Night Flight to Paris

by David Gilman

  Their command for the two men to stop caught the attention of the other soldiers and the Gestapo agent. The soldiers started shouting and the two gendarmes walked briskly to where Mitchell was trying to half carry the weak man down the street. The German and French police had their backs to Ginny and Thompson; pedestrians, sensing something was wrong, hurried past. Now the Germans cried out for Mitchell to halt. Ginny reached into her pocket for the pistol but before she could pull it free she heard Thompson shout: ‘Pascal!’ The Germans turned. Thompson, standing in the middle of the street, arm extended, began to shoot. Everyone scattered. Café patrons dived to the floor. Thompson kept firing, his shots missing wildly. Soldiers knelt, rifles in their shoulders. One soldier was hit, and a French gendarme. Then a volley of ragged shots tore into Thompson. He spun, arms flung wide, and fell, one leg bent beneath the other, his gun lying feet away. Blood seeped from underneath him. Cautiously the soldiers advanced on him. Ginny saw Mitchell and Korte making their escape. She turned towards the baker’s van – the driver was nowhere in sight. Slamming the doors she climbed into the driver’s seat and drove towards Mitchell. Soldiers shouted commands and waved her away. She slowed as she passed Thompson. His eyes were open and blood trickled from his mouth as he tried to reach the fallen pistol. In that moment their eyes met. Ginny gripped the steering wheel as she drove past the mayhem. Tears stung her eyes; her breath caught as she forced herself to concentrate. Her ears still rang from the gunfire. She had been seconds away from doing exactly what Thompson had done. An instinctive act to save another. Bile rose in her throat; she swallowed the acid liquid back, gulped air, dragged a hand across her eyes and wiped away the tears from her blurred vision, then eased the van around the corner to where Mitchell waited with the half-slumped man.

  39

  On the morning of the shooting outside the hospital, Stolz had slipped from his bed leaving Dominique Lesaux with a kiss and a reminder that they were to going to hear Edith Piaf sing at the Casino de Paris that evening. By the time Parisians were awake and making their way to work Stolz had met with his staff and learnt that the man Hauptmann Koenig had seen being dragged up the stairs and then tortured had died from a heart attack. The only information his interrogators had gleaned from him was that an agent was due in the city and that his name was Pascal, which confirmed Stolz’s source, and that an apartment had been arranged as a place of safety for the agent. It was this information that had resulted in the sweeping cordons near the hospital.

  After the shooting Stolz had visited the scene and inspected the body of the man who had called out the name Pascal before being shot.

  ‘Is this Pascal?’ said Stolz as Leitmann lifted the groundsheet that covered Peter Thompson’s body. The blood was already congealing and despite the coolness of the day flies had started to gather on the body.

  Leitmann drew on a cigarette and studied the crumpled body. He shrugged as he looked at the surrounding streets. ‘I don’t know, colonel. Why would he make such a grandstanding gesture? He must have known he would be shot. He just stood there and fired at us. He didn’t even try and take cover.’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted to become a martyr,’ said Stolz.

  ‘Unless he was calling out to someone in the crowd and warning them.’

  ‘Any identification on him?’

  ‘A Charles Ferrand. Registered in a small village south of here.’

  ‘Then it could be him. We know Pascal travelled from the south,’ said Stolz. ‘There was no one by that name in the immediate vicinity when you secured the area and checked identity cards?’

  ‘No one. We had more than a hundred held outside the hospital and down that street. We bottled up the whole area, four different teams in the district around the address we got from the man we interrogated.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just an empty apartment with a couple of mattresses on the floor. It’s been empty for years. There was nothing there, sir. When this man was shot I thought I recognized him as someone I had checked. He was with another man who said this one was sick. He was in a bad way and he wasn’t acting. One thing that might be worth following up was the theft of a baker’s delivery van from that café moments after the shooting stopped.’

