After five days and no word from his brother, Ed was becoming perturbed but was not surprised. Up to his old tricks, most likely. Ryan would have found some excuse to spend time with his friends before sending them out of country. The health and sanitary conditions in the Gurs camp must not have been as bad as anticipated. And it was typical Ryan behavior not to keep in close touch with his “handler,” despite the assurances he had given Bruce and Donovan. Oh well, thought Edward, at least he gets the job done. Ed figured to just head back to Paris, start getting his own job underway, and wait for his brother to make contact. After all, not much could go wrong for a neutral American in this boring new “French State.”
But what awaited him two days before at the Vichy embassy came as a surprise—the mail from Paris brought an expensively engraved note in an envelope bearing the initials “RvH.”
My dear Mr. Lemmon –
While I have yet to enjoy the pleasure of your acquaintance, I did share some lovely evenings with your younger brother Ryan Lemmon back when Berlin was a more cultured and carefree place. I well recall his stories of your shared childhood in the American Midwest.
A review of Vichy embassy personnel turned up your name, a chance find I simply cannot ignore. Might I have the opportunity to learn more about your current interests in France, and catch up on the doings of dear Ryan?
A bite to eat shared in a quiet Parisian locale would be a pleasure, perhaps this coming Monday around two? I shall await your arrival at Chez Claude, a little café just moments from Notre Dame on Île St. Louis. I’m sure you will find the place as charming as it is discreet.
Should you not be able to make it, please pay it no mind. I will contact you again.
You may rest assured I remain
your Rolf von Haldheim
A slip of paper fell from the folded note. Ed stooped to retrieve from the floor what proved to be simply a Parisian phone number penned in an elegant ink script.
The following morning Edward caught the 8:15 for Paris. Before signing out at the embassy a secretary handed him a postcard which had just arrived with a message from Ryan: “All well now. Delayed getting in by a day. Southern France lovely in the heat. R.” Ed was furious. Just like Ryan, no explanation, even coded, just more of the same old laissez-faire attitude toward his assignments. My God, if the man weren’t such a brain, I swear he’d lost all his marbles.
During the nearly five-hour train ride back to Paris he pondered the note from von Haldheim. He vaguely remembered Ryan’s talk of the family and the prodigal son who tried to warn his parents of impending trouble. Why would the man want to make contact and what could he possibly offer that might be of use to Ed’s assignment. This covert business, espionage and subterfuge, wasn’t his cup of tea. Give him straight-forward diplomacy any day, and leave the deception to his younger brother. Ed wanted stability, missed Grace, and hated having the boys grow up without his being a short train ride from Falls Church. But he would keep the afternoon’s lunchtime rendezvous, caution be damned, just to show Ryan that he had it in him to step outside the bounds. At least this one time.
CHAPTER SIX
Gascony, Occupied France
18 August 1941
Ryan saw only a wash of pale moonlight, now motionless, now shifting across the plank flooring. Something—some repetitive sound— had startled him from uneasy dreams. His eyes searched for movement but found only a fluttering curtain in the gentle nighttime breeze.
Another day had merged into night and Ryan had slept through it all soundly. He wondered whether the girl might be putting something in his water, a bromide perhaps. Once, when there was still light at the window, he had awakened to loud voices coming from below. Two men in an argument, probably the older farmer he had seen drive off with the hay wagon and one of the younger partisans. He couldn’t make out what was upsetting them, but it had sounded as if they came close to blows. Then the voice of the girl, intense and in control. Then quiet again, and he had slept on. A bit later he awoke briefly to find her in the darkened room, ministering to the ailing man on the floor. She had left without a word to him, a fresh tray of food and a bottle of red wine at the foot of his bed.
But now fully awake, he heard something distinctive and very disturbing. The stranger on the straw mattress was struggling to rise, his strained voice like some animal crying from the depths of an abandoned well.
“Ça va, monsieur? Ryan regretted the foolish question the moment he spoke. There was no chance the man was doing all right. Now a gurgling rattle emerged from deep in his lungs and Ryan feared the stranger might drown in his own phlegm.
