He ran around to the front of the house and gave a playful triple knock on the door. As Tomas swore and turned to answer the knock, Marc dashed back to the window. He opened the leaded pane as quietly as he could, then dropped down into the only room on the ground floor, timing his jump to coincide with Tomas opening his front door.
‘Bloody kids,’ Tomas shouted, when he saw nobody there. ‘Dozy nuns! Can’t keep ’em under control.’
Marc grabbed a heavy griddle pan hanging over the stove, and Tomas caught sight of it as he turned around, kicking the door shut with his bare heel while scratching himself through his boxers.
‘You,’ Tomas growled as his eyes opening wide. ‘You cheeky motherless bastard.’
Tomas had been a middleweight boxer in his prime, and Marc wouldn’t be the first cocky orphan to square up and come off worst. But none of those guys had Marc’s combat training and as Tomas swung, Marc ducked, bobbed up and smashed him across the temple with a brutal two-handed swing of the pan.
Tomas went down stiff, like a tree trunk. Marc reckoned the force had been enough to crack his skull, but the blow hadn’t broken skin so there was no blood.
‘That’s for every time you thrashed me,’ Marc said, wishing Tomas was conscious to hear his words.
Marc went down on one knee, turned back the top of his trousers and broke open a few cotton stitches on the inside. The break in the seam enabled him to push out a tiny L-pill – L for lethal.
After pulling Tomas’ jaw open, Marc balanced the pill on one of his rear molars and then closed the jaw up, crunching the pill and releasing a dose of cyanide. Marc had killed a man in a Rennes prison cell using the same technique, so he knew to expect spasms and vomit in his victim’s mouth as heart and lungs became paralysed.
But time was short, so rather than watch Tomas’ last moments, Marc rubbed off the skin flakes stuck to the bottom of the griddle pan and hung it back up, then turned his attention to the huge steaming pot.
Marc raised the lid and saw three of the tan-coloured shirts that Tomas wore as part of his Recquisition Authority uniform. As Tomas kicked his last spasms, Marc splashed some of the hot water on to the earth floor, purely to test the pot’s weight. He then grabbed Tomas under the arms and dragged him across to the stove, adjusting his position so that it looked like he’d succumbed to a heart attack.
Marc’s cover story had Tomas grabbing hold of something as he collapsed, but only managing to grab the heavy pot and bring it down. The water was scalding and Marc was careful not to splash his legs as he drained it over Tomas’ head.
The skin instantly blistered and a whiff of hair tonic came up with the steam. The wet shirts slapped the floor as he dropped the large pot. As a finishing touch Marc pressed Tomas’ limp palm against the side of the pot, making his flesh sizzle and leaving a burn to confirm that he’d grabbed the pot and pulled it down on himself.
The scene wouldn’t stand serious examination, but Marc knew that the Luftwaffe ran the Beauvais area with a fairly gentle touch. They left routine matters to gendarmes and while these French police varied in their degree of loyalty to the Germans, it was unlikely that a country policeman would voice suspicions that might lead to brutal German reprisals against his own community.
Marc backed up as a curtain of steam rose from the earth floor. After a few seconds making sure that he’d made no basic errors and left nothing behind, he checked his watch and backed out into a blaze of low sunlight.
He needed to gain a couple of minutes to be sure of catching the train, but running from a crime scene attracts attention, so he only ran once the orphanage was well out of sight.
Marc had killed before and would have to kill again before the week was out, but he lacked the ruthlessness of Henderson, who could kill and forget it moments later, or the sadistic streak of someone like Luc, who revelled in the vilest things he’d ever done.
Marc knew the faces of everyone he’d killed, but as he bolted downhill with a breeze buffeting his ears he didn’t see Tomas’ scalded skin. Instead he saw himself as a young boy, with Tomas lashing out mercilessly. And a dozen other boys, who’d cried themselves to sleep as their wounds bled into their bed sheets.
Marc felt strong with his oldest enemy vanquished and the sun on his back. He couldn’t stay with Jae, but by killing Tomas he was protecting her. He reached the platform at the same time as the train, but his exhilaration faded as he sat in a half-full carriage steaming towards Paris.
