Beacon of Vengeance

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Ryan admired her passion but couldn’t buy into her attitude toward the war. But more important to him now was that she remained at his side. He was too close and really could use her help. “Then it doesn’t really matter whether you go with me or return to the hills, does it? The battle, your battle, remains the same wherever you are. Come on, help me, Nicole—years ago I made a promise to get this woman and child to safety, and now I’m almost there. Help me keep that promise.”

  She remained still for so long he feared he’d lost her, but when she finally turned to him he saw resignation in her eyes and heard it in her voice. “D’accord, I’ll see this through with you.”

  Ryan smiled. “I really appreciate—”

  “Non! Forget the gratitude. I’ll come because I have no choice. Just remember what I made clear—no one wins at war!”

  She turned in the direction of the hotel. Ryan shook his head as he hurried to catch up with her. Her strength and conviction would give them more than a fighting chance.

  LA RÉSISTANCE

  1941

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paris, Occupied France

  19 August 1941

  Marita had left a message with the gruff-voiced man who answered the number on Serge’s calling card. She said she accepted Serge’s proposal, needed to speak with him immediately, and requested a call-back that evening at her private office number. Instead, Serge appeared at the club around nine accompanied by a brooding thug who stationed himself at the curtained door to ogle the nearly-nude dancers on stage. Serge headed up the stairs to the office just as Florian came bounding down, one fist clenched, the other in his pocket with a finger on the trigger.

  Serge trained a small pistol on the bodyguard and exposed his stained teeth in a malicious grin. “Wouldn’t try anything, buddy.”

  Florian pulled up short and glared.

  “That’s a good boy—now let’s take it nice and easy.” Serge stepped past the bouncer, the barrel leveled at Florian’s gut, forcing him against the railing. “Now be nice and go entertain my man Paul. And get used to it. I’m your new boss, so play by my rules—” an ugly smile split his face, “—or not at all.” He continued up without looking back, returning the gun to his pocket. Furious, Florian turned to grab the man’s collar, but caught movement from the corner of his eye. At the foot of the stairs lurked a tall thug, staring his way with heavy revolver drawn. At the landing, Serge entered the office without knocking.

  “What the hell?” Marita half-rose from her chair.

  “Why, hello, ma petite. And a fine good evening to you, as well.” Serge settled in on the couch and adjusted the crease of his trousers.

  Marita brought her shock under control. “Listen, Serge—I’ll need a phone call before you drop in, and we only meet here during daylight hours when the club’s closed, got it? The girls all know what happened to Colette, and your being here will drive them away.”

  “Nonsense.” He puffed a cigar alive and tossed the match to the floor. “My man downstairs will have a quiet word with the dancers and staff and I assure you no one will quit.” He drew again on the cigar. “Unless I invite them to, clear?” His face disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  “I can’t run a business with you and your associates hovering around constantly. You’ve got my phone number. Just give me a ring when you must come by and I’ll arrange to be here.”

  “Better yet, you be here anytime I decide to drop in. We’re partners, right? Any partner of mine is on the job full-time.” He took another drag on the cigar. “And evenings suit me better. I need to get acquainted with the personnel. In fact, I’ll use this office to interview each of the dancers individually, up close and personal, you know what I mean? Must be sure their physical attributes reflect well on the club.” He laughed while Marita seethed but held her tongue.

  “You’re welcome to join in, or just watch. Either way, they’re in good hands, I assure you.” Cigar lodged in his mouth, Serge made a crude gesture with each hand.

  Three evenings later Marita faced Serge again as music from the three-piece orchestra rose to a crescendo down below. She knew the girls would be stepping on stage for the finale. He had actually called to let her know he was coming by toward closing to examine her books. Now he expressed disappointment at both credits and debits.

  “Your booze is too good for these Boches; we’ll switch to my supplier, and mark up the prices. They’ll hardly notice the difference.”

  “My customers treat me well.” She shuttered the former projector window, lowering the volume inside the office. “If I lose the big-spenders to one of those clubs up the street, you lose, too. Don’t mess with what works.”