  ‘So what are we to make of this? Let us presume this man was not a fanatic and that he is not Pascal, and the place of safety the Resistance had set up has not been used. Let us further suppose that the bakery van was not taken for its contents but used as an escape vehicle. I would say Pascal has made his own decisions and that this man’s’ – he pointed at Thompson’s corpse – ‘companion is the one we need to find. Can you remember him?’

  ‘No, colonel. We were checking too many of them for any one face to stand out.’

  ‘There’s a Milice inspector coming from a small town who interviewed a Pascal Garon. Keep this man’s body in the mortuary for identification. No burial until I say so. Hand his death over to the French to investigate. And have them find that van.’

  Stolz gave the dead man at his feet a final glance. The half-closed eyes were sleepily opaque and the slightly parted lips gave the impression that he was smiling.

  *

  The baker’s van was discovered the following day south of the river, far from the American Hospital where Mitchell and Ginny had smuggled Alfred Korte through the back entrance. Burton secured a bed for him in an isolation ward for patients with an infectious disease. Only Frank Burton and Jean Bernard, along with a couple of nurses, were allowed access to him. It was hoped that two or three days in the American’s care would strengthen him for his journey back to England when the moon was right for a Lysander to be flown in. Mitchell and Ginny returned to the apartment and slept for twelve hours, exhausted by the tension of escaping the Germans’ net and watching helplessly as Peter Thompson sacrificed himself.

  Having slept and washed, they felt refreshed and shared a breakfast until it was time for Ginny to make her scheduled transmission. She sent the message to London that their long-lost friend had been found and that transport would be needed. Mitchell sat listening to the steady, rhythmic tap of her Morse key. He admired the young woman’s courage and quick thinking. Her presence of mind had probably saved Mitchell and Alfred Korte. Had she not stolen the baker’s van it was likely he would have been taken – he wouldn’t have managed to drag Korte much further. She had taken a big risk – she could have been stopped in the immediate aftermath of the shooting.

  Thompson’s death was a shock that they knew they had to recover from. If the Gideon network was to be established then plans had to be made and their action implemented. His sacrifice had been an act of incredible courage but there was no time to explore their feelings of loss. Their work had to continue. Ginny handed Mitchell a slip of paper with a decoded message.

  ‘Alain Ory is alive. He’s contacted London. They want you to meet him. He’s moving around the city, scared that the Germans are on to him.’

  Mitchell scanned the message. If he could meet with Ory he could find out more about the death of his wife and perhaps verify that his daughter was in La Santé prison. ‘Confirm,’ he said. ‘Tell us where and when.’

  She returned to her Morse key. Waited, listened for a response. Checked her code sheets and without the need to commit London’s answer to paper quickly took down her aerial from the curtain rail. ‘Every day. Café Claire, it’s down a side street off Rue des Francs-Bourgeois. Five o’clock.’ She switched off the set and hid the suitcase out of sight beneath the bed.

  Mitchell checked his watch and unfolded a street map of Paris, his finger tracing a route from the apartment to the meeting place. ‘I can’t remember it. Here it is… all right, we’ll go separately. You take a trolleybus here at this corner and get off a block away. The café is on the opposite side of the crossroads. If you leave now you’ll get there before me. Find somewhere to keep an eye on it. Remember, don’t stay in any one place too long. If he’s there and he follows his training he won’t stay longer than f
ifteen or twenty minutes. We’ll watch who comes and goes.’

  Ginny nodded, pulled on her coat and put her arm through her shoulder bag. ‘See you back here afterwards.’

  He listened as her heels tapped down the stairs. He heard the apartment door below open and close as if its occupant had watched Ginny leave. He waited a moment longer and then, satisfied that there was no one else on the stairs, grabbed his coat and hat. He wished he had time to contact Gaétan and ask him to describe Alain Ory. When Colonel Beaumont and Major Knight had first approached him they had shown him a photograph of the wireless operator, but that day in the room in his lodging seemed so long ago he had no recollection of what the man looked like.

  *

  Leutnant Hesler ran from the wireless room and breathlessly presented himself to Hauptmann Koenig.