“For God’s sake, a little help here, mate!” The man spoke British English, his words almost suffocated by the congestion. Ryan swung his feet to the floor, testing if his own pain would be bearable. It would have to do. He dropped to his knees beside the makeshift bed, slipping an arm beneath the ailing man’s back to help him upright, and then braced the stranger against the wall. He lit the kerosene wick of the lantern on the shelf above the mattress, and a sickly yellowish glow reached into all but the deepest shadows. Next he fashioned a back support with the man’s filthy pillow and the support of an overturned wooden chair.
“Water…please.” The request came in quick troubled breaths. Ryan poured from the chipped carafe and tore cloth from his own bed sheet to serve as a makeshift handkerchief. He encouraged the suffering man to cough and spit while Ryan pounded on his back.
“Better?” Ryan hit him again and bent closer to catch the man’s response.
“Easy, old chap, don’t finish me off quite yet.” The fit of coughing finally came to a spasmodic halt, but his shoulders still heaved. Ryan could see now that the stranger was perhaps ten years his junior. A recent slash to his forehead had scabbed over, leaving only a bruised knob. The man wore a sleeveless undershirt and shorts, and Ryan noted his badly distended belly below the narrow ribcage. The smell of a sick old man, of loose bowels and stale urine.
“More water?”
“Enough for now, but—” He cleared his throat with obvious difficulty and spat thick, bloody mucous into the cloth. “Listen, time is short for me, mate, so pay close attention.”
“Listening.”
“Yank, right?”
“American, Department of State. Ryan Lemmon’s the name.”
“We’re alone now, just the two of us?”
“For the moment. But it’s safe here—they’re French partisans.”
The man lifted his hand with difficulty and offered it to Ryan. “Devon Whitaker, Secret Service. Remember that…should you make it out of here.”
“Consider it done.” Ryan repeated the name: “Whitaker.”
“And Lemmon, listen up, important matters now…” The lungs of a croupy infant, each word a struggle. “Not all partisans…dependable.” Ryan thought of a dog’s panting. “Stay alert… people gone missing.” The Englishman doubled over and moaned, remaining motionless for an endless minute before straightening his back once again. “What brings you here?”
“Pure luck. These folks saved me from the Gestapo.”
The man remained quiet for so long Ryan feared he had passed out or something worse. He sat with his back to the wall beside the head of the mattress and listened closely to the English spy’s ragged breathing. And then with renewed energy the man hacked brutally before offering a bittersweet smile. “I’m a goner, Yank, dead by morning.” The words rushed forth now as if he feared forgetting something should he stop for breath. “My time’s up, and frankly I welcome an end to this bloody crap.” He suppressed a shudder by wrapping his arms around his ribcage. “Took a brutal hit a few days ago, something seriously wrong inside and I’m shutting down fast.”
Ryan leapt to his feet, ignoring his own pain. “I’ll call the girl or the farmer; they’ll send for a doctor!”
“Doctor was here days ago. Hopeless he said. Chest topped off with blood, and inner organs damaged beyond repair. All hopeless, mate, so let it g
o.” He loosed a frightening cough and braced himself against the overturned chair. “I know I have.”
“What about surgery? Surely there’s a hospital nearby?”
“Gestapo watches them all.”
“Then what can I do?” Ryan squatted down to better catch his fading words.
“Just this…” Devon waved away the offer of more water. “…just a favor, old fellow…look up Patricia Wales, 54 Broadway…London.” His shaky voice a rattling whisper. “You’ll see the business sign—Minimax Fire Extinguisher Company.”
Ryan bent closer still. “This Patricia Wales…what do I tell her?”
“Tell her I truly loved her.” His eyes lost focus in the lantern light. “No, that’s wrong—that I do and always will…and I’m sorry…for all this.” Devon wrapped himself in his arms to stop the shaking that rattled his frail frame, a chill unsuited to the warm summer night. He lurched over on his side.
Ryan barely made out the man’s final words, but etched them in his mind.
