by Vic Robbie
The man pondered, suggesting it was a possibility although it would require more negotiation.
‘Maybe I can find someone to guide you.’ He picked up the money. ‘It would take all of this though.’
‘So?’
‘Once in Spain, your problems are just beginning. The Spanish are imprisoning refugees in camps before sending them back to France. You need help on the other side and this is not enough.’
The man threw the money back down on the table as if he’d been insulted. Ben reached into another pocket and removed the rest of the money Bernay had given him and placed it on the table. Picking up the new bundle, the man put it together with the first one, licked his fingers and started counting the money. When he’d done, he stuck it in his back pocket.
With a cursory nod of his head to Alena, he said ‘You’ll find bread and some Fromage de brebis and coffee in the kitchen.
‘Ewes cheese,’ Alena explained.
‘Stay here. I have someone to see although I’m not promising anything.’
And he went out muttering.
32
WEBER ordered müller and his sidekick and the soldiers to leave the room and waited until they’d closed the doors behind them. He approached the desk and offered his hand to Bernay who shook it as if he were being presented with a wet fish.
‘My name’s Ludwig Weber, I’ll call you Philippe if I may.’
Noting Weber spoke with a regional French accent, he said nothing knowing it wouldn’t make any difference if he had. Weber sat down in the seat Müller had vacated and scanned the office, trying to empathise with the man he would destroy.
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Weber had already reached inside his coat and pulled out a gold cigarette case. Weber opened it and offered him one.
He was determined the German wouldn’t lull him into a false sense of security and waved away the offer.
Weber tapped the cigarette on the case before lighting up and letting the smoke creep into his lungs, exhaling long and hard before speaking.
‘Let’s be civilised about this,’ the German said, knowing civilised was the last thing he would be. ‘These are crazy times, my friend.’
Don’t call me friend.
‘In fact, we might have been friends, you and me, but for all this.’ And he looked around the room as Bernay wondered what he meant. ‘Because circumstances are beyond our control we find ourselves on different sides of the fence. I don’t like what’s going on any more than you do – one thing we can’t do is dictate the course of life. You know in Germany there are many who believe Adolf Hitler to be a genius, even a messiah.’ He shrugged his shoulders as if it were unthinkable and turned down the corners of his mouth to show he wasn’t one of them. ‘And there are just as many who think him to be a madman. Of course, they can’t voice their opinions in public, not even in private to the ones nearest and dearest to them.’
Weber paused and frowned.
‘I can say this to you, but if those people out there –’ he waved an arm in the direction of the door ‘– heard what I was saying they’d shoot me.’ Weber gave a weak attempt at a smile and he noticed the grey eyes hadn’t joined in.
He was happy to let the German talk because for every minute wasted the Bentley would be bit closer to safety. ‘What did you do before the war?’ he asked not caring for one minute what Weber did.
‘I was in newspapers, an investigative reporter.’
‘Couldn’t you have continued covering the war? Rewriting history?’
‘No,’ Weber appeared amused. ‘In Germany, we are told what we must do for the Fatherland. We’ve no choice.’
‘Not good.’ Bernay shook his head.
‘I have a family and, like you, it’s my Achilles heel.’
A dead weight grew heavier in his gut and a shiver rippled down his spine.
‘Each time they want me to do something, they ask after the well-being of my relatives. Although they do it with a smile, the inference is there.’
Weber paused. ‘How is your family, Philippe?’
The mention of family flustered him and he swallowed hard and mumbled something Weber didn’t understand.
‘I need information from you. The quicker you tell me, the better for everyone.’
He had no reason to believe Weber knew anything about the platinum and he was convinced he was probably just on a fishing expedition.
‘I doubt if I can help you.’ He hoped his face didn’t betray his secrets.
Ignoring the remark, Weber continued. ‘I believe you and I can sort this out without the need for –’
He picked up a pencil from Bernay’s desk and played with it between his fingers.
‘The need for what?’
‘For unpleasantness.’
Weber snapped the pencil in two and took another drag on the cigarette and his eyes appeared to glaze over as the smoke did its work. ‘My colleagues, on the other hand, have different ideas.’ He waved an arm in an expansive gesture. ‘It’s all so unnecessary.’
Weber shifted closer and he could smell the cigarettes on his breath. ‘Let me tell you this. We Germans, there are four kinds. Those soldiers out there are the regular army. They are people who joined up to defend their country and fight out of patriotism. Then there are the thugs, the SS and their like who enjoy inflicting pain. They are sadists and you should never allow yourself to fall into their hands. The Gestapo, they are evil,’ and he shook his head at the thought of it. ‘They will go to any lengths to manipulate the circumstances to meet their agendas. They have no friends, just enemies. Last, there are people like me who are...’ Weber struggled to find the right word, ‘... facilitators, I suppose. And we are a combination of all three. You love your country and want to do your best for it. Commendable. I’m in the same position. You want to defend what’s left and, naturally, I want Germany to win this war so we can all return to a normal life. Who’s in charge is of no importance to me, I’m given a job to do and I’ll do it to the best of my ability for my country’s sake. I suppose we’re both prisoners of our patriotism.’
