The manager rose from his desk. His pinched face sported a carefully-trimmed mustache almost touching his thick sideburns, perhaps compensating for the thin strands of hair plastered across his head. He removed his wire-framed glasses. “Is there trouble, Frédéric?”
Ryan side-stepped the clerk. “Monsieur Vaucault, I come directly from Bayonne with a message for you from Jacques.” He hesitated, not sure whether to proceed further with the clerk standing there imperiously.
“Jacques? Tell me more about this Jacques.”
“Snow-white mustache, fuller than your own, monsieur, and…” Ryan placed a finger to each ear and tapped lightly, “ear mustaches?”
The manager laughed. “Of course, that Jacques. And your name, monsieur?”
“Richard Dana.”
The manager smiled. “Frédéric, this man has business with me. Please leave us undisturbed in my office. Monsieur Dana, please join me.”
They entered a tastefully-appointed office crowded with a heavy Victorian-era desk and two matching chairs. Ryan had correctly guessed the source of the smoke—a lit cigar rested in a ceramic ashtray advertising Grand Marnier liqueur. The manager turned the key in the lock. The smoke twisted upward in an acrid curl. “Please take a seat, monsieur, and tell me how Jacques from Bayonne and I can be of assistance.”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine, a very close friend. Jacques tells me that this man recently arrived here in Nantes to work with those who share our passion for France.”
“I suppose that Jacques and his copains have been through all this with you, but forgive me if I, too, am cautious. The name of the man you seek?”
“Jacques says he now goes by the name ‘Rénard.’ An impressive man, strong but with a limp, and dueling scars here—” Ryan pointed to his left cheek, “—and here.” His finger traced further lines on his forehead.
Vaucault nodded. “And your friend has a favorite book?”
“Two Years before the Mast.”
The manager dragged at his cigar and exhaled. “Now, were I to reach this man you describe—and I’m not saying that I can—how could I prove to him that you are a true friend and not just here to bring him embarrassment?”
Ryan had given this some thought while the clothing shop proprietress sketched out the port neighborhood and approximate location of Le Brigande. Some proof of identity would be needed to convince his friends, something indisputable, and his Florentine ring would do the trick. Both René and Erika knew it well. In the narrow alleyway alongside the hotel he had carefully opened the seam in his right trouser cuff and inserted the K-pill taken from the ring’s compartment. In the secret compartment he hid a slip of paper on which he scrawled a few words Erika was sure to recognize.
Now he removed the ring from his finger and set it before the director.
“And what do we have here, monsieur?” Vaucault examined the heavy ring under the desk lamp, admiring the black onyx cameo.
“Should you run across my friend, please give him this. And note my features so you can describe me accurately. I haven’t changed all that much since he saw me last. Just a bit more down-at-the-heels, perhaps.”
The man smiled as he looked him over with a practiced eye.
“Tell him I miss our conversations while strolling through the Marburg woods.” Ryan thought of the duel against von Kredow, where René had fought on his behalf while Ryan seconded, unsure of how to handle the saber. “And his advice to keep my head down and not cut myself…and one more thing, monsieur—” Ryan ran a hand through his hair, “tell him this curly hair is only a disguise.”
“Very well, monsieur.” The hotel director rose to unlock the door. “I’ll do what I can, but it may take a day or two of inquiry. Meanwhile, you’re in room twenty, two floors up at the end of the hall. Exit left from the lift.”
Back at the reception counter his petulant clerk moved aside, pretending to ignore them both. The manager ran his hand along the rank of keys until it reached number twenty, then hesitated. The key to that room was missing.
“Ah, but of course, monsieur. It’s already upstairs. Madame Dana has the key. No need to register—Madame has taken care of everything.”
“You look terrible!” Nicole motioned him in. “And you’ve lost half your curls.” She dropped the pistol back in the handbag at her shoulder.
