Flame of Resistance

by Tracy Groot

  “I wish I hadn’t told you,” Braun muttered.

  “Why is that?”

  “You did not need to know. Now it will upset you.”

  “Only if she is mistreated. If she is Resistance—” and Michel gave a careless shrug—“she knew she could get arrested. That was her choice. But she is an old woman. Innocent or guilty, if she is treated in any way like her granddaughter . . .” Michel rose from the desk, fingertips resting on it. He mastered the trembling. “Like I said, Braun; it could make a resistant out of me.”

  “That has an unwelcome sound to it . . .”

  “It is a plea. I ask you to see to it personally this woman is not mistreated. I ask on behalf of the kinship you feel. You are right; you shouldn’t have told me. But now I know, and now I must follow my conscience.”

  “I wonder that about you. I wonder how often you really do follow your conscience.”

  Michel didn’t answer. The moment became long.

  Finally Braun said, “I’ll inquire.”

  “That is not good enough. You know it isn’t.”

  “I’ll visit where she’s being held,” he said with deliberate patience. “I’ll make sure I see her myself.” When Michel did not respond, he added, “Today.”

  Michel released a breath and nodded gratefully, as if he fully trusted Braun would not only visit but also prevent any mistreatment. “I will wait here until I hear from you.”

  Mild surprise came to Braun’s face. “I may not know anything for some time.”

  “I’ll be here when you do. Please call.”

  After a moment Braun nodded and then left, leaving the door ajar. The clack of Charlotte’s typewriter filtered in.

  Michel had no idea what sort of weight Braun carried with the SS. Braun was a civil engineer. It was like a high school principal presuming to use his authority to interfere in a military court case. But for now, Braun was all Flame had.

  They believe she’s a ringleader. They’re still trying to sort it out.

  Michel had seen how they sorted things out. He sank into his chair, put his head in his hands.

  Had she been careless? Not Clemmie. Did a neighbor denounce her? What about the three Jews? Were any Allies arrested? Any couriers?

  What about Rafael?

  He had to slow down and think. He had to make arrangements; he had to act. Tom’s life was now in danger—if she knew, Clemmie could tell where he was. Other lives: couriers and airmen could be en route to Clemmie’s, they could be walking into a trap. He had to get a message out. He had to find Rafael. He reached for the telephone and froze.

  What were they doing to her? Would they subject her to the same interrogation as Jasmine?

  “Monsieur Rousseau?” came Charlotte’s soft voice, cutting through the void. “Clemmie has been arrested?”

  Michel gazed up at his secretary.

  “Did he say where they are holding her?”

  He shook his head, the motion jerky.

  “We will have to move quickly. They’ve been transporting all resistants straight to Fort de Romainville in Paris. It will be too late then. I will have my people inquire and inform you when I can.”

  “Your people?” Michel said weakly.

  “My dear Monsieur Rousseau,” was all she said with a fond smile. She turned on her heel and left.

  Michel came home late that evening, around ten. Tom called a greeting from the study. Michel slowly unbuttoned his coat, hung it on the coat tree.

  No word from Braun. Until Michel returned, Lily Dechambre, Wilkie’s sister-in-law, would sit at Charlotte’s desk in case Braun called. Whatever happened, he could not tell Tom about Clemmie.

  Part of the day’s ordeal had an unexpected benefit; he did not have to tell Tom they were taking him off the job for any other reason than this investigation of the Rousseau Cimenterie. It would spare the man some pride.

  The transmitter-receiver, an instrument Wilkie fondly called Heloise, was hidden in Michel’s office, in the innocent guise of a decorative cloth-covered suitcase. The suitcase was part of the display near the bookshelves, with the other objects artfully arranged to look like a travel adventure. François had come up with it. Until Tom, it was his greatest triumph.