His attempted reply was waved aside as Weber leant over and picked up his glass.
‘Ah, beautiful. Irish crystal, perhaps? What’s happening in Europe is changing everything – the way we live, the way we think, and to whom we owe our allegiance. Opposition to the Nazis is futile, you know. There is nowhere to hide. We’ll take Britain soon. Italy is with us. Spain is sitting on the fence. And we can swat Switzerland and Portugal like flies.’
Weber studied him to see if he understood his meaning.
‘You probably still think France can be saved. It can’t...’
The glass dropped from Weber’s hand and shattered on the hardwood floor, spreading out fragments across the room and staining the wood with the Armagnac. ‘There’s France – the whole of Europe.’ He moved some of the shards of glass with the toe of his shoe. ‘Like that crystal it’s shattered and you’ll never get your France back in one piece again.’
Weber lit another cigarette and repeated his ritual.
‘So, Philippe, you can see it’s better you answer my questions now.’ His voice had an edge as if the conversation had ended and it was time to do business.
He waited in silence to hear what Weber wanted to know.
‘Platinum?’
He shifted in his chair.
Weber smiled at his unease.
‘What do you know of platinum, Philippe?’
‘It’s the world’s most valuable metal.’
‘Don’t patronise me, monsieur director.’ Weber’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘What have you done with the platinum?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I know nothing about platinum.’
‘Arnaud Renard.’
It was both a question and a statement and Weber’s eyes narrowed waiting for a reaction.
The director gasped and felt the blood draining from him. Weber watched as the realisation spread across the banker’s face and smi
led knowing he’d opened the door to his victim’s mind.
‘Yes, Arnaud Renard, he told me some very interesting things.’
‘You killed Arnaud?’ His voice was no more than a croak.
Like an eagle surveying a lesser species it was about to eat, the German said nothing although his unblinking eyes never left his face. ‘Poor Renard. In the end, he pleaded with me to allow him to die. Let’s not waste any more time. Tell me about the platinum.’
He shook his head.
‘I know about the platinum and about Ben Peters.’
‘This is all fantasy,’ he said, realising his denials were useless.
‘Sounds like it. Ingots of precious metal strapped to the chassis of your Bentley.’
Another shake of his head.
Weber ignored the denial and leant across the desk, so close Bernay felt the spray from his mouth. ‘Tell me, Philippe, for everyone’s sake.’
What had Renard told him?
‘Renard couldn’t tell me where the bullion was headed, unfortunately.’
He didn’t know what to say as Weber got to his feet.
‘It’s pointless to even think about lying. Just tell me what you planned.’
‘I’ve nothing to tell you,’ he said forcibly.
Weber sighed with a look of disappointment as if dealing with a recalcitrant child.
‘I can call in my colleagues now,’ he gestured to the door, ‘and they’ll take pleasure in beating the truth out of you...’
Weber picked up the photograph of Bernay’s family and walked behind him causing him to turn in his seat to follow him. Weber studied it for several seconds and Bernay thought he saw his features soften. ‘Very sweet,’ he muttered, ‘as I said, let’s be civilised. We’re both family men.’
Somewhere inside his head, he heard alarm bells ringing.
‘There’s always a way to get things done. You know the old story about the sun and the wind?’
Bernay looked puzzled.
‘They taught me this at school. The story about the wind and the sun looking down on an old man trudging down a road wearing a heavy overcoat. The wind says to the sun ‘I wager you I can get the man to take off the coat’ and the sun replies ‘No, you won’t but I can’. And the wind blew and blew and the harder he blew the old man clung on all the more to his coat and wrapped it around himself. When the wind was all blown out it was the sun’s turn and he smiled down on the old man illuminating the road with his rays. And the man was so hot he stopped and removed his coat.’
Weber waited for him to understand. ‘So, look at me as the sun. I believe it’s better to encourage people to talk.’
He dreaded what Weber was about to say.
‘Your wife and two daughters are enjoying their holiday, are they not?’
He felt a numbness spreading through him and a desire to be sick.
‘They went for a walk this morning along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice. They didn’t return for lunch. Perhaps it’s time you talked to your wife.’
33
THE mountain air had sharpened their appetite and Alena managed to rustle up hot coffee and bread and cheese supplemented by the scraps from the car and they devoured them. The mysterious man had left and Ben had no idea when or if he would return. Or where their next meal would come from. When food is scarce, the desire to eat is always greater and they were still hungry. And cold. As the afternoon settled, the temperature began to drop and up in the mountains it was much colder than down on the coast.
While Alena and Freddie explored the grounds of the inn, he chose to scout further afield climbing the slope behind the building hoping to discover a route over the mountain. To his disappointment, he couldn’t see anything remotely resembling a trail. His climb was hard going and the slopes were thick with trees. It might be possible to make it on foot, although it would be difficult with Freddie, but to drive would be impossible. Yet he was convinced there had to be a way over the mountains. Thousands of refugees were fleeing along the whole range of the Pyrenees and cross-border smuggling was the main industry in the area. He was sure even if they had to ditch the Bentley they could escape if ever the man returned.
