Beacon of Vengeance

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Her voice remained steady and casual showing no sign of concern or fear. “Who’s there?”

  A rich, masculine voice answered from the hall. “A friend of a friend, mademoiselle.”

  “You have a name for me, monsieur?”

  “Will Gesslinger do?”

  She looked for Ryan’s nod, then turned the key and cracked the door. Ryan peered through the opening at the jamb as she revealed a young man in faded dockworker’s clothing. He offered her a warm smile, very white teeth hiding behind a full, black beard—the look of a boy playing an adult—and reached out his hand in greeting.

  Ryan stuffed the knotted cord in his pocket and stepped into sight, glancing over the stranger’s shoulder and down the hallway in the hope of seeing René there. The passage at first appeared empty, but then he saw movement in the far shadows, a man with trousers at his ankles, a woman’s pale legs encircling his waist, a pale ass rocking back and forth under the circle of light from the ceiling fixture.

  The young man followed Ryan’s gaze, chuckled, and handed Ryan a folded slip of paper. “Thirty minutes, monsieur— on time, s’il-vous-plâit.” And he was gone toward the stairs in a flash. Ryan shut the door on the pre-occupied couple.

  Under the room light the paper revealed an address and a hastily-sketched map with a few notes of guidance. He handed the paper to Nicole. “You know the place?”

  She examined it closely and nodded. “I believe it’s over near the prison and slaughter house. We can ask along the way, but—”

  “No, you stay here—this last part is mine.” He didn’t want to put her at further risk.

  “I’d have no problem with that, but I know my way around the city a bit, and without me you’ll never make it on time.” Despite misgivings, Ryan acknowledged her logic. “Besides, I said I’d stick with you till you’ve found your friends. Now shut that window and let’s get going.”

  He consulted his bare wrist. “Will we ever get a damned watch?”

  She reached for her handbag and coat. “I’ll steal one for you.”

  He smiled, locking the door behind them. Down the hall, the couple was still actively entwined.

  From the Quai de Lesseps they followed the river, stopping for a moment in a shabby bar to ask specific directions before following the Boulevard d’Alsace Lorraine to the Boulevard de L’Abbatoire. The river was spanned by an impressive bridge, and imposing municipal buildings formed sharp silhouettes against the evening sky. But on the north side of the Adour the streets were more neglected and poorly lit with blackout in effect, so street addresses were difficult to read. Ryan’s feet still suffered from the beating and he wished for a break, but knew time was critical, so they kept moving.

  The high walls of the prison were impossible to miss, looming ominously against the clear night sky. Ryan and Nicole headed north in the shadows across from the guarded stone structure until they came to the slaughterhouse compound. The stench of blood and offal and the lowing of cattle drove them onwards. Once past, they began to search for the small alley depicted in the young man’s sketch.

  A derelict truck on blocks marked the spot, waiting to feed the Nazi scrap metal drive. Directly behind number 16 an unlit passageway turned to the left. The glow around the edges of heavy curtains on the upper floors allowed them to make out individual buildings, but the alleyway itself lay deep in gloom. Wishing for a flashlight, they felt their way along with one hand on the wall to avoid tripping on trash and fallen brick. As the passage came to an end the alley took a sharp right. Now they watched for a stoop marked by a solitary candle, as indicated in the note.

  A rushing sound came from above and they stopped in their tracks. He instinctively reached for her hand and just as quickly thought better of it. Then he spied the bats—ten, maybe twenty—silhouetted against the sky as they fluttered about, disturbed by their passing. Ryan found his hands shaking. The encounter with Horst at Gurs had finally awakened him to just how quickly danger could appear. He tensed in anticipation, wishing for a better weapon, wishing he were alone and less concerned about Nicole’s well-being. He gripped the shaft of the makeshift knife deep in his pocket. It wasn’t much, but something.

