Henderson’s Boys 4: Grey Wolves

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Take it off,’ Marc bawled. ‘Please take it off.’

  Bauer smiled as he pulled a clockwork key out off his jacket pocket. ‘One word of defiance when I take it off and I’ll put it back on for an hour.’

  ‘Anything,’ Marc sobbed. ‘Please.’

  Bauer inserted the large key into the bracelet. It took several turns to pull back the powerful spring that clamped the jaws.

  ‘Sign it,’ Bauer shouted.

  Blood poured down Marc’s hand as he grabbed the fountain pen and scratched his name on the confession.

  ‘Nice job,’ Bauer said, as he swept the confession away before Marc dripped blood on it. ‘Take a drink if you’d like one.’

  Marc tipped up the jug, smearing blood all over the glass as he guzzled half a litre of water in six massive gulps. He felt ashamed that he’d given in so quickly, but he tried to rationalise it. His confession did little real harm to Madame Mercier and he’d bought himself a ticket home.

  ‘Theiss, get in here now,’ Bauer shouted, as he leaned out into the hallway.

  A slim and rather nervous Gestapo officer raced into the room and saluted before Bauer addressed him in German, unaware that Marc understood every word.

  ‘Get the boy a bandage, we don’t want him dripping on our nice polished floors. Clear up the mess. Take special care with my pen and put oil on the bracelet. When you’re done, take the boy downstairs and process his paperwork. I want him on the first train to Rennes in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ Theiss nodded.

  Rennes was the regional capital more than a hundred kilometres away. Marc’s head whirled, but he couldn’t say anything without giving away the fact that he spoke German.

  ‘It’s important that none of the locals see where he is going,’ Bauer told his colleague. ‘Madame Mercier seems to be fond of the boy, and I think his father might also be a useful source of information. So it’s good to keep him under our thumb, but we’re chronically short of cells here.’

  Thiess took Marc’s signed confession, along with a couple of printed forms. He noticed that one box hadn’t been filled in.

  ‘You haven’t put the length of his sentence, Herr Oberst.’

  ‘Six months,’ Bauer said, but changed his mind, turning back as he headed out of the room. ‘Actually, scrub that, Theiss. Make it a year to be on the safe side.’

  Part Four

  Twelve days later

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Friday 4 July 1941

  Lieutenant Commander Finch was taking Madeline II on her fifth round trip between Porth Navas and the Brittany coast near Lorient. Luck had held for the first four runs, but the fifth seemed cursed.

  The right engine blew while they were still in British waters, and the corvette sent to escort them on the voyage south had been called away to pick up survivors from a downed merchant ship. Sailing unescorted, they’d been spotted by Swordfish biplanes from a Royal Navy aircraft-carrier and watched its torpedo miss the bow by less than five metres.

  This sense that everything that could go wrong would go wrong came to a peak when a storm brewed up an hour before they were due to liaise with Istanbul. It was mid-afternoon, but the sky was the colour of slate. The rain was almost vertical as the narrow craft bucked on two-and-a-half-metre waves.

  Radar could detect only the large boats in stormy weather and they found Istanbul more by luck than skill. In calm seas the two ships could come alongside, in moderate weather they could use ropes and pulleys to swap passengers and cargo, but in a storm there was no way to bring the boats together.

  Visibility was less than two hundred metres, which at least meant the two boats could stay in touch without the risk of being spotted from the coast four kilometres away. Three hours passed before Alois flashed a message across saying that he thought it was calm enough to swap cargoes using ropes and pulleys.

  The first rope was fired from Madeline II to Istanbul using a compressed-air gun. Further ropes and pulley wheels were fed across until a block and tackle system linked the two craft.

  Luc threw his suitcase on deck before coming up through Madeline II’s rear hatch, dressed only in boots and underpants. The burly thirteen-year-old clutched the deck rail to stay upright as men in waterproofs transferred the first load of cargo.

  The ropes between the boats couldn’t be tight, because if a wave pulled the boats apart it could snap and do serious damage. Luc stood beside a young female agent in a swimming costume as the wooden chest hanging precariously between the two boats was hit full force by a wave.