When would he see Jae again? And what would Henderson do when he got back?
*
After making good time, Marc was back for a late-afternoon serving of chicken soup at Joseph Blanc’s house.
Henderson was staying in the forest, so he didn’t know Marc had returned until the evening. His plan was for everyone involved in the operation to meet near the cave, then walk to the bunker so that he could plot final details, while everyone else got a feel for the place in darkness. But Marc’s punishment had to be dealt with first.
‘So what do I do?’ Henderson asked, wearing his best poker face.
It was just starting to get dark and as Marc and Henderson faced off, Luc, Paul, Sam, Rosie, Edith and Goldberg looked on with varying degrees of interest.
Espionage Research Unit B had twenty agents and Marc was the only one Henderson had formed a close bond with. But this was a double-edged sword, because while Marc hoped Henderson would go easy, there was a chance he’d do the opposite to avoid accusations of favouritism. And it definitely wasn’t a good idea being in trouble again so soon after sabotaging Luc’s rifle.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Henderson asked curtly.
Marc gave a slight shrug and spoke submissively. ‘I know I did something wrong, sir. I’ll accept whatever punishment you give me.’
Henderson smiled. ‘I’m not going to give you a lecture on how you could have endangered our mission by being caught, or having transport problems. You knew the risks when you set off to see your girlfriend and you knew I’d punish you when you returned. But that holds no fear because you’re a tough little bugger. I expect you even calculated that I won’t punish you too severely one night before a critical mission, and might even forget what happened if the operation goes off well.’
Marc looked down into the undergrowth and didn’t speak. Every word Henderson said was true and it was a reminder never to underestimate the captain’s intelligence.
‘So I’m not going to punish you,’ Henderson said.
Marc knew better than to smile as he looked up. ‘I’m truly sorry, sir.’
‘You do that good-little-boy voice so well,’ Henderson said. He laughed, but kept the volume down because sound carried a long way in the forest and there was always a chance of a German patrol. ‘You’re not sorry. If you had another shot at seeing Jae, you’d do it in a heartbeat. But I didn’t say you’re not going to be punished, I said that I’m not the one who’ll punish you.’
Marc looked uneasy, but assumed this meant he’d be put through a tough programme of physical jerks by one of the instructors when – or if – he made it back to campus.
‘Luc,’ Henderson said. ‘Get over here.’
A little uneasy became a lot uneasy as Luc stepped forwards. ‘Sir?’ Luc asked.
‘Go to the nearest willow tree,’ Henderson began. ‘Break a switch off. One about the length of your arm and no thicker than your thumb. Bring it back here, then you can give Marc six of the best on bare buttocks.’
‘What!’ Marc gasped, as Luc cracked an evil smile.
Paul and Sam didn’t like Luc, but they smirked at Henderson’s cleverness: Marc was too tough to worry about a caning or a few hours’ physical training, but baring his arse and taking a thrashing off Luc in front of everyone would cause humiliation far greater than physical pain.
‘He’s evil,’ Marc told Henderson desperately, as Luc rushed towards the nearest willow. ‘You’re stronger than him. It’ll hurt more if you do it.’
Henderson rais
ed one eyebrow and spoke firmly. ‘I’m giving you a direct order to take your punishment,’ he said. ‘If you disobey, I’ll have no choice but to hog-tie you until after tomorrow night’s raid, drag you back to Paris with us and then kick you out of my unit when you make it back to England.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Marc mumbled, and almost followed up with a childish it’s not fair.
Luc came out of the bushes with half a tree balanced between his arms. It was so ludicrously huge that Paul, Sam, Rosie and Edith couldn’t help laughing, even when Marc glowered at them.
‘How’s that thinner than your thumb?’ Henderson asked irritably.
Luc pointed to the tip. ‘It’s thin up this end.’
Even when Marc was the one in trouble, Henderson had no patience with Luc. He snatched the log from Luc’s hands and snapped off the largest branch. ‘Use that, you stupid boy.’