  The flickering stub of a candle propped in an empty beer bottle drew them forward. It sat on the stoop of a recessed back door to a four-story tenement. Ryan lifted the flame to the door, searching for any name or markings, but found none. No one appeared to use this door with any regularity, since trash had piled up undisturbed at the threshold. Gesturing Nicole to stand off to one side, he knocked twice before taking to the deep shadow across from her.

  The doorway separated a crack and a shaft of light raced across the narrow alley, startling a stray cat who shot away to escape the glare. Ryan quickly returned his gaze to the door.

  “Who is it?” The voice gruff but polite.

  “Gesslinger,” said Ryan, his voice a whisper.

  “You alone?”

  “Two of us.”

  Now the voice called out from the narrow opening, “Robert!” From the darkness to their rear emerged the young man who had delivered the note, only the white teeth of his smile visible against the black of his beard. His eyes remained hidden beneath the bill of his worker’s cap. Ryan thought of a Cheshire cat. Again that deep voice belying his youth: “C’est moi. Follow me, monsieur, mademoiselle.”

  The man who opened the door for them was older, perhaps in his fifties, a pistol at his side. He slid shut the bolt once all three had entered. The long hallway was littered with trash, broken bottles, newspapers, a pile of long-discarded political posters and frazzled protest signs still on stick handles. Shoulder-high stacks of cardboard boxes lined each side, reeking of dampness and mold. They passed by a frayed Nazi propaganda poster tacked to the wall—Hitler reviewing the troops—defaced with a large “V” sketched in red on his forehead and a crudely-drawn and miniscule cock hanging from the Führer’s fly. A single bulb dangled from a frayed cord above their heads.

  Their guide ignored the first two doors and opened the third. The room was cleaner than the hall and appeared recently swept. An older man waited for them in an armchair, its dark-green velvet smooth from years of use. The floor lamp with fringed shade cast a bright halo on his bald spot. Newspapers and books were scattered to either side. Ryan spotted on the man’s lap a bold headline boasting of the latest Wehrmacht successes.

  “Do you read, my friends?”

  Ryan gave Nicole a quick glance before answering. “Of course we can read.” He relaxed his grip on the pencil knife but held it ready.

  “No, not can you read, do you read?”

  A mystified Ryan proceeded with caution. “Yes, of course. What do you mean— newspapers, journals, literature?”

  “Whom do you read…who’s your favorite author?”

  Ryan tried to make out book titles at the man’s feet with no success. “Marcel Proust.” A stab in the dark.

  “Excellent choice, given your reason for coming here.” He looked to the others for agreement, but they seemed as confused as Ryan. Á la recherche du temps perdu—remembering past times, of course. Destined to be a classic, if not a particularly exciting read.”

  Ryan felt impatience rising. “What are we doing here?” He glanced at the two men behind him near the door and thought again of Gurs. His fingers tightened on the pencil weapon.

  “Why, exactly that, monsieur—we’re remembering your times past. You couldn’t have chosen a better literary title. You come here seeking to reconnect with an old friend, and you need our help finding him, correct?”

  Ryan tensed at the click of a hammer. The smiling young man had trained a handgun on them, an old Colt service revolver. The other man held his weapon to the side, his finger on the trigger.

  The older man sprang from the armchair, spry for his age, an agility belying his weather-worn face and drooping white mustache. His newspaper fell to the floor. The man tilted the shade of the lamp to cast light directly on them, then stepped to wi
thin a meter of Ryan and looked him in the eyes. Dense brushes of hair sprouted from the man’s nostrils and ears.

  “We have had several ‘friends’ come calling here, each with a different story and a different reason for seeking this mysterious ‘Gesslinger’.” He chuckled. “And each proved a liar, not really interested in friendly discourse.” He turned abruptly and picked up his newspaper, folding the sheets and adding them to the pile beside the chair. “So we had to kill them.”

  Nicole clasped her handbag to her chest and her eyes met Ryan’s, but he saw no fear.

  “What makes you different?” The question came from the middle-aged man behind them. He now pointed his automatic at them.

  “Because he and I are old friends—since university days—I know him well, and this young woman is a partisan, only here to help me in my search for them.”