  ‘Sir, I have confirmation from London that Pascal will go to the arranged meeting place.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes, major.’

  Koenig took the message pad slip from Hesler and glanced at it as if doubting the veracity of the wireless officer’s information. ‘Come with me.’

  Hesler followed Koenig down the corridor to Stolz’s office. Hesler could barely contain his excitement as Koenig knocked on the colonel’s door. Beckoned inside, the two men snapped to attention. Stolz raised his eyes from a report he had been studying.

  ‘Colonel, Leutnant Hesler has finally received confirmation that the English agent has agreed to go to the rendezvous.’ He stepped forward and handed Stolz the sheet of paper.

  ‘There can be no doubt?’ said Stolz.

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘And they did not request confirmation that their operator here was not under duress?’

  Hesler smiled. ‘Their security is amateurish, colonel. I believe they are relying completely on recognizing their operator’s sending style.’

  ‘And we owe that to your skills, Leutnant Hesler. I will tell Berlin so in my report. Congratulations. Stay attentive and keep monitoring the wireless operator they have in the city. Gentlemen, you must play this game with skill and patience. The longer the British believe that Alain Ory is alive, the stronger our position here in capturing their agents. Collaborators can only be relied upon to a certain extent. If Pascal is the Englishman Mitchell as I suspect then we will uncover many of the names of those who assist the terrorists. Leutnant Hesler, I will see that you are given more resources and radio detection vans to track down their operator here.’

  Hesler dipped his head in acknowledgement, braced his shoulders and returned to the wireless room.

  Stolz nodded towards the retreating wireless officer. ‘What did I tell you, Koenig? That man is a genius. I know how to pick the best people. You included. Have Leitmann sent for immediately. After the shooting at the hospital, he might recognize this Pascal when he gets to the café. I want every precaution taken. We must box in the street and be ready to move as soon as he is identified.’

  40

  The urgency Mitchell felt as he elbowed his way through the crowds in the Métro was a mixture of trepidation and hope. His instincts told him that the meeting with Alain Ory was risky, but he could not stop himself hoping that the fugitive wireless operator might shed more light on what happened to his wife and daughter. The crammed Métro carriage rocked noisily as the wheels screeched on every bend in the track. Cigarette smoke clung to the air and passengers’ clothing; the stifling air was rank with the sickly-sweet aroma of cheap perfume. Men and women’s bodies pressed close together in an unconsummated act except, perhaps, in the imagination. Mitchell watched his fellow passengers. Most looked exhausted, faces drawn from having little food and sleep. No one appeared to pay him any attention, but the incessant worry of being followed kept his senses sharpened.

  As he made his way to the street level the surge of the crowd slowed, and when they filtered through the gates on the platform Mitchell saw five or six gendarmes checking identity cards. There was no sign of plainclothes Gestapo or detectives, so he reasoned it was just a normal snap inspection. A Métro station was always a good hunting ground, but this time the inspection seemed almost cursory, the gendarmes more interested in getting the crowd through their hands as quickly as possible. One of them checked his watch, said something to another, and waved two or three people through at once. Men due to come off their shift and in a hurry to complete the random check, Mitchell guessed. As each person was stopped they were obliged to say their name, which was checked against their identity card. It was a simple ploy. A moment of tension fuelled by fear could make someone with a false identity admit their real name instead of the one on their forged papers. A man and a woman were pulled aside and questioned but released, and then another man was plucked from the crowd and taken to a sergeant who had a briefcase on a strap worn like a satchel across his chest. The restrained man’s papers were checked again and the sergeant took an identity book out of the briefcase and flipped through the photographs. Satisfied, the sergeant instructed his men to return the identity card and release the suspect. It might be something as innocent as having the same name as someone the police wanted, Mitchell thought as he averted his eyes and shuffled along the line to present his identity card.

  ‘Hat,’ said the gendarme. ‘You know the drill.’