Marc gave Henderson a pleading OK here’s when you tell everyone you’re joking look. But this was no gag and he found himself leaning forward, hands on kneecaps and pale white bum on show. Luc had a massive grin on his face as he took a run up and swooshed the willow cane with all the force he could muster.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The raid on the bunker would involve secret agents, snipers, a dozen members of the Ghost resistance circuit and a squadron of USAF bombers. But at a quarter to six on that Friday morning, its success depended on a ten-year-old boy.
Justin sat on his mattress, coughing up phlegm infused with flecks of coal dust as a small, sticky hand touched his back.
‘Are you sick?’ Belle asked, with all the earnestness that a three-year-old can muster.
Belle had her own bed and strict orders to stay in it, but Justin was fond of his youngest sister. He’d always let her climb in and cuddle, in preference to the scream-up he’d get if he tried putting her back in her own bed.
‘I’m not sick,’ Justin said between coughs, as he wiped a trail of spit on the filthy shirt he was about to pull up his arms. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Mummy might make it better,’ Belle said thoughtfully. ‘Or send you to Dr Blanc.’
Justin spoke more firmly. ‘Belle, go back to sleep.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Do you want me to tell Mummy that you slept in my bed?’
Either of Justin’s older sisters would have thrown back the threat by saying that they’d tell on him for sneaking out, but Belle had yet to master the subtleties of blackmail and looked scared before lying back down and burrowing under Justin’s pillow.
‘I won’t be long,’ he said.
Justin had twisted his mum’s arm to get her cooperation when Henderson’s team first arrived off the coal train. But the murder of the two railway cops, followed by arson and executions at the intersection had shaken her up and she’d now ordered Justin to stay off the coal train for a few weeks and steer well clear of Rosie.
After creeping downstairs, Justin cut through a gloomy kitchen and leaned out of the front door to look for checkpoints. Following the railway cop murders the thuggish German soldiers had put up several temporary checkpoints, including one less than fifty metres from Justin’s house.
For two and a half days they’d searched, slapped and harassed anyone going near the railway line or intersection, but they’d tired of their games. The checkpoints had been taken down the previous afternoon, and there was no sign of them returning.
Justin’s mum slept at the rear of the ground floor, so rather than take the direct route through the house he straddled a low wall and crossed a patch of shaggy grass to reach the railway line.
He took a furtive glance along the tracks. There was no sign of soldiers or railway cops, but the elderly man who worked the water tower was peering along the tracks, so apparently a train was expected soon.
Justin had no timepiece of his own, so he’d taken his dead grandfather’s pocket watch from a locked drawer the previous night. The worst his mum ever did was shout and whack him with her wooden hairbrush. That didn’t worry him, but she’d most likely start crying if her dad’s watch went missing, so, after using it to confirm that the train was due in fifteen minutes, he made sure to carefully rebutton his shirt pocket.
He felt hungry and tired and a big yawn set off another round of coughing. The first train was a cargo train that didn’t stop at the water tower. The one he was here for came in twenty minutes late, which was frustrating because the longer he was gone, the more likely it was that his mum would be awake when he got back.
Once the passenger train had filled its tank with water, the driver let out a blast of steam and took off the brake. Justin became certain it was the right train when it set off slower than you’d expect it to. He only got a glimpse into the driver’s cab as it rolled past, but he saw the stoker downing his coal shovel and sending a small leather case pirouetting through the air.
The train’s momentum and the steep embankment meant that the case flew some distance, ending up near the back wall of Madame Vial’s garden. Although Justin had thrown thousands of coal sacks down the embankment, today felt scarier because Rosie had warned him that the Germans would try to cultivate spies, and notices had been posted at the intersection offering two thousand francs and the return of a prisoner of war to anyone coming forward with information about resistance activity.
It was fortunate it had been warm and dry for most of the last week, because the spot where the case landed was often muddy. As the sound of the passenger train receded, Justin walked briskly back to his house with the case tucked under his arm.