  With Lily keeping watch in Charlotte’s office, Wilkie had gone to work as quickly as he could. He sat on the carpet to avoid being seen through the windows and set it up. The suitcase was an OSS affair, outfitted with a set of headphones, a telegraph key, and an antenna coil. Within an hour of Braun’s departure, they had passed the word to the cells in Caen of Clemmie’s arrest. Wilkie consulted a new cipher table that had been tightly scrolled into a hollowed-out fountain pen and passed word to London, both of the arrest and of the need for a Lysander pickup. At the last moment, Michel remembered to pass on what they had picked up about the panzer division. They waited and soon received acknowledgment of the transmission.

  If all went well, in a few days they would receive a personal message over the BBC for Greenland with the coded pickup time. The almanac said the next full moon was April 8, ten days away. A half-moon was best; the pickup could be scheduled for any time a few days before or a few days after. Even in half moonlight, the Lysander could land safely enough without the need to track down enough resistants or maquisards to light the airfield with flashlights.

  With Clemmie’s arrest, every safe house Flame had used was in jeopardy. They had forty-eight hours, the golden time for action after any arrest. A pact existed between every resistant; for forty-eight hours they pledged to hold out under torture as best as they could to allow others to escape. They had to get Tom out of Michel’s apartment.

  No news of Rafael. No word on the three Jews. And Charlotte had disappeared. She had left the office moments after she spoke to him and hadn’t returned.

  Tom looked up from the desk, closing a book. “You’re late. Have you been using Occupation petrol—” He broke off. “What happened?”

  “We have been compromised. We must get you out immediately. Braun came to my office to tell me I am under investigation.”

  Tom’s face went white. “Is it because I—?”

  “It has nothing to do with you. I’ve been under suspicion as Claire Devault’s employer. I could be arrested for interrogation anytime, and their favorite time is evening.” This was all true, although Braun had defused it. The least of his worries was himself. “You must leave immediately for Bénouville. Go straight to the brothel.”

  “I was already there today. Won’t that get attention? Wouldn’t it be better to send me to Clemmie’s?”

  Michel had an answer ready. “Cabourg is twice as far. The brothel will be safe. We are making arrangements to get you out of the country, and our current airfield is much closer to the brothel.”

  “But—what about the bridges? What about the intel?” Tom shook his head, as if clearing it. He firmed his jaw. “No. Wait. I can do this.”

  “There are other cells in Bénouville. The bridges will be covered. But you are connected to the Rousseau Cimenterie, and a spotlight on me is a spotlight on you. We are arranging for a Lysander to pick you up, within days of the next full moon. Perhaps five to eight days. You must stay hidden until then.”

  “What about Benoit?” Tom said. He went to get his jacket on the sofa. “He’s moving in soon. He may have already. He was there today.”

  “If things get too hot, go to the Château de Bénouville. Madame Vion will hide you, but only if you give her this word: century.”

  “Sensory?”

  “Cen-tu-ry,” Michel enunciated.

  “You don’t speak English as well as you think you do. If this is the last time I see you, you might as well know it.” He seemed to be waiting for Michel to smile, but he couldn’t. Tom paused in pulling on his jacket, eyeing him. “There’s something else.”

  “We cannot find Rafael.”

  When Michel had told Wilkie about Clemmie’s arrest, he had shot out of his chair, blindly pacing the room. With tingling fo
reboding, Michel asked what was wrong.

  A B-17 had gone down east of Houlgate, not far from Cabourg. Rafael and his team were sent to do what they could. The only Flame safe house close to Houlgate was Clemmie’s.

  “A B-17 went down. Rafael went in for collection. We have not heard from him.” Because maybe he stopped at Clemmie’s to visit.

  Tom finished pulling on the jacket. “Don’t worry about him right now; worry about yourself. Rafael’s a cagey little guy. He’ll be fine.”

  “Listen, this is very important. We know the brothel has a radio. You need to listen to the personal messages given after every BBC broadcast for the next several days. Listen for a message for Greenland. It will give the date and time for your pickup. I will have as many ears on the broadcasts as I can, but if I cannot get to you, you need to get to the rendezvous on your own.”

  “How will I decode it?”

  “The date and time will be in a simple Caesar cipher.”

  “A what? I fly planes, I don’t break codes.”

  “Find someone who can. They will code it to your hometown, Jenison.”

