“Agreed.”
“We’ll have things in order in Vichy when you arrive, so you shouldn’t run into any delays.”
“That’s very helpful, sir.”
“And Ryan?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll be running blind much of the time, self-sufficient. You have wireless skills, and may eventually need them. But as long as we’re neutrals, you can use the mails, cables, that sort of thing, properly encoded, of course. We understand your brother will remain in Paris for the time being as the State Department civilian exchanges shape up. You want to stick with him as your handler?”
“That suits me fine, Bill.”
“Just as I’d expect, but this time, do keep him in the loop. We’ll make sure he does the same with us. Whether the Foreign Service wants it or not, neutrality in Europe won’t be an option much longer, and America needs to win this covert war.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Occupied France to Vichy France
12 August 1941
Only as the train slowed for the border did the taciturn SS officers and the civilian nod to the Americans in polite farewell and head for the vestibule to detrain.
“Well, that was interesting.” Ed took to his feet to stretch. “Such a talkative bunch, I thought they’d never shut up.”
Ryan opened the window to refresh the cabin, and the brothers leaned out for a better view. Their train sat just shy of the demarcation line between the northern Occupied Zone and southern Vichy France, the “free” zone. Armed German soldiers watched either side of the train while a uniformed contingent moved slowly down the line of cars, thrusting bayonets into every possible hiding spot between and under the carriages. Two large Alsatian dogs lunged on leashes and barked incessantly while an SS officer waited imperiously off to the side, observing the search but obviously bored with the task. The four men who had shared their cabin stopped briefly to speak with the officer, then rode off in a military sedan.
Suddenly, loud voices approached from the aisle beyond their compartment. German soldiers shoved a protesting young businessman past their cabin toward the front vestibule. He clutched a briefcase to his chest and wasn’t going willingly. A sullen German lieutenant trailed behind, stopping briefly to demand identification from the Americans.
“Papiere, bitte—vos papiers, s’il-vous-plâit.”
A conductor for the French Railways system followed on his heels, clearly subservient to the German and making the same demand with a scowl: “Cartes d’identité, messieurs.” Ed and Ryan produced diplomatic passports and the Reich-issued transit visas allowing their passage through the Occupied Zone.
“In Ordnung.” The officer returned the documents, his manner brusque, his attention already focused on the next compartment’s occupants.
“Such friendly chaps.” Ryan returned his attention to the exterior manhunt. “Makes me feel right at home…back in the Reich three years ago.”
Ed pulled out an embassy-issue map and traced the boundary between the two halves of France. Alsace and Lorraine showed now as part of the Reich, annexed almost immediately after the armistice. The boundary between zones rose from the Spanish border in the Pyrénées to bisect the country west to east between Paris and Vichy. The entire Atlantic coast region and the northern half of the country lay in occupied territory. “The Germans can’t possibly patrol this entire stretch; we’re talking huge distances here.”
“Both sides patrol it.” Ryan raised his voice to overcome the barking of orders and dogs outside. “Illegals and fugitives pay a ‘passeur’ to guide them across. And I’m told the Vichy border police can be every bit as dangerous as the SS patrols.”
Below their cabin the young man rousted from the carriage lay prone on the gravel, a snarling guard dog hovering above him. A soldier slapped on handcuffs. Ryan forcefully shut the window and the compartment grew quieter.
Ed looked up from his map. “I understand trying to get to the south, but why on earth would anyone sneak north? I don’t get the appeal.”
“Profits, brother. The black market pays well, especially in Paris. With Germany requisitioning all it can and northern France starving, smuggling has become extremely profitable.”
“I know keeping workers in the north is a problem. Hell, two-thirds of the prisoners of war are farmers. The north can’t afford to lose a single one to the south.” Ed refolded the map. “And I’m sure they’re watching for downed British flyboys, escaping POW’s, that sort of thing.”
Ryan looked pointedly at Edward. “Not to mention spies.”
