by David Gilman
‘I appreciate it, Jules, I really do.’
‘Nonsense. Now, get back to your room before curfew. That’s one thing I wouldn’t be able to help you with.’ He smiled and helped Mitchell into his coat. Goodbyes were said. Denise embraced him, told him not to worry about anything because her husband always helped those who had shown kindness to them both. As the door closed behind him, Mitchell felt the warmth of the evening’s hospitality slip away. Going to the Préfecture would be a big risk. Vanves was a collaborator, corrupted by fear. A decent man turned and used by the invader. His weakness served him well.
*
Mitchell waited an hour in a darkened side street opposite Vanves’s house until he saw the policeman come out wearing his képi and tunic with an overcoat against the night’s chill. The satchel across his chest. Mitchell followed him, the dull street lights keeping track of the figure who moved at a brisk pace. It was not long before he entered an apartment block. Mitchell stood on the street opposite looking up at the darkened building, hoping to see a sign of light behind the blackout curtains. There was nothing, but then a small chink of light appeared and was quickly concealed as someone checked the street below. After a few minutes, Vanves reappeared, tucking something into his breast pocket. Once again Mitchell followed him. Over the course of the next three hours, Vanves made several house calls. By the time he turned for home Mitchell knew he was going to have a long and dangerous walk back to Ginny at the apartment. The silent streets echoed only occasionally with the sound of nailed boots as routine foot patrols went on their way. The night air grew colder but Mitchell was warm from his exertion as he walked rapidly through the side streets, trusting his instinct in the darkness that he was travelling in the right direction. It took almost two hours for him to reach the apartment, step quietly up the stairs and gently ease himself inside. It was pitch black and then a bedside lamp clicked on and he saw Ginny sitting on the edge of the bed with her pistol at the ready. She exhaled with relief and lowered the weapon.
‘You must have the hearing of a bat,’ Mitchell said, smiling. ‘Sorry. Too late to knock to let you know it was me.’
‘I was watching the street from the window. I saw someone coming into the building. And after you walked off with that policeman at the café I didn’t want to take any chances.’
Mitchell stripped off his coat and slumped on the couch, pulling off his shoes. Without undressing he collapsed back and yawned. ‘He’s someone I once knew. He could be helpful. He’s a collaborator.’
‘Pascal, it’s getting more dangerous every day. Is using him a good idea? He could turn.’
‘I have information on him. He’s up to no good.’ He tugged free his tie and pulled the blanket over him. ‘Put the light out, won’t you?’
Darkness engulfed him. His memory showed him images of a decent, put-upon man. A man who now held others’ lives in his hands. He didn’t know whether to pity or revile him. Moments later, still undecided, he was asleep.
43
Ginny listened to the steady rhythm of the Morse tapping through her headphones. Mitchell watched at the window for any sign of the radio detection vans. It was against the rules of survival for an agent to stay so close to his wireless operator. They were always the weak link. He had intended to bunk at the room tucked at the back of the Corsican’s bar but having considered his chances of being noticed going in and out of the bar decided that staying in his old apartment offered the best chance of escape, and with the Corsican’s warning he and Ginny would have time to get across the rooftops.
‘They want you to go back to the café. Ory has made another request to meet you,’ she said, pulling free her headphones.
‘Tell them a couple of days.’
‘Pascal, isn’t this police officer a distraction? Shouldn’t we do as they ask?’
The temptation was obvious. Alain Ory had been with Suzanne and Danielle the night they were captured. Yet the more Mitchell thought about it the less important he felt the missing wireless operator to be, whereas a contact at the Préfecture could prove far more valuable. Weighing the risk he had decided to stay in touch with Jules Vanves.
‘Tell them… tell them I’m sick.’
She looked quizzically at him.
He nodded. ‘Advise we’ll be in touch when I’m ready.’
Ginny tapped rapidly. Pausing in the middle of a transmission created a greater chance of her signal being pinpointed by the Germans. She wasted no time and then switched off.
‘Why is Ory so keen to meet me?’ Mitchell asked, still watching the street as she packed the radio away.
‘They were your instructions from London, weren’t they? To find him?’
Mitchell sat on the windowsill. Pedestrian traffic was building up as the day lengthened, but vehicle traffic as usual was slight. The fear of a Gestapo raid never left his thoughts. If they were discovered it would either be a rapid arrival of cars blocking the street and then the pounding of shoe leather up the stairs, or a far quieter approach – men slipping unnoticed into the building and then the sudden rush at the door catching them unprepared. He had not yet gone across to the bar on the opposite side of the street to reacquaint himself with its Corsican owner. There would be time enough for that if the man displayed the signal in the window that someone was trying to get in touch with Mitchell. So far, so good.
‘Yes, but we’ve told London that we have found Korte. All I need now is for him to be well enough to travel and a clear night to get a Lysander in for him. Why the insistence?’
‘Ory is alone, he’s being hunted. Perhaps he needs you to help get him out?’
Mitchell moved away from the window, satisfied that nothing untoward was happening in the street below. ‘Why? Is he important enough to be flown back to London? He could ask London to arrange a boat from the coast. He could make his own way there himself. He’s not injured, he’s moving around the city. They’ve told us that already.’