  ‘My god!’ she blurted in heavily accented English. ‘How can I do this?’

  ‘No point losing your nerve,’ Luc said. ‘It’s got to be done, that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I want to be out of here in five minutes,’ Finch shouted from the bridge. ‘Get this show moving.’

  The race was on because while German boats identical to Madeline II regularly came alongside to do inspections in calm weather, transferring cargo in this way in daylight was highly suspicious.

  As the second chest zipped across on the pulley, a sailor grabbed Luc by the arm.

  ‘You wanna go first and show the young lady how it’s done?’

  Luc was scared, though he wasn’t the kind who’d let it show. As one sailor pushed Luc’s suitcase into a rubberised pouch, another helped him into a bulky harness-cum-life jacket and buckled its leather straps tightly across his chest.

  The pulley rope between the two boats had loops every two or three metres. The pouch containing Luc’s suitcase was hooked over one loop, then a short chain was run between the harness and the next loop.

  A wave caught Madeline II, slamming Luc backwards into one of the spare fuel cylinders. The weight of the harness knocked him down, but a sailor hauled him up before knotting an extra safety rope to the harness and pointing at a steel collar near the top of the chain.

  ‘Can you remember how to work the quick release if you get into trouble?’

  ‘Yank it down and turn to free the bolt,’ Luc said, shouting over a gust of wind.

  ‘Exactly,’ the sailor said.

  He gave Luc a thumbs-up, then guided him to the edge of the deck. Luc hesitated for a second before swinging his legs over the deck rail.

  ‘Heave-ho,’ a deckhand shouted.

  As three sailors tugged the rope, Luc flew off the side of the boat and dangled from his harness with his knees in the water. The next pull plunged him into the icy wash as he inhaled. Salty ocean water stung his eyes and shot up his nostrils. His body jerked as the rope dragged him rapidly through churning sea towards Istanbul.

  When the rotten hull was in sight, Michel and Olivier reached into the water with long deck poles and used the hooked ends to grab Luc’s harness. One knee slammed the hull painfully, and he came aboard, shuddering and hacking water out of his lungs.

  As Luc coughed, Michel unfastened the buckles on his harness. Within seconds, it was off and being buckled on to PT who was going the other way.

  Luc stopped coughing long enough to acknowledge his former training partner. ‘Feeling healthy now?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ PT said, as Michel buckled the lifejacket. ‘But my goose is cooked, cos I missed two weeks’ work. If I show my face around Lorient the OT will stick me on the first train to a labour camp in Germany.’

  By this time the chain was attached. Olivier flashed a lantern three times, the men on Madeline II pulled the rope and PT zipped forwards and plunged into the sea.

  It was chaos on Istanbul’s rear deck as the four wooden crates were lowered into the fish hold. There was a net of fish rolling about the swaying deck, an RAF pilot and a British agent who’d been working in Brest nervously awaiting their transfer by rope, while Nicolas did all he could with Istanbul’s manual rudder to keep close to Madeline II on the choppy sea.

  Luc was extremely strong for his age. When he saw Troy struggling with the cargo he jumped down into the stinking hold and helped hi
m lower the equipment chests.

  ‘This is a lot more equipment than we’ve had before,’ Troy said. ‘Henderson’s gonna be chuffed.’

  Luc looked up at Troy with a grin. ‘I bet he’ll be chuffed to see me, too.’

  By the time the fourth chest was in the hold, the female agent and a French army officer who worked for the London-based Free French Government had joined Luc on the deck of Istanbul. As soon as the agent was aboard Madeline II, a sailor flashed three times with a lantern then waved his arms to signify that the operation was complete.

  Michel unhooked the pulley ropes and threw them back into the sea.

  ‘Mainsail going up,’ Alois shouted. ‘Olivier, get on the rudder.’

  Luc found himself crammed in the fish hold in his pants; his only consolation was having the pretty French girl squeezed up alongside. His world turned dark as Troy fitted the shelf into the hold above their heads and began tipping fish out of the net into the space above so that they wouldn’t be detected by a German inspection when they returned to port.