“Rough couple of days, I’ll grant you that.” Ryan shrugged. “You think I need a new hairdresser?” He tossed his cap on the bed. A wave of nausea hit and he considered a quick run for the toilet down the hall. Instead, he sat on the bed while the queasiness passed. It was becoming routine.
She locked the door and came over to sit beside him. “So they released you without question.”
“No damned way—I had to make myself sicker than a dog. Luckily, hospital security is more lax than the jail’s. But I still had to do a number on a guard and steal his uniform to get out of Tours.”
Nicole faced him, eyebrows raised. “But I’d arranged for your release…”
“What?” Ryan was dumbfounded. “Or more important, when the hell did that happen?”
“Some Tours associates came to spring you, sometime early this morning, I’m told. But they reported you’d already gone.”
“My God, Nicole. I ate a rotting rat last night!” Pressing a hand to his gut, he suppressed another wave of nausea. “And it’s still haunting me.”
“Timing is everything.” Her eyebrows arched.
Easy for her to say. The stench of the spoiled flesh still lingered in his sinuses. “Well, I appreciate your efforts anyway.” He fell back against the pillow and addressed the ceiling. “So how’d you get here?”
“Watched them haul you away, then worked my way around the checkpoint. If we both hadn’t been so beat we might have considered that option and you’d have spared yourself that meal. Got to the train station and made a few calls to see what could be done about you. Our people have connections everywhere, you know. I came here with the next express.” From the window she looked down vacantly on the early afternoon traffic. “So what comes next?”
“I’ve already reached out to my friends through the hotel manager. For now, we just wait until they get back to us.”
By nightfall the tedium had become unbearable. Nicole read a magazine dog-eared by previous hotel guests. Ryan napped atop the bed, his sleep as restless as his gut. My God, he thought, how long will I pay for that disgusting rat meat? With no word from René or anyone else, Ryan decided fresh air might help. “Hungry?” He knew Nicole must also be going stir crazy.
“I could eat.”
“Something light for me, and then maybe a movie? Shouldn’t cost more than a couple francs.”
“A bit risky, don’t you think?”
“Worth it to get out for a bit, as long as we’re careful.” Ryan went for his jacket in the armoire. “The manager said we might not hear anything for a day or two, so no point in becoming hermits. We’ll leave a note at the front desk. With luck that imbecile Frédéric will be off for the evening.”
An acne-scarred and very pleasant young man had taken his place at the reception. He put Ryan’s note into the mail slot when they turned over the room key, and Ryan tipped him two francs. Should René arrive in their absence he would either wait for them or leave word where to meet up.
Ryan knew the risk going out in the streets. His only identity papers were those of the cop he had assaulted in Tours. The cops on the train were only looking for an imposter, so he doubted they presented a problem. More dangerous was the policeman’s Browning pistol bulging in his inside coat pocket. He moved it to the small of his back. Owning a firearm was a criminal offense under Vichy law, and now both he and Nicole were armed. They would definitely have to be back before the nine p.m. curfew.
In the early evening light Nicole took a closer look at his appearance. “You sure you’re up for this? You’re pale as a sheet.”
“Feeling better all the time, thanks.” He tried a smile
.
“Well for God’s sake, let’s buy pomade for that hair—with half the curls already gone you’re looking like a hedgehog.”
“And while you’re at it, please steal me that watch you promised. Drives me nuts not knowing the time.”
The lights dimmed in the cinema and a newsreel began to roll, German tanks thundering across a flat plain somewhere on the Eastern Front, stopping to fire, then rumbling on at great speed, stone structures crumbling in smoke and flame. Next came a long file of captured men, hands behind their heads, Slavic faces showing exhaustion and defeat as they paraded past the cameraman. The SS guards flashed broad smiles of victory. The narrator spoke of the extraordinary valor of the German soldiers fighting the Bolshevik terror.
A catcall came from somewhere in the back of the theater, echoed immediately from the front row. The newsreel came to a shaky halt, freezing a close-up image of the Führer, arm lifted in a lazy Nazi salute as his Grosser Mercedes passed through adoring crowds. The projector spotlighted nothing but clouds of smoke shifting overhead. The manager called out from the rear of the theater. “Enough nonsense! People want to see the film!”