  “Them?”

  “Yes, my friend and his companion…blonde, tall, long legs, a looker. There’s also a boy. Do you want names? You already have ‘Gesslinger’.”

  “You bring us nothing new with that, monsieur. Our previous guests could also describe them well, for all the good it did them. And they, too, knew names. What else do you have for us?”

  Ryan’s mind raced over his past associations and experiences with René, anything that Horst wouldn’t know but a true friend might. They now found themselves where Gestapo lackeys had failed this test and died for it. Ryan’s eyes dropped to the cracked linoleum at his feet, momentarily seeking signs of dried blood, imagining the bodies falling.

  “Here’s a thought, monsieur, since you appear a bit stumped. Rather than asking your friend’s favorite book—”

  “Yes?”

  “Try his favorite color. Yes, your Monsieur Gesslinger must have a favorite color. Do you know it?”

  My God, thought Ryan, our lives depend on this? Nicole watched him calmly, awaiting his response. Her composure floored him. He couldn’t recall ever discussing favorite colors with René, unless it was his preference in wine. Pinot blanc. No, that certainly wouldn’t do. Too much at stake to be wrong.

  And then he knew it, as sure as he would ever be, and willing to gamble their lives on it. It wasn’t white, because white contains all colors, and not black, for that’s the absence of color. “Orange, monsieur. The color is orange.” Gesslinger Rhein-Fracht, and René, always so proud of his freighters plying the Rhine—its flag white, black, and, of course, orange.

  “Bravo, monsieur…” Ryan exhaled as the man jumped from the chair and came over to shake their hands, “…and welcome! Call me Jacques, and this young fellow here calls himself Robert, whom you have already met, and my brother here likes the name Samuel, since it sounds very Jewish.”

  The others stuck their weapons in their waistbands and shook hands all around.

  “I believe we can now help you find our friend.”

  Once it was clear that Ryan was truly on the level, things went very well with the Bayonne partisans who guarded René’s secrets so carefully.

  “Come with us, my friends.” Jacques clapped Ryan on the shoulder and directed them out of the room which had come close to becoming their death chamber. “We’ll have a coffee, a real coffee, since our republican colleagues the other side of the Pyrénées are still able to get us some very fine beans. And then let’s discuss what your buddies are up to now.”

  Ryan traded glances with Nicole as they followed the men. She appeared remarkably sanguine after the close call, almost as if she’d only been observing and not personally under any threat. Smiling Robert had turned back toward the alley entrance, perhaps to stand guard through the long night. The adjacent room held a wooden table covered in red wax cloth and stacked with newspapers,

  Jacques set a coffeepot atop a hotplate. He offered them wooden chairs and somewhat stale biscuits from a tin. “A real shame, but you’ve just missed your friends by a few days. I’m afraid our Monsieur Gesslinger seeks a more active life than we can provide here in Bayonne, so he’s gone north to cause trouble on the Loire. With his knowledge of shipping, he should be a valuable thorn in the side of our Germans, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely one of his strengths.” Ryan couldn’t hide his disappointment at the news, having come so close. “So how are we to find him now?”

  “First, you must get up there undetected. You haven’t by chance a valid travel permit from our dear Teutonic masters?” Ryan shook his head in regret. “No problem.” Jacques added coffee to the pot. “I do have a few other ideas to make things easier for you. Our mutual friend goes by ‘Rénard’ now, by the way. A few of our local people plan to join the fun once he’s settled in and taken charge up there, so we agreed in advance how to make that as simple—and safe—as possible.” Jacques toasted them with a smile and an empty coffee mug removed from the shelf. “You’ve just survived step one, by the way.”

  “You must have heard my sigh of relief back there—we’d come too far to die from friendly fire.” Ryan’s eyes strayed again to the white tufts at the man’s ears, thick as the tips of an artist’s brush, and the snowy mustache appeared to sprout directly from his nostrils. A wonder the man could hear or breathe. Ryan unconsciously stroked his own slender mustache. “So first off, can you get us to Nantes without one of those transit permits?”