Devon’s head lay motionless on the scarred wooden floor.
The Englishman was dead, but Ryan still checked for a pulse. He rolled the body back onto the mattress and covered it with the worn blanket. The total silence was strange after all the coughing and gasping for breath. He sat on the floor beside the body and recalled the spy’s last words, memorizing the details.
Ryan checked the bare soles of his feet. Some scabs were intact, others oozing, but overall he knew he could walk. Shoes would be a plus. He lowered the wick of the lantern, then stepped to the window and surveyed the grounds below. Across a graveled courtyard flickered a single light, a candle perhaps, glowing from the window of an old stone structure. Nearby a dog barked, then all went still again. Nothing moved. A rooster crowed briefly and cut himself short, another early riser. Ryan guessed three a.m., the yellow moon now low on the horizon. He instinctively looked to his wrist for the watch that had disappeared into the care of the Gestapo. At least the black onyx ring was still on his finger. He watched a lone silhouette move in and out of the candlelight across the way, working on something at this odd hour.
A tall wardrobe against the wall faced the window. His suit jacket and trousers hung alongside some faded and patched worker’s garb. More important for his needs—the floor of the cabinet held shoes stuffed with heavy woolen socks. Ryan grabbed the bundle and laid it out on the bed in the moonlight. He would keep his own shirt, dirty as it was, but abandon the suit he had worn to rescue his friends in Gurs. He tried on the blue trousers, the fit satisfactory, the smell less so. Devon’s worker’s jacket would do just fine.
Ryan sat on the edge of the bed and slipped on the hand-woven socks. He then tentatively tried one of the shoes, taking care with his sensitive foot in the process. The heavy-leather footwear was fully adequate if a fraction large for him. Beats being a size too small, he thought. His feet now protected from the rough wooden flooring, Ryan searched the shelves of the armoire to find the one item still missing—a felt beret. Under the moon it was difficult to judge, but Ryan guessed the well-worn cap would be red in daylight.
The candle no longer burned in the window below.
From the jacket pocket he pulled a bundle of documents, identification papers held by a tired rubber band. Holding the carte d’identité to the moonlight he saw Devon’s unsmiling photo affixed to the card with two rusting staples, and beside it name, date, place of birth, and occupation: Hervé Delacourt, 23 novembre 1916 à Rennes, skilled mechanic. The faux identification was well crafted, the corners bent, the surface stained—coffee?—and the printing, stamps and signatures a bit worn. He found a letter of proposed employment at an aircraft parts factory near Bayonne and a special pass issued by the German occupation authority for a non-resident to enter the so-called Coastal Defense Zone. A statement from a French hospital in the north noted that M. Delacourt had recently undergone treatment for a debilitating illness. Ryan noted that the buttons on the clothing were sewn the European way with a parallel stitch. The jacket also hid a wad of badly worn franc notes and ration coupons issued in Delacourt’s name, a map of western France worn through at the folds with brownish stains, and a half-smoked pack of Gitanes. A series of indecipherable letters and numbers had been scrawled in pencil along the margin of the map.
Ryan returned to the agent’s body and drew back the blanket to expose the man’s face, now at peace in the dim yellow light of the kerosene lantern. He examined the features carefully: dark hair, aquiline nose, a strong chin. But for the narrow mustache and the curl to the hair Ryan could pass for Devon Whitaker, or at least his brother. Or more accurately, for Hervé Delacourt. A mustache would grow quickly; a better hat would disguise the lack of curly hair.
He scanned the room one last time before rolling his own clothes into a tight bundle to leave no trace of his visit. Devon Whitaker was once again a quiet mound beneath the blanket on his paillasse, just as Ryan had first seen him days before. But Ryan would not forget his promise to the English spy.
The house appeared to be vacant, and the creaking staircase to the courtyard unlit. Once out in the moonlight he edged cautiously alongside the high rock wall, aware that the crunch of footsteps on the graveled surface would shatter the stillness of the pre-dawn hour. The last thing he wanted was for any dog to announce him to a sleeping world. At the stone barn he peered through the mullioned window where he’d glimpsed a burning candle, pressing his face to a pane smudged with years of neglect. He saw no movement, only black.