Ed chuckled. “And on the French side, Marshall Pétain’s government wants to keep out Jews and political refugees. I assure you, Washington doesn’t expect much from this new ‘French State,’ what with home-grown fascists now in control. No one at the embassy likes dealing with these guys. Pretty much anyone removed from power or influence during the Third Republic is back in charge and out for blood against enemies, real or perceived.” Ed took his seat again. “Everyone knows we’ll be in this war soon, and all the embassy hopes to accomplish here in the ‘Frog Pond” is to keep the Vichy fleet out of German hands.”
“So what’s Pétain really up to?”
“He may have been the ‘Hero of Verdun,’ but he’s over eighty and rumor has it he sleeps away most of the day. Yet Vichy propaganda is making him a savior, practically a god.”
“Where do his loyalties actually lie?” Ryan had seen the glorifying posters of the aging hero.
“Well, up north they think he’s just playing ball to spare the country worse, but those in the south suspect he’s happy enough collaborating with the Reich. And Vichy wants to show they can be even more ruthless in dealing with ‘undesirables’ than the German master race. They figure if they’re especially brutal, the Reich won’t impose Nazi laws on them and they’ll retain at least the semblance of autonomy.”
“So that’s it for Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité?”
Ed shrugged. “Gone the way of the Third Republic, I’m afraid.”
The barking of the police dogs outside intensified, and Ryan again lowered the window. Ed stepped to his side. The soldiers now held the captured businessman against a wall, forcing him upright. The officer in charge rifled through the leather briefcase.”
“Smuggler, you think.” Ryan couldn’t imagine much of value hidden in the man’s case.
“More likely a courier for one of the underground movements.”
Even from a distance, Ryan could see the man tremble as three soldiers lined up facing him from less than ten meters away. Each held a rifle, and Ryan and Edward watched them draw back the bolts of their carbines and seat the cartridges.
“My God!” Ed’s whisper was barely audible over the commotion.
On an order from the officer the three barrels converged on the man. His legs shook so violently he appeared on the verge of collapse. Two other soldiers encouraged the leashed dogs to lunge at the captive to keep him in place.
“Feuer!” shouted the officer, and the weapons discharged as one.
The young man fell to the dirt as the bullets struck. The projectiles had buried themselves deeply in the side of the shed, a good meter above where the captive’s head had been just seconds before. Plaster dust sifted down on the shuddering body of the collapsed man. The officer rocked with laughter and the soldiers joined in the merriment. The devastated young man lay on his side, his body convulsed by sobs of disbelief as a dark stain spread across the crotch of his tan trousers.
With a jolt their train crept past the barbed wire of the German checkpoint and they were once again underway toward the new capital of France. The brothers sat in silence for several minutes, shaken by the cruelty just witnessed, but gradually they picked up the thread of their interrupted conversation. Each sought to complete the other’s partial picture of Occupied France.
From Paris to the border Ryan and Ed had witnessed long caravans of vehicles on the roadways, large Wehrmacht and SS contingents alre
ady on the move toward the Reich. Only six weeks earlier, Hitler’s betrayal of his former ally Stalin had opened a vast new eastern front. Tanks and motorized artillery led the processions, with horse-drawn vehicles bringing up the rear. And leaving Paris, their express had given right-of-way to a number of military trains on the highline toward Berlin and beyond. It was a formidable display of power.
But as they moved into the Free Zone, the roads turned quieter with far fewer motorized vehicles in sight. Instead Ryan noted a pitiful collection of horses working the fields and hauling crops, the younger, more reliable steeds conscripted for war duty, leaving the French to make do with inferior stock. The Reich was bleeding France dry to feed its expansion, either by direct appropriation or by economic pressure and willing cooperation by the ruling clique anxious to impress the Nazi leadership.