  “Ah, ma petite, still think you’re in charge around here?” He rose from the couch to stand so close she could smell rot on his breath. He placed a hand on her shoulder, followed the curve of her arm and her hip and squeezed her ass. He stepped away abruptly as she raised a hand to slap him, and then laughed at her frustration. “Get used to it, Marita.” He drew out her name, emphasizing the liberties he was taking. “Both you and your little operation are now mine.”

  The phone on the desk startled them both. She sat and steadied her nerves before lifting the receiver.

  “Yes, Florian.” She listened intently, her eyes never leaving Serge. The gangster leaned against the door jamb, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “Yes, fine, just give me a couple of minutes before you send him up.”

  Serge arched his brows.

  “You must leave—and now! One of my best customers, a Wehrmacht colonel, wants to bring me something and I can’t have him seeing you up here.”

  “Ah, a gift of appreciation? Well, thirty percent of any business is mine, so I won’t stand in the way of that. But better yet, why must I leave?”

  “I have a reputation to protect.” She made no effort to hide her disgust. “You don’t fit in.”

  “Oh, how that hurts. I suppose your clientele’s too good for the likes of me.” He feigned sadness. “Well, tell you what, I’ll just step into that closet there and hear the two of you out. After all, private gifts are off the books, and I can’t have you hiding anything from me, can I?”

  Before she could protest he was at the closet door. He left it open a crack. A knock came at the door, and Marita put on a brave smile. “Enter, please.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bayonne, Occupied France

  19 August 1941

  Small points of light pierced the darkness of the rail yard. Ryan spotted the shielded headlamps of a locomotive at rest and the sudden flash from coals as the door opened on an engine’s firebox. A brakeman’s signal lantern swung a wide arc and then disappeared again. The red marker on a departing train dissolved slowly into the night.

  He ran his fingers through the tight curls on his head. The chemical smell of the permanent wave still filled his nostrils, but the new disguise was convincing. His finger reassured him that the pencil mustache was filling in with every passing hour. He had a few years on the dead Englishman, but overall their features were close enough to pass superficial police inspection. He reset the beret at an angle and climbed the staircase, still favoring his sensitive feet.

  The windows of the main yard tower gave an unobstructed view of the multiple stretches of track spread out below. The trainman leaned over a slanting display board studded with small lights. The diagram indicated which rails were cleared for through traffic and the positioning of turn-outs. The larger road machines huffed about the yard, picking up their assigned consists. A smaller switching locomotive left billows of smoke in its wake as it shunted freight cars about. One heavy engine and tender rumbled toward the engine barn, shaking the tower with its passage. It came to a stop as another locomotive rotated slowly on the turntable, preparing to head out in the opposite direction. A long train carrying armaments occupied the center of the rail yard. Ryan assumed it was destined for the Russian front via Germany and Poland.

  “What the hell do you want?
” The yard master had finally taken notice of Ryan, standing quietly at the open door and surveying the rail activity.

  “You’re Laurent?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Jacques sent me. He said to give his best to your wife, Victoria.”

  “My wife?” Perplexed for a moment. “Ah yes, V for Victoire, eh? Fine, how can I be of help?”

  “I need to get to Nantes.”

  “You can pay?” He scanned the board.

  Ryan knew his cash reserves were running low. “How much?”

  “A joke, monsieur.” He returned his attention to Ryan. “When a request comes from Jacques, there’s never a charge.” Laurent took his time tamping down tobacco in his pipe while Ryan watched with envy. Rail work obviously kept the man fit, but deep creases around his eyes were etched with black soot making him appear much older. “You’re also a pipe smoker, monsieur?”

  “Lost mine recently to our German friends.”

  “Hélas, we’ve lost so much to them.” Laurent’s face darkened as he checked the status of his yard board.

  “A ride north?” Ryan reminded the yard master.

  “Ah, yes, of course, monsieur. You travel alone?”

  “One companion, a woman.”