  Istanbul tilted violently to starboard as a storm force gust caught the mainsail, while Madeline II’s two surviving diesels sent her blasting away towards a liaison with an escort destroyer and what would hopefully be a less eventful return to Porth Navas.

  *

  Rennes prison was built for four hundred, but now housed two thousand inmates. Marc’s cell was on the top floor. The long hall had once been a machine shop where prisoners sewed French army uniforms, but now it was jammed with more than eighty men. Fitting bars was a skilled job, so the windows had simply been bricked up. Air and light only came in through small ventilation holes drilled in the brickwork.

  There were a dozen bunks, most of which were used in shifts by the stronger men. Marc only had a spot on the floor up against the wall, and not even enough space to fully unravel his flea-infested sleeping mat. The only sense of time passing came from the condensation running down the brickwork and the clumps of mushrooms growing up by the ceiling joists.

  He’d arrived ten days earlier. His boots and knife had been taken away and the pockets cut out of his shirt and trousers to prevent him hiding things. A food trough was wheeled in morning and evening: black bread, vegetable scraps, fish heads or stringy meat all in a greasy soup. You had to scoop it out into your enamel mug. Most men had a spoon, but they’d run out on the day Marc arrived.

  There were fights, usually the alpha males in the bunks picking on a new arrival. Marc had his spot by the wall furthest from the beds and kept himself out of trouble. He’d had the odd conversation with the men packed around him, but in such cramped conditions the space in your head was the only space you had and everyone seemed reluctant to share what was in there.

  For the first few days Marc expected some miraculous release every time the cell door opened. When the initial burst of hope wore off, he concentrated on looking after himself by stretching, washing his body and clothes as well as he could and trying to stay away from the men with the horrible coughs, and the mental cases in the middle of the cell who lay in their own filth, too sick or deranged to care.

  Bad food, damp and overcrowding were good company for disease and Marc lasted only three days before coming down with stomach cramps and diarrhoea. He still had a job keeping the awful food down and got feverish sometimes, but it was nothing like at first when he’d barely been able to walk to the filthy drain hole that passed for a toilet.

  Gil was the closest thing Marc had to a friend. He was fifteen, sentenced to five years for stealing a tray of meat while working as cook at a German barracks. Like everyone who’d been in for a few months, he had shaggy lice-infested hair. Gil had the corner space next to Marc and they looked after each other’s cups and bed roll at mealtimes, or if they went to the toilet.

  Marc had been thirsty for some time, but Gil had fallen asleep with his head resting against his shoulder, and rather than wake his neighbour he waited until he stirred. Getting to the tap at the opposite end of the cell required finesse, stepping over bodies, and placing feet carefully to avoid the most visible examples of human filth.

  As Marc turned on the tap a thickset Spaniard named Carlos squatted over the drain hole less than two metres away. Marc tried not to think about this as he rinsed a few dregs of soup out of his cup, then filled it with the tepid water and drank it down quickly.

  The men who lived nearest the tap didn’t like you leaving it on for too long because of the sound of water trickling down into the drain. Marc quickly splashed water over his face, hands and chest, before filling a second cup to take back with him and shutting the water off.

  There was no toilet paper, so Carlos wiped with his bare hand and swaggered towards the tap to wash the shit off. He was olive-skinned, mid-twenties, with straight dark hair and the kind of physique that came from heavy work, like mining or construction.

  ‘I’ve had my eye on you, pretty boy,’ Carlos said, crouching down to mouth the words in Marc’s ear as he turned on the tap.

  Marc backed off instinctively and stepped on an ankle.

  ‘Watch out, you oaf!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Marc said, as some of the water in his cup splashed the floor.

  ‘I could look after you,’ the Spaniard said.

  He blocked Marc’s path, before reaching around and groping his bum.

  ‘Hands off, you dirty bastard,’ Marc shouted, backing up to the wall and trying to wrench off the fingers clamped to his buttock. A few bodies shifted around to watch the action.

  ‘Now that’s not polite,’ Carlos said. ‘I might have to learn you some manners.’