As the train neared their destination, Ryan headed for the lavatory at the end of the carriage, hoping to find it in working order. The condition of the passenger coaches reflected the growing impoverishment of the divided nation. Even the first-class cabins showed neglect. He glanced into each compartment he passed before stepping out into the noisy vestibule and coming to an abrupt halt.
It took only a moment to register what he had just seen. For a split second he thought he had spotted the mustachioed man who had shadowed him on the way to Marita’s flat. He turned back to make certain, but his eyes had obviously fooled him, for no one even remotely familiar sat in the last crowded compartment. All but one seat was occupied. A movement caught Ryan’s eye. At the far end of the carriage the swinging door closed on a man moving quickly between cars.
“Probably nothing but your imagination, but you might as well get used to it,” Ed told Ryan upon his return to their compartment. “In your line of work a tail is de rigueur, right?”
“So this is what I have to look forward to once things get rolling?”
“Please tread carefully, Ryan. Vichy officially rules the entire country, since it’s too big and burdensome for the Reich to manage personally. But the Nazis are very active behind the scenes. Whatever zone you’re in, they’ll keep a close watch on you. And these Vichy police aren’t fooling around. Just think homegrown French Gestapo and you’ll be fine.”
The forests, fields and meadowlands near Vichy were lovely, and as the train approached the station, they spotted huge old spa hotels draped in the tricolore and grand mansions of obvious faded wealth.
“Quite a change from Paris, right?” Ed shook his head in disbelief. “Welcome to the new capital of France. Once a quiet backwater famed for hot springs and colon irrigations, and hardly a world-class center of culture and learning. But they needed something centrally-located once Paris was off the table.”
The whole resort town felt remarkably dull to Ryan, better suited to idle, expensive vacations poolside or in the casino, certainly not to the business of governing a venerable European power.
A deep-blue Buick flying American flags brought them to their hotel. After check-in a government aide came to verify their credentials before leading them to the embassy. A slender man in a well-cut suit welcomed them, obviously prepared for their arrival. He handed Ryan a leather portfolio holding three official forms and a letter signed by the ambassador himself. Here in his hands at last were the Vichy warrants remanding custody of the internees into the care of the bearer. And in a smaller envelope Ryan found the identification documents and visas placing René, Erika and Leo under American diplomatic protection and allowing them to leave France.
“So I just present these at the camp and we’re away?”
“Nothing’s ever quite that simple here—this place is a bureaucratic nightmare.” The secretary showed frustration in having to explain. “The warrants are already signed by the Superintendent of Internment Camps, but you’ll still need a counter-signature by an Interior Ministry official of sufficient rank.”
“And where do we find such a person?” Ed showed his displeasure. “This should have been addressed prior to our arrival.” He knew money had changed hands to facilitate the release. Unofficially, of course.
The secretary ignored Ed’s perturbed tone. “It should be very simple, sir. Just cross the park there,” he pointed out the window, “and ask for Monsieur Delaporte at the pool.” The secretary checked his watch. “In fact, your timing should be perfect; Delaporte should be on his third cocktail by now and quite likely very pliable. Just be prepared to grease the wheels with a bit more cash, if needed.”
“Charming.” Ryan exchanged a concerned glance with his brother.
They passed beneath the canopy of plane trees toward a fountain supported by naked muses and descended to the swimming pool behind a grand but neglected hotel. A waiter in a white jacket directed them to a seated man dwarfing a small table poolside. The man wore burgundy swim trunks and canvas espadrilles, and sported an imposing ring and heavy Rolex. Almost lost on his hairy chest hung a Croix de Guerre affixed to a gold chain. A half-empty whiskey glass rested in his plump hand.
“Monsieur Delaporte?”
“And you are, messieurs?”
“Edward Lemmon, American Department of State. And this is Dr. Ryan Lemmon, from the American Embassy. Forgive the interruption, but we have need of a few signatures, s’il-vous-plaît.”
“More signatures? Can’t a man enjoy a moment’s leisure on a warm afternoon?”