  Mitchell complied, staring away into the distance. Eye contact with those who controlled the law could be seen as a challenge. The gendarme studied Mitchell’s face.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Pascal Garon,’ Mitchell replied.

  The identity document was snapped closed, handed back and Mitchell told to move on. He strode towards the street. The delay had already made him late. He was almost in the street when ‘You!’ an authoritative voice called after him.

  Mitchell’s heart beat faster. He controlled the urge to escape further questioning by taking his chances on the busy street. He turned to face the sergeant with the briefcase. He was alone, the others filtering away from the Métro stairs having checked the last of the passengers.

  ‘I know you,’ said the officer. ‘It’s you isn’t it? Henri. Henri Mitchell. I didn’t recognize you at first, not without the beard.’

  Mitchell’s hand sat deep in his pocket ready to pull free the automatic.

  ‘Henri, don’t look so concerned. It’s me? Jules Vanves. Remember? I taught history. How are you, my friend?’

  Mitchell barely contained the sigh of relief and withdrew his hand from the pistol butt to shake the man’s extended hand. ‘Fine, Jules. Thank you. And I did not recognize you either. It was the… er…’ He dabbed a finger beneath his own nose. The gendarme had a caterpillar moustache that crawled across his lip.

  ‘It’s a new thing. It itches. I suppose that’s why you got rid of the whiskers eh?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Come with me, let’s have a drink. It’s been too long.’

  ‘Well, I was supposed to meet someone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Near here. The Café Claire.’

  ‘Perfect. I’m off duty. I know it well. This arrondissement is my patch.’ He put a friendly arm across Mitchell’s shoulder and guided him on to the street as Mitchell racked his brain to remember what he could about the man.

  ‘I don’t blame you for not recognizing me,’ said Vanves. ‘Me, in the police. Who’d have thought, eh?’ Mitchell’s memory of him began to return. He’d been a junior lecturer in the history department at the university, a good teacher who was dedicated to his students.

  ‘Jules, I never would have thought you’d quit teaching.’

  ‘Ah, me too. But let me tell you, you got out at the right time. I became so sick and tired of the education system. The Church, the State and the socialists, they were all interfering at the end. And they sacked more than a thousand teachers for being Freemasons. I was one of them.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Mitchell. Perhaps the chance meeting with Vanves might be a gift from the gods of war. He would have
contacts that could be tapped into and he might be useful in finding out about Danielle at La Santé prison – the prison guards there were all Frenchmen.

  Vanves always did like the sound of his own voice and he continued with barely a breath. ‘So, I had enough contacts who got me into the Préfecture as a clerk. Most of these men are pig-shit stupid so it didn’t take much for me to get out on the streets from behind a desk. And that’s when they made me a sergeant.’

  As they approached the side street where the café was located, Mitchell felt more assured. If the arranged meeting were a trap, arriving with a uniformed policeman would deflect any attention.

  *

  Ginny Lindhurst had been watching from the inside of a dress shop. She had fussed and examined clothing, chatting to the sales assistant who confided that the seamstress working at the back was only part-time because she also worked at one of the city’s well-known fashion houses, which meant the quality of the clothes was guaranteed and, the girl had whispered, they were able to copy the latest fashions at a fraction of the cost. Everyone knew that the Germans had strict quotas on production from the city’s famous couturiers. It was idle chatter but the assistant was happy to engage because she had seen few customers that day. Ginny kept an eye on the time and on the man who sat alone and who appeared to be more nervous than anyone else sitting at the outside tables. Mitchell was late and the man she suspected of being Alain Ory had waited longer than she had expected. It had been almost an hour. Nothing would make an agent stay that long in one place unless he was so careless that it posed a threat to others who worked with him. Finally, he left the table and crossed the street. She watched. No one approached him and he quickly disappeared from view. She waited a few moments and, promising the shop assistant that she would return another day, went out on to the street, undecided whether to wait for Mitchell or follow the man. She decided to stay, concerned as she was about Mitchell’s late arrival, and went along to the next shop window whose reflection allowed her to watch the café across the street.