  “Fortunately for you, we’re very well connected with the French Railways, so I’d expect no problem as long as luck and timing are on your side.”

  “And once we arrive?”

  “Near the port you’ll find a hotel, Le Brigande. Nice rooms upstairs,” his big smile at Nicole caused his mustache to inflate like a hedgehog, “should you and your lovely mademoiselle choose to overnight while waiting to hear from Rénard.” Nicole remained mute.

  “And how do we reach him when we arrive?”

  “We’ve all agreed on a watchword, a long one, to be sure—‘Two Years before the Mast’.” Jacques pronounced the book title in heavily-accented English. “Does the name mean something to you?”

  Ryan smiled. “Yes, he had trouble with Richard Dana’s nautical memoir at the university.”

  “Well, guard that password very carefully. I doubt anyone would come upon it, but as you almost learned, wrong answers to identity questions can prove fatal.” Ryan was glad the book’s title hadn’t been the answer needed to save their lives a few minutes before.

  “And monsieur?”

  “Oui?”

  “Introduce yourself as ‘Monsieur Richard Dana’.” And Jacques laughed as he poured the coffee into chipped mugs.

  They stood side-by-side on Quai de Lesseps. Down river spread the estuary and the sea, and across the Adour loomed the city center and the confluence with the Nive River. Moonlight danced on the flowing water. Eleven o’clock approached, and Ryan was very conscious of the curfew. He had little enough time left to get a commitment from her.

  “Nicole, please hear me out. You can go join your friends in the hills and continue your fight. I’m sure you’ll track them down and set up your resistance elsewhere, now that the farm’s compromised. I won’t try to change your mind.” Ryan knew the moment had arrived to present his case. “But just consider another option—why not stick with me a while longer and help my friends out of danger first? Isn’t your work the same either way? And once we’ve found them again, you can pick up where you left off.”

  A police vehicle raced along the far bank of the Adour, its light flashing and siren wailing.

  “Tracking them down will be easier if we travel together, and you know more about surviving in this Occupied France than I’ve picked up in the last few days.” Ryan gave his most charming smile. “My God, without your help I’ll probably be in Gestapo hands in twenty-four hours.”

  “And why should I care?” Nicole faced him directly, her chin jutting. The close call with the local partisans had affected her after all. As soon as Boulevard de L’Abbatoire was behind them she had cursed them all, including him. “You came here knowing the risks.” Tears
blurred her eyes. “Why would anyone leave America to face this horror, this constant deception and killing?”

  “I came because the cause is just, noble even. If we don’t fight them, who will?”

  “Just? A noble cause, you say?” She bit her trembling lip. “There’s nothing noble here—nothing courageous, bold or thrilling about war. War is loss!” One foot pounded the cobblestones. “War is death and innocents suffering, women and children dying.” Her nose was a hands-breadth from his, her face inflamed with fury. “Believe me, I’ve seen it all; I live it every single day and dream it all night long.”

  She turned abruptly and addressed the river, her voice dropping to an ominous calm. “The only thing that matters to me is survival, to do what I must if there’s even the slightest chance of success.”

  “But Nicole, listen, someone has to carry on the fight, whether on the battlefield or undercover, whether soldier or partisan.”

  She turned abruptly, the fury back. “You men disgust me! You glorify war to justify destroying lives, if only to prove your point, whether political or religious or simply out of greed. And let’s not forget blatant, unemotional cruelty, most satisfying of all, n’est-ce pas? You men can keep your wars. Go ahead, consider yourselves bold and courageous. As for me, I do what I must because war’s all I’ve become, and that sickens me.” She stared out across the choppy waters, alone with her thoughts. An SS gunboat throbbed downriver, its searchlight scanning the wharves and warehouses. The beam caught them, hesitated blindingly, then swung away as the vessel chugged on. Raucous gulls cried overhead, disturbed by the noise and light, now hoping for food in the wake of the passing boat or from the two figures below. The propeller wash slapped against the pilings.