A solitary shout from the dark. “No! We want to see a free France!” Scattered but enthusiastic applause. Ryan glanced across the half-full cinema and spotted no one involved in the protest. All eyes remained firmly fixed on the frozen screen as the projector lamp melted the celluloid. A hole opened in the middle of Hitler’s face and spread rapidly outward until the frame fell away. The screen went white and now many in the audience whistled and clapped loudly or stomped their feet on the floor. The house lights came up as the manager shouted repeatedly for quiet. Now only a cough or two broke the sudden silence.
“Come on, Nicole. Let’s get out of here. If this turns ugly they’ll call the cops.”
“Good idea. You don’t do all that well with jail grub.” He had only managed a bowl of chicken broth for dinner. Ryan threw her a quick look, hoping in vain to catch a grin on her face.
They headed up the aisle toward the exit, receiving a few sneers from moviegoers who undoubtedly took them for Nazi-sympathizers. If only they knew the truth. Outside the cinema a police car braked to a halt. Ryan put his hand to Nicole’s back to hurry her along. Three uniformed men jumped out and raced past the few exiting patrons. The ticket seller in her booth watched with a bewildered expression as the cops entered the movie house. Ryan suspected they would find nothing amiss inside the theater and all moviegoers behaving with propriety. Once the film was spliced and rolling again, the house lights would likely stay on for the rest of the evening’s entertainment.
It made no sense to leave the hotel again until he had papers which could pass police scrutiny, so the rest would be up to Vaucault and—he fervently hoped—René and Erika.
“Could he really be alive and here in Nantes?” Erika stared in disbelief at the ring, turning it over and over in her hand. “I’d swear it’s his.”
“How can we be certain, darling? Von Kredow’s been after us for years, and who knows what he’s got up his sleeve? The man’s a sadist and thoroughly devious.”
Erika shook her head. “From Vaucault’s description this certainly sounds like Ryan—he knows about your walks in the Marburg woods and the duel. Could he have overheard what you told Ryan about being careful with the saber?”
“His men could have overheard, I suppose. Just like him to have someone spying on us before the contest, looking for any weak spot. And we weren’t exactly secret about afternoon walks and beer up on Spiegelslust.”
“This could be a fake, I suppose.” She ran a finger over the onyx cameo and scratched at the stone with a fingernail. “Horst might have had one made by a jeweler.” She sat in the chair by the floor lamp, taking a closer look. “But if it’s a counterfeit, it’s a damned good one.”
“I know Ryan’s ring looked just like that. But remember—I saw where von Kredow tortured him and can only imagine what Ryan went through. His coat and your handbag were still hanging on the wall of that shack, and he could have left other personal items, as well. Do you suppose Ryan kept his ring, given he had only moments to escape? Was he wearing it when you were stopped by the gunboat?”
“I was exhausted—we all were—and survival was the only thing on our minds. I couldn’t say anything for sure about that nightmare.” She shuddered. “It was so dark, and cold, and all I wanted was revenge.”
“But why didn’t he write if he made it back to America? I sent several letters to him at his State Department.”
“Perhaps he never got them? Maybe he never made it back there. We surely would have heard if the protocol had been made public. President Roosevelt would have used that knowledge, if only for propaganda purposes, don’t you think? Maybe Horst’s men caught up with him and he really is dead, and they took this ring just to lure us in.”
“God only knows, but whatever happened, if Ryan is alive and has actually tracked us down, Horst may still be behind it all or on his tail, as well. I wouldn’t put anything past that son-of-a-bitch, especially with his resources.”
“You’re right, of course—it’s just such a surprise.”
“Well, it’s one we can’t ignore, but we’ll have to be extremely careful.” René saw the distant look on her face, could tell where her memories had led her. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently massaged them. “Darling, if it truly is Ryan…there’s something I must ask you…”
“Yes, love?” She continued to examine the ring.