  He was much heavier than Marc and every inch the confident bully as he pressed the boy against the wall beside the tap. Carlos moved his hand down and slid two fingers between Marc’s legs, touching his balls.

  A couple of the Spaniard’s friends were laughing. ‘Carlos has himself a new girlfriend.’

  Carlos turned back towards them. ‘I’m a generous man, we can all share.’

  The glance away provided Marc’s opening. He dropped his mug and threw his arm up, jamming his thumb into Carlos’ eye socket. The Spaniard stumbled backwards, swinging a wild punch. Marc ducked under it, then exploded up with his fists leading, hitting Carlos in the solar plexus and stomach. With his opponent doubled over, Marc brought his knee up, smashing Carlos’ nose and leaving him on the edge of consciousness. Marc grabbed his opponent’s shirt collar and shoved him head first into the metal tap.

  Carlos slid down the wall and rolled on to his back, gasping for air and bleeding from a deep gash above his eye. Marc knew he’d never be able to get more than five metres from the big Spaniard in this cell. If he was to have any peace, there could be no possibility of revenge.

  Marc glanced behind to make sure none of Carlos’s cronies were closing in before kneeling on the Spaniard’s chest, using his bodyweight to stop him breathing. As Carlos tried to throw Marc off, the boy dug his thumbnail into a small ridge in the button on the waistband of his trousers. A slight twist dislodged the button’s brass cap and as the metal pinged against the wall, the deadly white L-pill dropped into Marc’s palm. He crushed it between thumb and forefinger to release the cyanide then took his weight off Carlos’ chest.

  With Marc off his chest, Carlos opened wide to draw a great breath. Marc dropped the pill on the Spaniard’s tongue, then clamped his hand across his mouth to stop him spitting it out. Marc groaned in agony as Carlos’ teeth sank into his fingers, but within seconds the L-tablet had paralysed Carlos’ lungs.

  Marc’s hand dripped with blood as he rolled off his opponent. Carlos clutched his chest and caught Marc hard with his boot. Until now the Spaniard’s bunkmates hadn’t reacted because they thought Carlos could easily handle Marc, but now one of them yelled and men rolled over and pulled in their legs to clear a path.

  Carlos’ legs spasmed, but he hadn’t drawn breath in over a minute and these movements were just random pulses sent out by a dying brain. Charged with
adrenaline and dripping blood, Marc pulled himself to his feet as Carlos’ mates arrived.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ one of them roared.

  Marc wasn’t confident about taking on two grown men, but he acted cocky because bravado was all he had.

  ‘Back off,’ Marc shouted. ‘I’ve done nothing to you. Nor will I if you keep your hands off.’

  The two men looked at each other. Everyone had been looking, but nobody had seen the tiny L-pill through the gloom and they had no idea what Marc had done.

  ‘Carlos is married to my sister, you piece of shit. He’s got a wife and five kids.’

  ‘He must have had a weak heart or something,’ Marc said. ‘Besides, I didn’t start it.’

  ‘You ain’t gonna finish it either,’ the bloke said, as the other man crouched down and looked at Carlos.

  ‘He’s not breathing.’

  The heavy cell door slid open. It led in from an open balcony and after so much time in the dark the July sunlight felt like needles spearing Marc’s eyes. Two French prison guards entered, with rags tied over their faces to mask the stench. The prisoners grabbed their bedding and huddled towards the far end of the cell, but an old man caught a swinging club in the face for being too slow.

  As the two guards charged in, a German soldier stood in the open doorway with his machine gun ready to deal with any trouble. Carlos’ brother-in-law had vanished back into the mass of bodies, but Marc and the guy who’d been crouching down were cut off by the guards.

  As Marc grew used to the light, a guard shoved him hard against the wall. He opened his eyes a little, seeing the streaks of blood running from the bite wound in his hand.

  ‘Where’s your weapon?’ the guard shouted, punching Marc hard in the back before turning to the crowd. ‘No food comes into this cell until it’s in my hand.’

  ‘There’s no weapon,’ Marc said.

  ‘Sod the investigation,’ the other guard shouted to his colleague. ‘I’m gonna puke if I stand in here any longer. If they wanna kill each other, let ’em.’