  Tom tucked in his shirt. “Caesar cipher, coded to Jenison . . .”

  “Listen: the airstrip for the Lysander is in a short clearing near a tiny crossroads town called Le Vey.”

  “Le Vey.”

  “It’s thirteen kilometers due west of Bénouville.”

  “Thirteen kilometers west . . .”

  “Once there, take the crossroad north. On the right, where the wood begins, keep looking for a path wide enough for an automobile. Go in. Keep going, the woods will open to an airstrip. Do not leave the brothel if—”

  “It’s not a brothel, it’s her home.”

  “—you can avoid it. Stay put until you hear from the broadcast or me. And if the broadcast, then do precisely as it says. If you—”

  Tom was adjusting his belt, buttoning up his jacket, checking his ID. He glanced over. “If I . . . ?”

  What would become of this man, François’s Lohengrin?

  Three years ago this towering boy was in high school, wondering what he was going to do with all that height and breadth for the rest of his life. Now he fought with the Allies, was shot down behind enemy lines, and, from ignorance or bravado, took on a dangerous intelligence mission. He brought a prostitute two paper-covered soaps. He spoke of Clemmie as if she’d personally win the war. He defended a bullied Frenchman as if kin and, in that moment, won a foothold in Michel’s heart no Ally had occupied.

  He was naïve, he was inarticulate, he could not cook to save his soul, and he had a fair amount of that odious American swagger. But the boy was first-rate. First-rate, indeed. He was in trouble only because Michel—if only Michel had not—

  He lifted his chin and put out his hand.

  “What is it with you French?” Tom muttered, then shook his hand firmly. “This isn’t good-bye. It’s see you later. I promised Clemmie I’d come back. I’ll look you up when I do. Tell Rafael to lay off the sauce. Good luck, Greenland.”

  Michel did not trust himself to speak. He went to the door with Tom. Tom smiled, tipped a little salute off his hat, and trotted down the steps. Michel watched until he disappeared around the corner.

  “Good luck, Cabby,” he whispered.

  The motorcycle started. He waited until it faded into the distance, then left the apartment to hurry back to his office.

  “Miss me?”

  Brigitte stared at the man in the doorway. She pushed him aside to look both ways out the door, then seized his arm and dragged him in.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

  “I felt like chess.” A grin came and went. “Trouble in paradise. Looking for a place to hole up.”

  Brigitte seized his coat lapels and stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “You cannot stay here! Marie-Josette told me—”

  At that moment, Simone came out of the kitchen bearing a tray. She stopped, looked up at Tom. Brigitte released the coat lapels, smoothed them, and eased down.

  “So you’re the one,” Simone said in English, flicking an appreciative glance at Tom.

  “Simone—Major Kees Nieuwenhuis. Did I say it right? Kees, this is Simone.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Simone said.

  Cabby smiled and said with his Dutch accent strong, “Ja, nice to meet you.” To Brigitte, he said, “No, you do not say it right. You must make it bold. Nieuwenhuis. Make your lips like this. Say, Nieuw-en-huis. Nieuw . . .”

  “My lips will look silly like that,” Brigitte said, trying to tell him with a discreet death glare that Claudio was in the front room.

  Cabby turned to Simone and announced, “So—ja, I was here already today.” He leaned in conspiratorially and wiggled an eyebrow. “I am here for round two. Maybe even . . . round three.”

  Simone smiled a bemused little smile, shot a quick look at Brigitte that could have been sympathetic, and continued down the hall with the tray. “Bruno brought coffee, Brigitte. Join us, if you want.”

  “Did you have to say that?” Brigitte rounded on him when Simone was gone.

  “I was trying to sell it.”

  She whisper-shrieked, “You do not have to sell it!” She stamped her foot three times. “Listen to me! You cannot stay here. It is impossible. Marie-Josette heard—” She looked down the hall. She grabbed his arm and pulled him around the corner to lead him upstairs, muttering in French, “Of all times for you to show up. You cannot come when you’re the only person I want to see. You have to come when Claudio and Colette set up shop in the sitting room like a queen and her consort. Something is going on, and I don’t know what it is, and it has to do with you, and does she ever go to the sitting room? No! The one time is now, when—”

  Cabby gently pulled her sleeve, and she stopped and turned. She stood a few steps up, eye level. He looked at her in that dim stairway, and oddly, her stomach gave a little flutter.