  “A pipe and a woman, all a man needs to be happy, n’est-ce pas? His mood brightened again as he reached for a clipboard and scanned the top page, his finger stopping at an entry. “What luck! Here’s just the thing for the two of you. Speed and comfort! Out any time now, Paris via Bordeaux. At Poitiers you can hop a train west to Nantes.”

  “Excellent, monsieur. Whom do I see in Poitiers?” Ryan glanced at the large wall clock. A quarter past eleven. He hoped they’d sleep a little on the road. Exhaustion was setting in after the long and trying day.

  “Yard master’s Max, password’s ‘Trocadéro,’” but take care in the Poitiers yards, they’re much more heavily guarded than ours. You get in trouble, you’re done for.” He returned the clipboard to its hook. “We can’t have that, right? It would mean our friends in Poitiers would have to dream up a new password.”

  The tower shook as another heavy freight thundered past. Roiling black smoke and soot engulfed their glass box, forcing Ryan to hack his lungs clear. The yard master didn’t even cough. “Here’s where we’re heading—track six.” With the stem of his pipe, Laurent tapped the intended spot on the display. “Your woman’s nearby, I presume.”

  “Down below…out of sight.”

  “Excellent. Now once you’re aboard you’re on your own. Last I looked, the SS guards were drinking up a storm, so little worry there, and don’t be surprised should the run to Poitiers take longer than expected.” His wink darkened the creases to a solid black line. “Normally we expect a few hours transit time with this type of priority express, but we’re experiencing some unusual slowdowns getting Boche trains out.” He smiled. “Just can’t imagine why, can you?”

  Ryan looked out and spotted track six. The military transport. “My God, monsieur, you’re putting us on a troop train?”

  “No troops, just armaments. A couple of guards ride up front in the locomotive, but most of the soldier guards camp out in the personnel wagon at the rear. With luck, they’ll be as drunk as the dogs they are.” He smiled again. “And just think how secure you’ll feel with all those weapons around you.”

  “Another joke, monsieur?”

  “Look, my friend. I’ll get you safely up under the canvas. A bottle of wine—or worst case, water—a chunk of cheese, and you’ll be fine till Poitiers. They never expect us to hop a military transport, so it’s the safest passage you’ll find—no checkpoints, no controls, just priority freight. But don’t miss changing trains in the Poitiers yards or you might end up across the Rhine.”

  “And how do we find this Max in Poitiers?”

  “Go to the yard tower again, the main one. Just take care crossing the tracks. Leave your woman below. Ask for him upstairs, and if he isn’t there, he’ll come running when he hears you’re waiting. Just use the password and you’ll do fine.”

  “Trocadéro.” Ryan repeated, swallowing hard. “How soon do we leave?”

  Laurent consulted his pocket watch and checked the status on his board. “Is now soon enough? Train leaves in about fifteen minutes. All aboard!”

  “Sure, of course, why not?” Now Ryan gave his most ingratiating smile. “And, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I fear we’ve no time to shop.” He pointed to a plate of sandwiches lying beside an open wine bottle. A half-filled glass sat nearby. “I’m sure she’ll get hungry…my companion.”

  “Why the hell not?” Laughing, Laurent re-wrapped the sandwiches in the waxed paper, filled his glass, and handed Ryan the re-corked bottle.

  Ryan slipped both gifts into the side pockets of his jacket. “We’ll toast to your good health with these.”

  “Glad to help, now go downstairs and stay out of sight. I’ve got to get someone up here while I give the guided tour.” He reached for the phone.

  Ryan found Nicole in deep shadow behind an electrical junction box. Coal smoke and engine oil permeated the air. He smiled at catching sight of her in the darkness, grateful she still waited for him. “Ready to hop a freight?”

  “Already?”

  “Any moment now.”