“But, sir…” Ed prepared his most diplomatic tack.
“Non, you’re right,” the man interrupted, “duty always calls, n’est-ce pas? Let’s have a look.” He took another sip and set his drink aside, then picked up reading glasses and balanced them on his bulbous nose. “One can’t be too careful with official paperwork.” Ryan removed the letter packet from his coat pocket.
At that moment a young woman of considerable beauty approached from the hotel. Her sleek bathing suit flashed beneath a sheer day robe and her blond hair was cut in a closely-cropped pageboy. However nothing of her remarkable physique appeared remotely boyish. All three men watched appreciatively as she approached the table.
“Is there nothing here for a girl to drink?”
“For you, ma Chérie, always.”
The minister quickly pulled the eyeglasses from his nose and rose clumsily from the deck chair. He kissed her, as if there were any doubt to whom she belonged. The girl smiled serenely, taking in the handsome Americans with an approving glance before returning her full attention to the portly official. The minister snapped his fingers and the waiter appeared immediately at his side for her order.
“Campari on the rocks.”
The blonde spread a towel on a deck chair next to the Frenchman, kicked off her low heels, and exposed her legs to the sun. She took a tube of cream from a small mesh handbag and began to apply it in long smooth strokes following the curves of her thighs and calves.
His eyes glued to the long limbs of his companion, the Vichy minister reached distractedly for the packet of letters in Ryan’s hand. Ryan offered his own pen, and the statesman signed each page with barely a glance at its content. The fate of a few foreigners in some distant internment camp was obviously immaterial to a man picturing himself huffing and puffing between those thighs.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” Ryan retrieved the packet.
“Pas du tout, monsieur.” The minister’s eyes remained fixed on his lovely companion. However the blonde raised her lashes and gave Ryan and Edward a wink and a sweet parting smile.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gascony, Occupied France
12 August 1941
Devon Whitaker knew he was dying. He could still think clearly enough, and his initial injuries had not been so severe as to put him in mortal danger had he received proper medical care. But now he felt his body shutting down, muscle by muscle, organ by organ, cell by cell. He recalled biology lab at the university, the anatomical charts on the walls, the endless memorization of structures and tissues, the dissection of frogs and fetal pigs. He could picture some of the
changes taking place within his own body and track the succession of failed metabolic processes which were slowly guiding him to his death. Physiological self-analysis and memories were the only distraction for an active mind in a rapidly weakening shell.
The decision had been so easy when first approached by His Majesty’s Secret Service. His marks both at school and university had been strong. He was intelligent, a more than adequate athlete, and one of those men who won—and broke—hearts. Girls simply loved him: dark and curly hair, aquiline nose, pencil-thin mustache, and flashing green eyes. Science was his passion, the law his future, intent on stepping into the legal practice established by his well-regarded barrister father.
But then Hitler rolled into Poland, and the drôle de guerre, the year-long “phony war” began, with no further land combat on either side. Devon had signed up for officer training school. They steered him into the intelligence field, at first only a desk job, but his quick mind and decisiveness brought him to the attention of MI6.
Devon had spent the summers of his youth learning to speak French and the Celtic language Breton in the home of his maternal uncle who owned a small Brittany farmstead near Rennes. That ancient stone farmhouse with the musty smell of centuries and the broad terrace that hosted many local families created unforgettable memories. The thought of a jackboot heel on the neck of Devon’s beloved France filled him with sorrow and fed his anger. He intended to make a difference, and secret service work seemed an ideal match to his talents.
Leaving Patricia had not been easy. Their romance had been so quick, so passionate. He had seen her chatting up fellow secretaries in the smoky subterranean vaults of MI6. Her eyes met his, and he knew at once she was the one for him. The hint of a smile on those red lips, that dark lustrous hair, and those gorgeous blue eyes cast briefly his way before she rejoined her friends in conversation. The lift had arrived to take the group from sight, but she had remained indelibly fixed in his heart.
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