“It is an issue of warmth and fuel conservation,” the priest said, quietly. “Would you like some soup?”
Mel could hear the reserve in his voice, though only because it was different from the way he’d talked to her.
“That is kind, but no. My supper will be waiting.” Another pause. “I could arrange for some men to cut you firewood.”
“It is a kind offer, but unnecessary. My parishioners take excellent care of me.”
“If you change your mind, please let me know.”
The priest must have offered him a chair, because Mel heard chairs creak as the two men seated themselves. The German had his back to her, so Mel straightened her trembling legs, grateful for the respite. The rough stone wall offered some support as well. She could see his crisp German profile. His hat and gloves were on the table in front of him and he sat rigidly erect in the old, wooden chair. He didn’t look comfortable and Mel felt oddly sorry for him.
Mel had to admire the way the priest waited quietly for the German to speak.
“Don’t let me interrupt your meal,” the Oberst finally broke the silence.
It seemed to her that Thorhaus was troubled about something, though it was more sensed than seen in the flickering light from the fireplace and her limited view.
“I’d just finished when you came in,” the priest said. “We could repair to my study—“
Thorhaus shook his head. “As you said, it is warmer here and I won’t stay long.”
To Mel it seemed he still hesitated.
“You’ve no doubt heard of the missing fliers?”
“I do hear many things,” the priest said carefully.
“I hope your people won’t assist them. Kass is eager to flex his muscles, as is Herr Ullstein. The outcome could be most unfortunate. They would do well to stay as neutral as the church.”
The priest didn’t say anything, but Mel could see him looking attentively at Thorhaus. Silence fell again.
“Was there something else, Colonel?”
Mel could feel something change in the room.
“These fliers, they come from a bomber called The Time Machine.”
“A whimsical name, to be sure.”
Mel could see a slight frown between the priest’s brows, as if he were puzzled and a bit uncertain.
“Did you hear how they eluded us?” The priest shook his head. “I don’t suppose you would. It’s not generally known. They are clever and resourceful. But they are in France. It is a long way to any place safe for them. If they were to turn themselves in, I would do my best to shield them as much as possible. I am a soldier, not…” He stopped and pushed his chair back, causing Mel to shrink back into her coat. “I must go.”
He stood up, his movements a bit too crisp, for Mel’s taste. She’d spent a lot of time around military men, but this was military-plus. Of course, she could be prejudiced.
He half turned toward the door, but stopped. “Have a care. There are dangerous currents about.”
“And you, my son. Have a care for…” the priest stopped.
Thorhaus waited for a moment, then prompted, “For…?”
“Your…soul. To lose your life is nothing to losing your soul.”
He began to pull his gloves on. “I’m not a religious man.”
“Because you don’t believe in God, does not mean He does not exist.” The priest sounded slightly amused. “And if you don’t believe in anything, what draws you here, my son?”
The German paused and Mel felt her stomach clench. He was looking right at her, or so it seemed. The moment seemed long before the German looked at the priest.
“It’s quiet here. And you don’t want anything from me.”
It was a surprisingly honest answer. In another place, another time, she might have liked him.
The priest smiled slightly. “I leave expectations to God.”
Thorhaus laughed lightly, a pleasant sound and unexpected for it.
“Then please give him my compliments and my thanks.”
He spun briskly on his heel and strode past Mel and her hiding place. At the door he paused once more. To Mel’s discomfort, it seemed he was looking right at the row of boots, a frown between his chiseled brows.
“Please, think about my warning. There is grave risk at this time.”
There was another swirl of cold air, then the door snapped closed and he was gone. Mel didn’t move. In the movies, dangerous people always popped back in. Maybe the priest had seen similar movies. He didn’t move either. Just sat there. When Mel’s legs were trembling again from the effort of staying bent, the housekeeper came in.
“He is gone.”
Mel straightened her legs with relief, though was reluctant to leave her warm cocoon. The room felt even colder when the folds fell away.
“So, how did you elude capture in the field?” the priest asked.
Mel sat next to him at the table, a grin pulling at the edges of her mouth.
“Well, mon pere, there was this ditch full of snow and our parachutes were white…” She stopped, to let him fill in the blanks. “He’s no slouch if he figured it out.”
The priest’s brows rose. “Slouch?”
“He’s not stupid.”
“No.” the priest looked grave. “He’s not stupid.” Now he looked at Mel. “I sense you are an unusual young woman.”
Mel grinned ruefully. “If true, it’s a curse, sir.”
That surprised a chuckle out of him, but he sobered quickly. “You must hurry.”
She held out her hand. “Thank you. I hope we haven’t…” But they had put him in danger. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t put us in danger, mademoiselle. It is the Boche that are the problem.”
“I thought,” Mel hesitated, and then went with it, “I thought the church was supposed to remain neutral?”
“Each of us must choose the path our conscience directs.”
“You’re no slouch either, sir.”
She could almost see him filing the slang term away and hoped it wasn’t too much an anachronism to the time.