  They heard footsteps cross the gravel and then bound up the stairs overhead. Seconds later, the treads creaked again as someone hurried down. A small tank locomotive approached to their immediate left pushing a dozen or so stubby railcars, the wheels click-clacking across the joints. The engine’s shrill whistle pierced the air, forcing them to cover their ears. As the smoke cleared, the yard master appeared before them. He shook Nicole’s hand with a “bonsoir, mademoiselle” and an appreciative smile.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur. Thank you for your help.”

  “Quickly, now. If you think you’ve been spotted, signal me and I’ll do my best to defuse the situation.” He revealed a pistol hidden under his coat. “But if I say run, run like hell and get out of the yards anyway you can. Oh, and if I say ‘drop,’ drop between the tracks and keep low. Any questions?”

  Neither Ryan nor Nicole spoke up. She appeared calm, but Ryan found himself stroking his unfamiliar mustache. He buried his hands in his trouser pockets.

  “Good. Now hold back a couple of steps until I give the all-clear. Once we’re close to your train, I check for guards. When I give a sign,” Laurent demonstrated with a wave of his hand, “I cross over first and wait for you beneath the appropriate flatcar. You join me, climb aboard, and you’re on your way. And for God’s sake, not a sound, even if you break something crossing the tracks.”

  They moved out, following him past a dozen freight cars before all three climbed over the couplers linking two fuel tankers. The petroleum stench etched his nostrils, and Ryan felt momentarily lightheaded. He could tell Nicole was also breathing more raggedly as they cleared that track. Headlamps appeared down to their left. A train entered the yard, approaching rapidly on the only open rails between two strings of cars. The yard master motioned them to wait beneath an empty cattle car while he crouched across from them.

  The moment the arriving train cleared the track they rejoined Laurent, now observing the targeted military consist on the next track over. Heavy armaments lay beneath camouflage which did nothing to disguise the intimidating weaponry. The yard master scanned the length of the train and Ryan followed his gaze. At the far end, two dots of orange light flitted about in the darkness beneath the dimly-lit windows of the passenger car. From their stance the cigarette smokers appeared to be talking with fellow soldiers already aboard the troop car.

  At the opposite end two workers lubricated the engine’s running gear as a second huge steam locomotive backed into place. The train would be double-headed. The ground shook as the engines coupled, and the cars jolted along its length. The guards at the front end seemed intrigued by the coupling operation and ignored the rest of the train.

/>   Suddenly, two loud SS men leaned out a window of the troop car at the tail end and tossed their comrades bottles of beer. “Now!” Laurent signaled, and Nicole and Ryan ducked low and crossed the rails to clamber beneath the flatcar. Once beyond clear line of sight, Ryan exhaled slowly.

  “You first, monsieur, then help the mademoiselle board.” Laurent pressed close to the car, loosening a tie-down and opening a gap in the tarp. At his signal, Ryan braced one foot on the axle hub, swung the other atop the wheel, and slipped in beneath the canvas.

  Voices approached from the front of the train—two SS men talking and laughing. With his razor knife in his hand, Ryan held his breath, expecting any moment to hear someone raise an alarm. The guards came nearer, their words still indistinct, the men clearly unaware of potential trouble. They passed by without incident and silence returned.

  Ryan counted the seconds in his mind. The railcars shuddered as the locomotives drew out the slack in preparation for departure. At last Nicole’s hands appeared, grasping for a hold, and he hoisted her up and steadied her in his arms. She remained briefly, then pulled away to find a place on the oil-stained planking, her back to a massive metal tread.

  The tarp began to tighten, plunging them into darkness. Unexpectedly, Laurent’s hand penetrated their hiding space, set something atop the flooring, and withdrew. His hand reappeared holding the end of the tie-down. “Just yank hard when the time comes and it’ll come free.” He cinched taut the canvas. They barely heard his final “bon voyage.”

  In the gloom of their cave Ryan crawled over to the edge of their tenting, where his hand found a small pen-knife, perhaps for a hurried release from the canvas shroud if needed, and Laurent’s pipe with its leather pouch. Matches lay buried in the tobacco. He inhaled the pungent aroma and sent silent thanks to the yard master.