The higher he climbed the easier it was to get his bearings. He looked over the treetops and down to the Basque coast stretching from San Sebastian in Spain in the south to the beaches of France’s Biarritz in the north and saw the sun glinting on the white Atlantic breakers. On the slopes, there were herds of pottok, the solid little horses that live wild on the mountains, and redheaded manech ewes grazed and high above the fauve vultures circled in their endless quest for food.
Oceans and mountains always had an almost spiritual effect on him and the silence was so absolute it felt as if time had stopped and they were in a parallel world untouched by anything happening down on the coast. The feeling passed as swiftly as the shadows of clouds rippling across the mountain. He was fooling himself if he didn’t think they would soon be back down there facing all the problems of before. No longer did he blame Bernay for having put him in this situation. He was beyond that. His priority was to get Alena and Freddie to safety even if it meant leaving the Bentley and the platinum behind. He wondered what Bernay would have done if he were in his shoes and it was a decision he wanted to put off until the last possible moment.
At times like these, he wished he could speak to his father who always provided wise counsel. When confronting a problem, his father laid out all the facts before him and investigated all possibilities before making a judgement. But, he supposed, not everyone has that kind of mind and he wasn’t sure whether his decisions were always right. Just to speak to him, would have been helpful, to hear him talking through the possibilities. He’d always sought his father’s company because he loved him and liked him, too. Perhaps it was the reason why he went fishing with him even though he hated sitting on the banks of a river with the damp eating into his bones and nothing happening for hour after hour. When he first went at the age of eight, his father had asked as they were packing away their gear ‘What did you think of it?’
‘Great,’ he’d lied, ‘but we didn’t catch anything.’
‘No.’ His father stopped what he was doing and smiled at him as if he were about to impart a mystical truth. ‘That’s what makes it a great day’s fishing. To sit here all day and not catch a thing.’
He shook his head as if he believed it to be the greatest experience a man could have and stopped when he saw Ben’s questioning look. ‘It’s perfect,’ he explained, ‘you don’t feel any guilt about killing a living creature. The day I start catching fish I’ll give up fishing.’
Ben went the next week and the next and on until the pressures of teenage years stopped him from doing anything other than that which provided basic pleasures.
Down the hill, he heard Freddie shrieking with laughter and Alena calling after him. They were playing hide and seek in the woods and he smiled to hear them having so much fun because he knew things were going to get a lot harder.
Inside, the inn had a brooding presence almost like a house haunted by some terrible secrets of its past. He decided to look around to find out if the man still lived there and if there was a chance of his returning and not just pocketing their money and disappearing. The stairs creaked under his weight and cobwebs wrapped around his face and stuck to his hair. It was obvious no one lived up here. Years of undisturbed dust lay inches thick on the wooden floorboards and most of the rooms were empty save for the odd chair or cabinet. In one room, a hand mirror and hairbrush, still with dark hair in it, had been discarded on the window ledge as if someone had been interrupted while brushing their hair. And in another, a broken doll and old newspapers yellowed with age like echoes of another life. It was as he was beginning to fear. The man had taken their money and disappeared with no intention of returning. The decision he needed to make bore down on him like a gigantic wave.
By the time Alena and Freddie returned, he’d gathered enough wood to light a fire so
the room glowed with warmth. Flushed by their exercise, they entered the room stamping their feet on the stone-flagged floor against the cold. She looked at him for some news and the confidence drained from her face when he didn’t reply.
‘He’s not coming back, is he?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘The bastard,’ she swore and tears welled up in her eyes. ‘What’ll we do now?’
Freddie looked up at him with expectant eyes.
‘We’ll bed down here for the night. At least we’ll be warm.’
‘Yes,’ shouted Freddie and punched the air with a fist, pleased the adventure was continuing.
‘It would be crazy to drive back down the hill now.’ He needed time to work out their next move. ‘If he hasn’t returned by the morning we’ll retrace our steps and take it from there. Who knows, the Spanish border might be open by then,’ he added not believing it.
34
THERE comes a time when a person knows they are beaten and there are no means of escape. They may not admit it or show it yet deep within the realisation they cannot win suffuses their being. This was the case for Bernay when he heard his wife’s frightened voice on the telephone and his daughters crying in the background.
‘Philippe, what’s happening?’ she asked, her voice breaking.
He mustered all his strength to try to sound as calm as possible. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding, ma chérie.’
‘But I’m scared – the girls are terrified.’
She babbled on telling him that while out walking Nazi agents had stopped them and bundled them into a car. They had driven them to a house on the outskirts of Nice where they were being held under armed guard.
‘Don’t worry,’ he tried his best to reassure her. ‘I’ll get them to return you to your hotel –’
Weber stepped in and took the telephone from him, placing it on the desk between them keeping the line open, and Bernay slumped forward with his head in his hands.
‘Now you understand why it is imperative you tell me everything,’ demanded Weber.