‘You think he’s compromised and the Germans are using him?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He would send them his duress code.’
‘Yes, you would think so.’ Mitchell pulled on his coat. ‘And then there’s the theory of probability. Mathematically we can’t predict the outcome of random events but they could offer several different outcomes if they’re influenced by other factors. He’s bait, he’s desperate, he’s frightened, he has information, or… he is not who he says he is.’
The sudden realization that the enemy might be trying to entrap them showed on Ginny’s face.
Mitchell pulled on his hat. ‘Let’s get to the hospital. See how Alfred Korte is doing.’
Ginny edged the calico curtains across the window to half obscure their coming and going. ‘There’s a problem,’ she said.
Mitchell glanced across the street to where the bar window showed a broken slatted venetian blind.
*
Mitchell stepped out of the apartment building after instructing Ginny to stay inside until he signalled her to come down and join him. It was important that she watch his back and see that the warning signal was not a trap. Her instructions were simple: if he was compromised she would run and then signal London immediately, even if it meant sending in plain text. He stood for a few minutes looking up and down the street but saw no sign of anyone watching. He crossed the street and with one hand in his overcoat pocket gripping the pistol, opened the half-curtained door and stepped inside. ‘Hello, Roccu,’ he said.
A burly, dark-haired man in a collarless shirt creased by braces, his stomach held by a broad leather belt on his trousers, looked up from where he stood cleaning glasses. His unshaven face broke into a grin and he quickly stepped around the bar counter. The Corsican hugged Mitchell and kissed him on both cheeks. His voice was little more than a rasping whisper from years of drinking bootleg liquor and smoking. He stank of rancid sweat and dark stubble clouded his features.
‘My friend, forgive me, I haven’t shaved or washed in days.
There’s a problem with the plumbing. The damned Germans, they fuck up everything with their wars. Genevieve says my stubble scratches like a hedgehog’s arse.’
‘Genevieve?’
‘My latest. One of the girls.’ He put a protective arm around Mitchell and lowered his voice. ‘Since you telephoned I have watched your building. I saw you coming and going and the young woman also. Hello, I say to myself. I am sure that is Henri and he’s shaved off his beard. Must be a good reason, I tell myself, so I stay quiet and watch. Henri is back and he has a woman. I will say nothing. Better that way? Eh?’
‘Roccu, Henri is not in Paris. Pascal Garon lives in the apartment opposite.’
‘Ah. Of course. Henri? Henri who? I know no one by that name.’ He beamed with genuine pleasure at seeing the man who had helped his brother, wife and family escape Paris soon after the Occupation.
‘The signal in the window. What is it?’ Mitchell asked quietly.
The Corsican gently guided Mitchell through the darkened bar. It was empty except for two patrons, older working men between shifts, weary perhaps of trudging home to a woman and children who had little enough food in the house and who would complain that he wasted money on a drink.
‘A man came here. A big man. Rough-looking. Not a Parisian. I could tell by his accent. I liked him the moment I saw him. Hands like a bunch of bananas. There is something of the earth about him. Said he needed to speak to you and that you had given him the name of my bar and its telephone number. In there. By the cubicles.’
The Corsican stepped away allowing Mitchell to pull back a curtain into a room where a row of curtained cots were lined up for the girls the Corsican offered. The room’s bare bulb showed the room was empty except for Chaval, who quickly stood from a rough wooden table and a half-carafe of red wine and a torn piece of bread.
‘Chaval. What’s wrong?’
‘Gaétan keeps asking about you and I did not wish him to know about this place.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘It’s as if he doesn’t trust you. Asking what kind of people you had as contacts here. That kind of thing. Picking away at who you are and how much you know about the city. What could I tell him? I don’t know anything about your time here.’
‘The less anyone knows the better, Chaval. That goes for you too.’
‘He heard about the shooting. He’s getting agitated. Wants to know whether you were involved.’
Mitchell nodded. He knew he couldn’t cut Gaétan out completely. ‘You did the right thing coming to me, Chaval. Don’t worry about Gaétan; I’ll deal with him in good time. Are the men safe?’
‘Yes. We’re a couple of miles from Vincennes in those barns you dropped us at. We’ve hidden the petrol cans, so we’re just sitting on our backsides waiting for you.’
‘The men mustn’t become complacent, Chaval. Split them up, send them out to reconnoitre the area, make them observant of their surroundings. If you are compromised then you need to know how to get out. Remember, any problem you contact Roccu or come here yourself. Gaétan can wonder all he likes about the shooting. It’s none of his business.’
‘Were you involved?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the other Englishman?’
‘Dead. Tell no one. Keep it to yourself otherwise they might panic.’
‘Understood.’
He patted Chaval’s shoulder. ‘Get yourself back now, and keep our men on a tight rein. I’ll be in touch.’
Mitchell waited until Chaval was clear of the bar before standing at the window and watching him cross the street.
‘One of your friends?’ said Roccu.
‘Yes. A good man. If it wasn’t for him and others like him I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you.’