* * * * *
Thorhaus stopped beside his command car, turning to study the fine old church, so peaceful in the moonlight punching through the cloud cover. He’d sent Kass off to search areas in the direction of Spain and was enjoying the sense of peace he felt at not being under his observation. He was not Catholic, but he respected Father Mesuirer.
Something about the visit troubled him, though he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be. All had seemed the same, except for the priest being in the kitchen. That hadn’t happened before. On the other hand, it was cold and he knew food and fuel were scarce in the village.
It was odd that the old housekeeper had left so quickly after admitting him, but that could have been because of who he was. She was respectful, but her eyes told of her hate for the invaders. But usually she hovered over the old man.
He rubbed his temples and sighed. He was an old soldier, not a manager. There were too many emotions and nuances to managing French territory and its people. If he’d had any real power, he’d have brought in a real liaison from among the French, not the scaly collaborator who paid lip service to representing French interests during the occupation.
He found his thoughts drifting back to the plane and the unusual art on the fuselage. He’d asked the American sergeant about it, but all he could tell him was that the pilot liked the book. A book title painted on the side of a plane of war. H.G. Wells was a pacifist, from what Thorhaus had read of his work, though the titles of his books didn’t sound pacifist. He’d been thinking about the cone or triangle and was wondering if it might be representation of a tornado. He’d never seen one but had read of such things in America. But why link a book and a weather event? It was odd and interesting, though he couldn’t have explained why, not even to himself. Maybe it was the mind behind it that really interested him. He had no proof the captain of The Time Machine was the brain behind the clever tric
k with the parachutes, but he felt sure he was.
He leaned back, closing his eyes and letting his thoughts drift. In another time and place, he would have looked forward to meeting him. A pity.
Chapter Fifteen
December 23, 1942
It was just after daylight when Mouy returned, soon after the curfew ended. The old priest had supplied them with reading material, though his selections of English books were limited. Mel had occupied the time by alternately exercising to keep flexible, trying her hand at translating one of the French books for her and Jack, and taking a couple of trips to the bathroom. They couldn’t leave the cellar once it was light. Thank goodness it was winter with its shortened days.
Larsen surprised her by joining in the calisthenics and staying awake for her halting reading. Perhaps Jack had also had a chat with him while Mel was upstairs hiding in a coat. Or maybe Larsen was adapting.
Jack had looked relieved when Mel returned from her turn upstairs, but that could have been because he needed to pee. He didn’t ask her what happened, so she didn’t tell him. She spent the time while he was gone pulling up from her memory what used to be true about Thorhaus and the area. It couldn’t all be changed, she concluded, more in hope than with any certainty.
“Do you really think we can get to England?” Larsen had broken into her thoughts to ask. He sounded young and scared and hopeful. And since she didn’t know for certain they couldn’t get to England, she gave him a positive answer. Gran always said it was important to think positive and Mel felt it couldn’t hurt.
Mel had to keep reminding herself how young they all were. When she’d known the crew, they were old men, full of that fifty-fifty hindsight. At this point in their lives, they just thought they knew it all.
Mel stood off to one side, waiting for the Frenchman to speak. He looked reluctant, but whether it was about starting or including them in his plans, she didn’t know. They must have looked young to him, too, she thought, feeling a sense of awe at what had been or would be accomplished by the young men of this generation. And even with a couple of washes behind them, they still looked pretty scruffy. Speaking for herself, the lye soap was negatively impacting her hair. Last time she’d seen it, it looked as defeated as she felt.
Mel considered breaking the silence, except it seemed what Mouy wanted. It was his call whether to trust them or not. It’s not like she was dying to get involved in his adventure in sabotaging. Jack glanced at her and Mel shrugged.
When the silence got so tight it seemed it had to snap, Mouy spoke. From nothing to a deluge, words rushed out in a flood of excited French. His arms got in the act, too, gesturing so violently all three of them took a step back. He spoke rapidly, shooting words out like an automatic rifle. It was lucky Mel couldn’t forget. When he finally went mercifully silent again, Jack and Larsen looked at her. She mentally edited it for content and clarity and produced, “They’ve been asked to paint a target for the RAF.”
She examined her own conclusions. Yeah, that was really it, though Mouy’s version was more entertaining and physical.
Jack looked at Mouy, then back at her. “That’s it?”
Mel did a quick recap of what Mouy had said. “Yeah, minus the detail…”
“Paint? Paint is…” Mouy mimicked painting. “We are to explode…” He made a sort of explosive motion with his hands. “This is not paint.” He spat the word at her.
What she wouldn’t give for some laser-guided missiles at this moment. And some SEALs…and maybe a clue…as in, get one….
“They want us to paint something?”Larsen entered the discussion. “Or not paint something?”
“Not paint, paint,” Mel said. “Paint as in light it up.” She used her hands, too. Maybe it would help with clarity. Or something. “It’s some kind of secret facility that needs to be bombed. But it’s hidden, so we have to go in and start some fires so the bombers can find it in the dark. Paint it with light, so to speak.”
She stopped, pleased with this analogy.