When he got indoors he heard his mother coming down the hallway, and hastily tucked the case behind a coat stand.
‘Why are you out at this hour?’ she asked brusquely, hands on hips and still in her nightdress.
‘I couldn’t stop coughing,’ Justin said. ‘I didn’t want to wake the girls, so I went out for some air.’
‘Any sign of the Germans?’
‘No,’ Justin said, as his mother took a step closer. The case wasn’t completely out of sight so he took a step himself to stop her getting too close.
‘I worry about your chest and all that coal dust,’ Justin’s mum said, as she gave her son a kiss on the forehead. ‘I don’t want you riding that train any more.’
‘We’ll need the money once winter comes,’ Justin said. ‘Remember how expensive everything got last year?’
‘I’ll think of something. There’s plenty of places short of men. Maybe I can get a second job or something.’
*
There were more early risers at Joseph Blanc’s house. Rosie’s final radio sked was at 6:30 a.m. The Germans had expert teams dedicated to hunting down resistance radio signals, so before each transmission she’d always take the suitcase-sized radio two kilometres up into the woods, using a different location each time.
Rosie was used to lugging the transmitter, heavy battery and fifty metres of coiled aerial wire on her own, but for this final transmission she had Paul, Sam and Edith along to share the load.
After stretching the aerial across the ground and giving the set ten minutes for the valves to get warm, Rosie transmitted an encrypted Morse code message. She said that all was well, that the local security had apparently died back to normal levels and that the mission would go ahead.
The response came in groups of five random letters. Rosie would normally take these back to the house for decoding, but today she worked with Paul, using a printed silk decoding sheet, while Sam and Edith dug a hole.
‘It all looks good,’ Rosie said, when the message was done. ‘Clear weather is predicted. Fifty US bombers will attack Rennes tonight, with half diverting towards the bunker if they get the signal from our beacon. The Ghost network says that the documents were successfully placed on the train. Joyce and everyone else on campus wishes us luck.’
‘We’ll need it,’ Paul added, as he set a lighted match to the small square of silk with Rosie’s codes printed on it.
The
thin fabric had a special coating that made it burn in a flash.
‘Edith’s got to leave for her train,’ Rosie told Sam. ‘Do you need a hand finishing the hole?
Sam shook his head, always keen to show that he didn’t need help from older agents.
‘Make sure that the radio case is closed so that no dirt gets in,’ Rosie said. ‘There’s a slim chance we’ll have to come and dig the radio back up if things go wrong. And cover the hole with branches after you fill it in.’
Sam tutted. ‘Rosie, I’m not an idiot. Go do your job.’
Edith and Sam hugged briefly. If things went to plan they wouldn’t see each other again until after the operation.
‘Good luck tonight,’ Edith told Sam. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you again in Paris.’
‘I hope so,’ Sam replied.
‘And when you get back to the house, tell Marc that I hope his bum’s feeling better,’ Edith said.
Sam laughed. ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to sit down by now.’
Rosie had spent many hours lugging the radio set back and forth, and many more tinkering to keep it working. She liked the idea of never seeing the blasted thing again as she set off towards Justin’s house with Paul and Edith in tow.
Paul teased Edith gently as they walked. ‘Am I detecting a little chemistry between Sam and yourself?’
‘He’s younger than you,’ Rosie noted, as Edith turned bright red.
‘Oh, wrap up,’ Edith said, before laughing uneasily. ‘He’s really nice, but he’s a kid.’
‘We’ve actually got the same thing in a slightly older model back in England,’ Rosie said. ‘His brother Joel looks just like him.’
‘How old?’ Edith asked keenly, realising that she stood less chance of further embarrassment if she played along with the joke.
‘Fourteen,’ Paul said.
Justin’s house and the railway station were half an hour’s walk. When the trio got within a hundred metres of the little street of cottages they were pleased to find no sign of Germans. But there was still a possibility that the soldiers were hiding out, so Rosie gave the pistol tucked into her jacket to Paul and walked the last stretch on her own.
Henderson's Boys: One Shot Kill: One Shot Kill Page 18