  “I can’t understand you,” he whispered.

  And quite suddenly, he was handsome. No man had been handsome since Jean-Paul. Earnest pale-blue eyes, smooth and broad cheek planes, dropping flush to a strong-lined jaw. Were he any more handsome, his face would parody itself. But the truth was, he was simply . . . friendly. His earnestness bordered on a familiarity she did not resent; she was simply unused to it. He was a man with nothing to hide, and no wish to. Was it him, or was it the freedom from which he came?

  “I think it is you,” she murmured in French. “The freedom is incidental.”

  “Clemmie saved the French for cursing,” he murmured. Anxiousness clouded the pale-blue sky. “Was I wrong to come? I can go to the château.”

  “I . . . I . . .” What did he say? “I did not curse. I scolded.”

  “Oh, Brigitte!” Marie-Josette called in a singsong from the back door. “Alex is here!”

  Brigitte clapped a hand to her forehead and let fly a fine display of the seamy underbelly of the French language.

  He nodded. “I’ve heard some of that from Rafael.”

  “What do I do?” she whispered, a hand to her cheek. “He is expecting me! What do I tell him? What have you done?” She reached to clutch his head but instead clutched her own. “Claudio is right downstairs!” she groaned. “He and Colette are like some—Oh, I cannot explain it now. Go, go!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him up, pushed him past. He paused at the top to glance down, then slipped into her room and closed the door.

  What was she going to do?

  Oh, how she wanted to scream the biggest scream she could muster, one to put freckles on her face.

  Instead, she crossed herself.

  She had said something fascinating to Marie-Josette, hadn’t she? That she now moved with the unseen force for good? With angels, perhaps? Oh, that the force for good should attend her now.

  She smoothed her dress. Somehow, someway, she’d go down those stairs, she’d open that door, she’d face that Alex . . . and tell him—what?

  Whimpering, she started
down the stairs.

  Tom couldn’t sit still. He got up from the little chair and took off his coat, suspiciously sniffed his armpit and grimaced, and tossed the coat and hat on the bed. Terrible timing—duck into hiding with the shirt he meant to wash several days ago and no spare. He’d walked out of Michel’s apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back. Well, what was new? He left as he had arrived. At least he didn’t smell like pig.

  He started a tour of her bedroom, but his steps slowed. Brigitte had grabbed the front of his coat, pulling him down as she pulled herself up, and when she breathed into his ear, his skin prickled in a rushing sweep from ears to toes. He smelled her perfume, that light rosy fragrance, he felt the closeness, and his head spun. He wanted to pull her in.

  He smacked his face and went Oswald. “Shake it off, Cabby, attaboy. Whatsa mattah, some broad got ya rattled?”

  She sure has.

  You should see what she can do with a piece of bread and a little sugar, Ozzie. I tasted the chocolate myself. Her face . . . it flashes, it douses, it tells me everything, keeps everything from me. I’ll meet a current if I touch it. When I’m near, I feel it. Some . . . force, something alive.

  Tom resumed a slow stroll. He felt heady, like he was breathing her fragrance.

  Oswald warned, This ain’t no ordinary broad, Cab. You know what she is.

  Tom touched a picture frame on the dresser part of the wardrobe, picked up a seashell. He leaned on the dresser, idling with it.

  She is, and she isn’t. But what does it matter? If I even touch her, she’ll see me no different from any other guy who shows up here. He looked at his reflection in the tilting mirror. Why should she? Especially when I look like that. Especially when I say stupid things, and douse her face like I pulled the shade on the sun.

  Tom heard a door slam below, then steps on the stairs. He felt oddly guilty. He dropped the seashell and ran for the chair.

  The door opened. Brigitte slid in and closed the door with her back.