Mouy stared at her for a few moments. Finally he gave a slow nod. “To paint with light.” He grinned. “We will paint the masterpiece, no?”
“At least get someone’s attention,” Mel agreed.
Jack was frowning. “Why does he need our help? Sounds simple enough.”
“Well, technically, it’s me they need. Because I speak German. They need a German speaker to get inside. The outside perimeter is too heavily guarded for them to get close enough. And they need to mark the bunker entrance.”
This didn’t remove the frown. In fact, it might have deepened it. It was hard to say in the seriously murky light.
“Did the infiltrator know about this plan?” Jack wanted to know.
Mouy shook his head violently and beat one hand on his chest. “Only I. No one else.”
And still Jack’s frown didn’t clear. “Do you really think you can do this? Do you really think you can talk your way in?”
She didn’t think she could, but she didn’t tell him that. She didn’t think she could do any of the things she’d done. She was just too stubborn to admit it. One thing she’d learned in her many adventures. Never admit anything. And then, too, the SEAL thing may have given her delusions of competence. Or maybe not. Maybe she was competent. No…if you were competent, you wouldn’t be in freaking Occupied France, her brain shouted at her. She told her brain to shut up and shrugged on some SEAL attitude. In the end, it was all about the bluff and always had been.
“Of course.” If she ever got out of this, she was going to have to rethink her career choice. She had the feeling bluffing wasn’t going to work for her anymore. She looked at Mouy, because she didn’t want Jack to see any of the stark fear that might have leaked into her eyes. “When do we go?”
They must have some way of contacting the Brits, because they’d need a night with clear skies. Unlike the Americans, the Brits flew at night. That made it harder for the Germans to shoot them down, but it also made it harder to find and hit anything. And Mel had a date with a vortex on Christmas day. She hoped.
“The signal, it will come soon,” Mouy said.
But would it come soon enough?
“What if it isn’t clear enough to fly?” Jack looked worried now. “We can’t hang around here for too long.” And he knew about her date with the vortex.
“Two days only. They move on Christmas. Move to Germany,” Mouy explained.
Mel had a feeling there was a back-up plan in place, if the bombers couldn’t get through. She wished they’d go straight to it, but there was that stupid, insistent feeling that she needed to do this.
“Do you have a map of the compound?” Maybe she had some inside info on it.
He produced a map and spread it out, moving the lantern so she could see it. It was rough but had the key landmarks, enough so Mel could pull up one of the post war maps she’d seen and mentally placed it over the top of this one. She’d looked at data from the Allies, the French, and the Germans. She’d seen maps and enough documents to fill a library, but she had nothing in there on this target. That fluxing feeling made a sweeping appearance again. It was worse than the last time, like free falling without a chute. The map spun in a circle and she had to close her eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea. She was leaning on the barrel top they were using for a table, or she might have fallen. It subsided. She opened her eyes. No one seemed to have noticed.
“Here, we meet,” Mouy marked a spot on the map. “You drive truck—“
“Whoa, me drive a German truck? I don’t think so.”
Mouy frowned and switched to French. “You could ride as passenger, but it is more risky. They will question the driver.”
“How big is the truck? Could I hide behind the seat?” In her bag of tricks, Mel had some skill as a ventriloquist. She’d done a story about one, early in her career. She moved her lips, but she had learned to throw her voice. The lip thing wouldn’t matter if no one could see her. She explained this to Mouy. Jack shifte
d restlessly beside her. It was a pain neither he nor Larsen could understand her…she quickly brought them up to speed.
“You can throw your voice?” Jack’s voice sounded odd.
Mel said she could, throwing the words so they came from Larsen’s direction. All three of them jumped slightly. Larsen looked around, then at Mel.
“How did you do that?”
She didn’t have time for a lesson.
“You are…an unusual woman,” Mouy said.
Mel smiled. “So I hear. And it’s not a gift.”
“I’d like to know more about what happens once we’re inside,” Jack said.
“The compound is here.” His finger stabbed the map. “There is an aerodrome here, some more than a mile.”
He went on to explain, pausing to let Mel translate. The plan was pretty simple. They had their stolen German truck and some uniforms, and they also had forged orders getting them inside as a supply truck. It was her job to answer any questions posed by the men at the gate and get them inside. Once there, they would plant four explosive charges in each corner of the perimeter and one close to the bunker entrance. Once the charges were planted, they would leave before the bombs started falling. No problem—if nothing at all went wrong.
And as she listened, commented and translated, Mel kept staring at the map, searching for a memory, any kind of memory of anything there besides trees and fields….
Only she couldn’t. Surely the small disruptions she’d made in the time line couldn’t result in such a huge change? Unless…
She could only think of two things that would explain it and she didn’t see how either one could be a good thing for her or the time line she was attempting to restore.
* * * * *
Mouy left the map with them. It was a safe as any place at this point. Jack noticed that Mel kept looking at the map with a troubled expression. The usual lack of privacy inhibited the necessary exchange of information.
Out of Time Page 22