“I do know what he did for you, what he meant to you. Will things still be right between us…the two of us?”
She looked up and gave him a lingering kiss. “My big bear, you are my one and only love, and things will always be right between us.”
He smiled a look of relief.
“But, darling?” Erika had stopped fidgeting with the ring.
“Yes?”
“Watch this.” She held the ring up to the light and pressed her thumbnail against the fine seam in the gold just below the cameo. The first attempt failed.
“Watching…”
The second try opened the secret compartment. She flashed René a huge smile. “It is Ryan! It’s really Ryan! Horst could never have known about this.” Very carefully she unfolded the tiny slip of paper and read aloud the message, three simple words from their shared past she could never forget: Just in case.
Despite the blackout restrictions enforced along the Atlantic Wall, Horst found Biarritz breath-taking beneath the evening moonlight. Who needed man-made illumination when nature provided such beauty? He sat on his balcony at the luxurious Hôtel du Palais, looking out to sea as a distant fog bank gradually rolled toward the shore. From time to time he spotted an SS gunship on patrol. So close to the Spanish border at Hendaye it was common for the anarchists to smuggle their human cargo past Biarritz, or from the harbor at Saint-Jean-de-Luz, so the Germans arbitrarily boarded and inspected fishing craft.
His day had been most productive, finally making real progress with the Bayonne terrorists. Armed with intelligence on the old man working under the code name “Jacques,” Horst’s reconnaissance team had brought in two of the three known members of that little cell, and Horst knew it was only a matter of time before they picked up the young man known as “Robert.”
The old man with the hairy ears had died well. Once this “Jacques” was tied to a chair, Horst held his Sauer alongside the man’s head and fired repeatedly until the tuft of white bristles ran red from the ruptured eardrum. The man still refused to speak, but Horst already knew everything, so the play with the gun had been just for fun. The coup de grâce came with the barrel aimed into the man’s undamaged ear. “So he hears it coming.” And Horst’s men had dutifully laughed.
The most important thing he had learned over the years was patience. Patience in the care he took with detainees. Patience with his subordinates, at least until they might try to undermine him. Brenner was a fool who should have known better. Pati
ence with his less dominant role in the Gestapo, ever since Heydrich withdrew direct support and spent less and less time in Berlin. His successes would draw Berlin’s attention before long and he would be back with the Reich’s leaders. And patience in accomplishing his most important life goal, revenge for Erika’s betrayal.
Horst thought of the three fugitives. He was pleased they were all headed to Nantes. A lovely city, he’d heard. And he had tired of living and working so far out of the mainstream. It would do him good to see new parts of France, perhaps even Paris. Jeder einmal in Paris, right? His car and driver would come round in the morning. His civilian dress and his one uniform were already packed and ready to go. His favorite suit of fine, charcoal-gray worsted hung in the wardrobe, freshly-brushed by the hotel valet.
Horst sat naked on the balcony. He tapped the syringe to clear air bubbles—so ordinary a task he never gave it a moment’s notice—and injected the morphine between his fingers. After years of use his arms and legs showed a spidery web of tracks. He drew his dagger from its sheath to admire the edge honed to perfection, turning the blade from side to side in the pale moonlight. Then very carefully he carved three parallel lines in the flesh of his left thigh alongside older cuts already healing. One for Erika, one for the “Frenchman,” one for Lemmon. The boy was undeserving of his sacrifice. He cut deeply, watching the blood surface and splatter on the tiles at his feet. He dabbed a finger in the fresh blood of each cut and ran it the length of the scar on his left cheek. He felt no pain, just melancholy at the passing of time and opportunity.
Klaus, my dearly departed ‘dagger,’ what great times we had together, nicht wahr? He picked at the open cuts with the tip of the blade, smearing the welling blood. What great things we could have accomplished had you only learned to swim.
Beacon of Vengeance Page 26