“Anything of interest in there, monsieur?”
A chill ran the length of his spine, but he didn’t budge. The snout of a shotgun nudged the base of his back.
“No, mademoiselle. It’s nothing without you.”
“Inside, and no sudden moves.”
He pushed open the heavy wooden door as hinges squealed in protest and a neighbor’s dog barked somewhere beyond the stone wall. The room smelled of old damp stone and rotting hay and somewhere nearby was certainly a chicken coop.
“What are you doing here?” Her tone held no warmth.
“The Englishman’s dead. I didn’t know what else to do, and saw a candle down here earlier so decided to check it out.”
“No surprise the poor man’s dead—he was pretty far along when he got here.” She lowered the double barrels slightly. “Now turn around and face me.”
“With pleasure, mademoiselle.” Only a faint hint of moonlight entered the space.
“Back up to the table and light that candle so I can see you clearly.” Ryan caught a glint off the firearm and knew it was pointed at his crotch. He wasn’t going anywhere. “And be quick about it.”
Ryan did as told. By candlelight he could see that this was the girl’s room. A cot against the wall bore a worn quilted comforter. A small suitcase plastered with ragged hotel stickers was bound with a cord, ready for a hasty departure. Beside the valise lay a handbag.
“You now wear his clothes, monsieur.”
Ryan liked her flowered sundress cut above the knee, inappropriate perhaps for the new, more modest Vichy fashion taste, but fetching, he thought, despite his less than ideal situation.
“I needed shoes, and the rest of the clothing appeared better suited to fitting in down here. My things were a bit much, don’t you think?”
“It’s true—we don’t see many fine suits in the country.”
“Well, then, I suppose I’m now prepared to head back to Vichy.”
“And your friends? What about those friends you wished to rescue?”
Ryan hesitated. “I’ll still find a way.”
“Don’t waste your time. You’ll be as dead as the Englishman within the hour.”
“Why shoot me? We’re on the same side, you know.” Ryan’s mood grew darker.
“Oh, you can forget about me, monsieur—I’m out of here.”
“Who else, then? Your comrades who helped drag me here?” Ryan glanced out the door to the courtyard, but nothing moved. “No one needs to
know—just let me go and I’m gone from here forever.”
“You have much worse to worry about, and they’re on the way now—Gestapo with SS in tow. They usually avoid our back roads—too exposed—but for special cases they’ll always make an exception.” Her eyes had turned vacant and her face expressionless, her mind seemingly lost in memories.
“What do you mean? How do you know they’re coming?” Horst. Again.
The girl lowered her gun a fraction much to Ryan’s relief and focused on the situation at hand. “Phone call an hour ago. I’m surprised the ringing didn’t wake you. I’ve people on the coast keeping an eye out for me, so I knew the minute the Boches left Biarritz.”
“Look, mademoiselle, we can get out of here together. You know the area and have local friends. We watch out for each other until we’re both safe, then part ways, what do you think?’
Their eyes met directly but he felt no warmth, just practicality. “No time for further discussion, monsieur.” She lowered the weapon. “Very well, together for now, but don’t get any ideas.” She grabbed her valise and handbag and turned to leave. “Rest assured, I’ll be rid of you as soon as possible.”
“Sounds like a plan, mademoiselle. You have a name?” He was pleased to see she was leaving the shotgun behind.
She hesitated at the door. “‘Mademoiselle’ will do.”
He blew out the candle and they moved silently onto the courtyard and down toward a corral. In any other circumstance he would have taken her valise and put an arm around her, but he knew better. At the broad sliding doors to a barn she turned to face him.
“You know horses?”
“Of course.”
“Good, because the others are away with the truck, and we’ve no time to waste.”
She pointed down into the dark valley. In the far distance the headlamps of three closely-spaced vehicles threaded their way up in their direction, moving as quickly as the country road allowed.
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