard something by now.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right,’ Lucie said quickly.

  ‘Not Raoul,’ Sandrine said sharply. She was sick with worry about where he was, but was pretending not to be. She hated the way Lucie and the others kept looking anxiously at her all the time. A mixture of concern and pity.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I meant Eloise, not Raoul. It’s been three days.’

  ‘But he’s—’

  ‘I expected a message from Limoux,’ Sandrine pressed on.

  ‘There was an attack on a convoy in the Gorges de Cascabel the day before yesterday,’ Suzanne said. ‘They’re probably dealing with that.’

  ‘Any casualties?’

  ‘An American died. Don’t know about anyone else.’<
br />
  ‘Does it make it less or more likely that Authié will come?’ Lucie said.

  Suzanne shrugged. ‘Impossible to say.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Liesl asked. ‘Should we evacuate the village just in case? Or wait.’

  The nineteenth of August, Sandrine thought. Nearly a week since Raoul had left, and she’d heard nothing. Nothing, either, from Monsieur Baillard to let her know he was in position in the Pic de Vicdessos.

  ‘Sandrine?’ said Marianne with concern.

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ Liesl repeated.

  Sandrine took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate. She had to wait for Monsieur Baillard.

  ‘Wait, for one more day at least. If we evacuate everyone now, and nothing happens, they’ll be less likely to leave their homes a second time.’

  Liesl nodded, then looked round. ‘Where’s Geneviève?’

  ‘Couiza,’ Sandrine said.

  ‘Didn’t we agree we’d steer clear of Couiza for the time being?’

  ‘Yes, but do you remember, her younger sister Coralie is expecting a baby? Since Eloise hasn’t come back yet, she felt she ought to look in.’

  Sandrine turned to Lucie. ‘But perhaps you should go with Marieta and Jean-Jacques this morning? Out of harm’s way.’

  ‘J-J will be happy with Marieta in Rennes-les-Bains,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m staying. I want to do my bit.’ Lucie was pale and she was clearly rattled, but her eyes glinted with determination.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sandrine asked.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  Sandrine and Suzanne exchanged a glance. Then Suzanne stood up.

  ‘If you want to help, you’d better come with me.’

  ‘Go with you where?’

  ‘Do you know how to handle a gun?’

  Lucie turned even whiter. ‘No.’

  ‘Well then. Time to learn.’

  ‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing bringing Authié here?’ Marianne said softly.

  Sandrine shook her head. ‘No. But it’s too late to stop it now.’

  COUIZA

  Geneviève rushed to the sink to fetch a glass of water, then back to the table. Coralie and Alphonse’s flat was tiny and airless. Every window was closed and the shutters were latched shut.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said nervously. ‘Have you started, do you think? Is that it?’

  Coralie was red-faced and gasping for air. She seemed to be in shock. Her stomach was rising and falling at a rapid rate and Geneviève was terrified she would go into labour before the midwife arrived.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, pressing the glass into Coralie’s hand. ‘It can’t be good for the baby for you to get so worked up.’

  Gradually Coralie’s breathing steadied, but she was still in a dreadful state. Geneviève wasn’t sure if she was frightened about the thought of the baby coming or something else. She didn’t know how long her sister had been like this.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, taking the empty glass. ‘Good girl.’ She felt Coralie’s pulse. It was rattling along. ‘Now, what set this off?’

  Coralie stared blankly at her, as if she hadn’t even heard.

  ‘Coralie,’ Geneviève said sharply, waving her hand in front of her sister’s face. There was no reaction. ‘Where’s Alphonse?’ she said.

  Coralie suddenly let out a single wail. A high-pitched keening, a sound barely human.

  ‘Coralie, stop. You’ll make yourself ill. Tell me where to find Alphonse and I’ll fetch him.’

  Her sister clamped her hand over her mouth. Geneviève looked at her, at a loss to understand what was going on.

  ‘Good girl,’ she said cautiously. ‘That’s better.’

  Coralie took a deep breath. ‘Dead.’

  Geneviève stared at her sister, then quickly placed her hand on Coralie’s stomach and held it there until she felt movement. She let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘No, the baby’s fine. They go quiet just before they come. Remember when Aurélie was born?’

  ‘Not the baby,’ Coralie said in a flat voice. ‘Alphonse.’

  ‘What?’ she said in disbelief. ‘No, he can’t be dead.’

  ‘On the Alet road. Found his body in the river.’

  Geneviève shook her head, struggling to make sense of what her sister was saying. Was it true?

  ‘The plane dropped the weapons in the wrong place. He went to help.’

  Geneviève turned cold. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that was where Raoul had gone too. Was that why he hadn’t come back? Had they all been caught or killed?

  She put her arm around her sister’s shoulders and felt her begin to cry.

  ‘Hush,’ she murmured. ‘Hush now.’

  ‘They came to tell me. Four of them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gestapo?’