‘Then the next time I see him I’ll buy him a drink,’ said the Corsican, raising the venetian blind.
Mitchell shook Roccu’s hand and was about to leave when he saw Gaétan’s man Edmond walking on the opposite pavement in the same direction that Chaval had taken. There was enough distance between the two men for the poacher not to notice the gamekeeper was following him. If Gaétan had sent him to see whether Chaval had made contact with Mitchell then that bore out what Chaval had told him. If not, then Edmond was acting under his own volition. The question Mitchell asked himself was why.
44
Ginny was introduced to Frank Burton and then she and Mitchell were ushered into the isolation ward where Alfred Korte sat in a chair by the window. Burton closed the door behind them, leaving them alone with the man who held such vital information for the British. Korte appeared less gaunt than when Mitchell had rescued him from the other hospital. He stood, extending his hand to Mitchell.
‘I am pleased to see you again, Pascal. I cannot thank you enough for bringing me here. I suffer from a great sadness that your colleague gave his life for me.’
‘He was a very brave man, Herr Korte.’
‘One day, when circumstances permit, I would like to write to his family and express my deepest condolences at his loss and to acknowledge the act of self-sacrifice.’
‘I will do everything I can to facilitate that,’ said Mitchell. ‘Herr Korte, this is Thérèse Fernay. She is here to help me get you to England.’
Korte bowed his head. ‘Mademoiselle. You are so young to be in such danger.’
‘We are all in danger, Herr Korte.’
‘Are you well enough to travel?’ said Mitchell.
‘Today? Yes, of course.’
‘No, in a few days. We will wait until the moon gives us a clear night.’
‘I am ready.’
Mitchell turned to Ginny. ‘Thérèse, would you give me a moment with Herr Korte?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled at the elderly German and left the room.
‘Herr Korte, the information that you have, is it written down anywhere?’ said Mitchell.
‘No. That would prove too dangerous were it discovered.’
‘I understand. So you have memorized all the names of those who wish to rise up against Hitler?’
‘Every one.’
‘And if you were captured and interrogated you would be able to feed the Gestapo different names?’
‘It was something I considered carefully, M’sieu Garon. Everyone breaks sooner or later under torture and there is no doubt I would have given them the location of where I would hide such a document. Now, if captured I will no doubt be dead by the time they have checked all the false names I would have given them. And I do not suggest we transmit them by wireless to London because we Germans are clever and intercept a lot of radio traffic.’
‘Very well, then we will ensure we get you to England as soon as possible.’
Mitchell went back to the corridor where Ginny sat waiting. The young woman stood, greeting him with a plucky smile. Since he had first met her at the landing zone he had recognized that she was young enough to be his daughter, so he could not help a twinge of guilt when he lied to her.
‘He hid the list of names inside a book by Victor Hugo when he was in hiding at the bookshop. Les Misérables.’
‘Well, that’s appropriate,’ she said and smiled again.
He agreed and pushed away the regret of the untruth. Were she the one captured and tortured then her misinformation would buy time should it be needed. It was not difficult for him to realize what this mission had done to him.
‘Pascal?’ a voice said softly.
Mitchell turned to see the white-coated figure of Jean Bernard walking towards them from the ward. As he reached Mitchell and Ginny he hesitated as he glanced at the young woman.
‘It’s all right: she is working with me. Jean Bernard, this is Thérèse Fernay. How are you? Is everything all right with Juliet and Simone?’
‘I’m not sure. I am very pleased that you came to the hospital today because I think it is important that you know what we have discovered.’ Jean Bernard explained quickly that Simone had discovered that his sister’s you
ng son was getting a steady supply of Swiss chocolate from somewhere. Both he and Juliet had followed the child to and from school for a couple of days but there had been no sign of anything untoward. The uncertainty had driven them to question the child’s mother who insisted she had no idea where the chocolate could have come from. But Jean Bernard could tell something was wrong. And then Simone saw the child in the park with a man who bought him ice cream.
‘I think my sister is under some kind of pressure,’ said Jean Bernard finally. ‘But if the lad’s being questioned on a regular basis, I wouldn’t know why. You think it’s us? Because we’re there?’
‘You and Juliet?’ said Mitchell. ‘There’s no connection and your papers are in order.’
‘We need to know. This afternoon is the same day as last week when Simone saw him at the park.’
‘All right. Is Juliet at home with your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then leave her there. Let’s not alarm your sister or alert anyone watching the apartment. It might all be innocent.’
*
The trees were still weeks away from blossoming. By the time May arrived many would already be spreading their canopies to offer shade to the Parisians desperate to escape the suffocating midsummer heat of their apartments. First the trees, then the heat. Then would come romance. Now, late spring sunshine warmed those who strolled in the park; some mothers pushed prams as others called after schoolchildren, laughing and running. The harsh winter that had recently passed still lingered in the bones and there were those who put down their coats on the grass beneath them and lay basking gratefully in the sunshine. Beyond the park, low buildings from another age reminded the city’s inhabitants that the beauty that was once Paris would not be marred by bombs and the huge swastikas that defaced the buildings’ beauty would one day be torn down. Spring brought hope.