  Geneviève caught her breath. ‘When?’

  Coralie didn’t answer. ‘They asked about you and Eloise. Wanted to know about Sandrine. Asked if it was true she lived in a house called Citadelle.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That I didn’t know,’ she said. She looked up. ‘That was right, wasn’t it? They were going to arrest me, but they saw how far gone I was. Let me be.’ She started to cry again. ‘What am I going to do? I’m going to be on my own.’

  Geneviève didn’t know what to do. It meant their plan had worked, though she didn’t understand why Eloise hadn’t been in contact to tell them Authié was coming. Was it good news or bad? She wasn’t sure.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ Coralie wailed again.

  Geneviève didn’t want to leave her sister, but she had to tell Sandrine as soon as she could.

  ‘I’m going to fetch Mathilde from the boulangerie,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘She’ll sit with you.’

  ‘No!’ Coralie’s hand shot out and grasped Geneviève’s arm. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Shutting her ears to the sounds of her sister’s sobbing, Geneviève let herself out of the house and rushed towards the boulangerie, not thinking about what she would do if Mathilde wasn’t there.

  She rounded the corner and stopped dead. There were soldiers in the square, rounding people up. Quickly Geneviève turned and walked in the opposite direction. Grey uniforms everywhere, four men being herded towards the bridge, their hands above their heads, the proprietor of the Grand Café Guilhem among them. The other end of the road was blocked by soldiers too. Geneviève turned again and barrelled into a man coming out of the tabac.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

  ‘Someone tried to blow up the bridge at Alet,’ he said. ‘Stop a German convoy getting through. Americans opened fire. Commander’s been killed, apparently.’

  ‘What about the others, did they get away?’

  ‘The maquisards?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly.

  The man gave a slow smile. ‘Dead, most of them.’

  Too late, Geneviève realised what she’d said. She turned. A milicien was stepping out of the interior of the shop.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ he said.

  She put her hands up. The milicien turned towards another man in a grey suit.

  ‘What do you want us to do with her, Major Authié?’

  Geneviève froze. How was he here so soon? They weren’t ready. Why hadn’t Eloise warned them? Then, the ground seemed to go from under her. If ‘Citadel’ had been discovered – not through the plan they’d put into action, but betrayed – then the drop-off at the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon wasn’t secure anymore either. Had Eloise been arrested? Or killed?

  Geneviève felt her legs start to shake. More than ever, she had to get a message to Sandrine. To warn her that Eloise might have been caught, that Alphonse was dead, that Raoul might have been taken. She caught her breath, trying to calm herself. She glanced around, trying to see if there was any possibility she could get away.

  Too
many soldiers, too many police.

  She looked back to Authié. For a moment, his eyes locked on to hers. Black and cold, devoid of emotion.

  ‘Your name?’ he said.

  Geneviève said nothing. Without warning, Authié drew back his arm and hit her. Her head snapped back. The force of it, the shock of it, sent her staggering.

  ‘Your name,’ he repeated.

  Slowly, she shook her head. Authié stared, then turned to the milicien.

  ‘Where’s Laval? He’ll persuade her to talk.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him, sir.’

  Geneviève wiped the specks of blood from her mouth. Authié lifted his hand again and she flinched, anticipating another blow. But instead he adjusted the silver brooch on the lapel of his jacket.

  ‘Put her in the van with the others,’ he said.

  Chapter 144

  ‘Where the hell is Laval?’ Authié demanded, looking round the concourse in front of the railway station. Everywhere was a mass of black shirts and brown, the blue berets of the Milice, and he couldn’t see him.

  ‘We can’t find him, Major.’

  Authié had last seen Laval in Limoux three hours ago. While he was interrogating Eloise Breillac, news had come through that Raoul Pelletier had been arrested four days previously. Authié had sent Laval to telephone the warden of Carcassonne prison to instruct him to hold Pelletier there. Events seemed to be spiralling out of his control. He felt a desperate urge to act.

  Then, after holding out for several hours, Eloise Breillac had begun to talk, so Authié didn’t notice Laval hadn’t come back. She admitted that the plan was to lure Authié into an ambush scheduled for Sunday the twentieth of August. Seeing a perfect opportunity to turn the attack against ‘Citadel’ by surprising them a day early, Authié had immediately left Limoux to drive to Couiza.

  He’d assumed Laval was following in a separate vehicle.

  ‘Well find him,’ he shouted. ‘I want to see him immediately. Immediately, is that clear?’

  The milicien saluted and disappeared back around the corner of the building. The concourse looked like a military encampment. Four Feldgendarmerie trucks and a black Citroën Avant belonging to SS-Sturmbannführer Schmidt, his opposite number. A joint operation, he and Schmidt had ordered everyone to be fully armed. Grenades, bandoliers slung over shoulders, glinting in the sun like chain mail. Some with M40 sub-machine guns, the majority with Kar-98 semi-automatic rifles.