by David Gilman
Berthold was tugging out his identity card and going through his pockets carefully.
‘I have money, inspector. It’s hidden. I can get it.’
Berthold punched him in the kidneys. His knees gave way but Berthold had the strength to grab the scruff of his collar and keep him upright. ‘You go down and I’ll put a bullet in your leg. You stay where you are. You’re valuable, Garon. The Germans wanted a description of you so you must be on their wanted list. Well, I’m going one better, I’m taking you in personally. What are you, an agent? Is that it?’
Mitchell heard the clank of handcuffs.
‘Keep one hand on the wall, the other behind your back. Now.’
Mitchell tentatively did as he was told, finding the balance with only one hand to support him. And then Berthold made the mistake that Mitchell had hoped for. The policeman rammed the pistol’s nuzzle into the nape of Mitchell’s neck. Second nature from those long arduous days of training kicked in. There was an advantage in knowing exactly where the gun was. The moment the metal made contact with his neck he twisted his body to the left, inside of Berthold’s right arm that held the weapon. Mitchell’s shoulder and left arm slammed down across Berthold’s body, catching his gun arm, forcing the pistol away. A shot ricocheted off the wall. He head-butted the bridge of Berthold’s nose. The man staggered but didn’t go down. In that instant, Mitchell knew that Berthold was the stronger man. The sickening reality was that Mitchell might not beat him. Berthold used his free hand to block Mitchell’s rapid follow-up blow as he tried to ram the heel of his hand under the policeman’s chin to snap his neck. As Berthold deflected the blow he swung the pistol across Mitchell’s head. Mitchell saw stars; flashes of pain cut behind his eyes. His legs gave way and he fell.
Berthold bent over him, blood spilling from his nose; he spat it free and pressed the gun into Mitchell’s knee. One quick shot and Mitchell would be completely incapacitated. A movement behind Berthold suddenly caused a dull crunching sound that resulted in him dropping his head and his weapon as he fell almost on top of Mitchell, who rolled clear. Gerard Vincent stood, legs braced, both hands gripping a metal pipe. His breath came short and fast, his eyes glared down at the fallen milicien. He seemed momentarily stunned by the action of striking down Berthold.
‘You all right?’ Vincent gasped.
Mitchell clambered to his feet, but Vincent still stood over the fallen man, iron bar ready to strike again. Even in the dim light Mitchell could see that the back of Berthold’s head had been crushed. He felt for a pulse.
‘Did I kill him?’
‘Yes.’
Vincent dropped the pipe and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Good. The bastard.’ He spat on the corpse.
Mitchell quickly retrieved his pistol, wallet and identity card. He tucked Berthold’s gun into his pocket. ‘There was a German patrol. They’ll have heard the shot. Help me.’ He grabbed one of Berthold’s arms, Vincent took hold of the other and they dragged him a few feet into the alley. While Mitchell quickly searched the body Vincent went back and grabbed the man’s fallen hat. Mitchell took the dead man’s wallet and identity card and found a knife with a folding blade in his jacket pocket. ‘Get the pipe,’ he told Vincent, who brought it into the alleyway. ‘A shot echoes. We don’t know how long we have until it’s traced here.’
Mitchell forced the knife’s blade beneath a drain cover as Vincent knelt next to him ready to push the metal bar beneath its rim. The two men rolled the heavy iron cover aside. The stench from the sewers below assaulted their nostrils. Vincent gagged. Mitchell grabbed Berthold’s arm and dragged him towards the exposed sewer. Vincent spat the stench from his throat, grabbed Berthold’s legs and helped tip him down into the flowing sewage. Mitchell heaved the cover back over the hole. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He leant against the wall, aching from the struggle. But there was no time to linger.
‘I owe you,’ said Mitchell, retrieving the parcel.
Vincent grinned. ‘I’ll collect one day.’
‘You took a big risk. You didn’t have to.’
‘He was blackmailing me. He would have shut me down. He got less than he deserved. Besides’ – Vincent grinned – ‘I look after my paying customers. ‘ He extended his hand. ‘Use the garage and keep me out of it.’
56
Hauptmann Martin Koenig had stayed late at the office. Stolz had gone to the opera with Mademoiselle Lesaux and he had been instructed to finalize the deportation list for the train due to leave for Ravensbrück and other Konzentrationslager. Both men and women were to be deported, which served the purpose of emptying the prisons of undesirables. More space in the prisons was required on a daily basis and Stolz was ready to order another sweep rounding up suspects across the city and suburbs. So far Koenig had listed 2,465 prisoners to be deported from the overcrowded La Santé prison. It required efficient organization to get them from prison to train yard and he prided himself on his skills in ensuring the smooth running of a complex operation around the city. He had correlated the names of the inmates from each prison – Fresnes, La Roquette, La Santé and Romainville – and had already liaised with the French authorities to supply the many buses needed at each prison and the gendarmes to accompany them. Once on the train the SS would take over guard duties. The buses would transport their human cargo to the Gare de Pantin, the small suburban station on the eastern outskirts of the city. It was the preferred station for everything the occupying army sent back to Germany, be it food, art or prisoners, and the tracks bypassed the terrorist attack on the turntable at the marshalling yards east of the station. Three days and four nights later the male and female prisoners would be separated and the women marched to Ravensbrück. Now he unfurled the last sheet of paper from the typewriter having double-checked the names again. Simple errors on the page could confuse those checking prisoners’ names against the list. Laying his hand on the folder containing the typed sheets he remembered Leitmann once remarking that when the prisoners entered these camps God stayed outside.
The memory prompted him to consider going to mass, but no. Tonight he would ignore prayers of contrition and let pleasure offer him succour. Sleeping with Béatrice had made it easier to turn his back on the human misery in which he was complicit. Shrugging off the burden of the day’s work, he left the office. When he reached her apartment building he walked slowly up the stairs, savouring the thought of her supple body. Months ago he had secured extra ration cards and knew that she would have a meal ready for him. He put the key in the lock and eased open the door. The smell of tobacco reached him rather than the expected odour of a cooked meal. Perhaps, he thought as he called her name, she had already opened the wine and the meal would wait.
‘Béatrice,’ he called again and stepped from the entrance lobby into the main room. He saw a Feldgendarme standing at the far end of the room. The leather-coated military policeman looked incongruous against the softness of the apartment’s furnishings. The metal regimental gorget at his throat reflected the gentle lighting that Beatrice loved so much. A room had to be sensuous, she had always told him. Koenig’s stomach clenched and in a reflex action he fumbled for his sidearm but the helmeted soldier quickly levelled his sub-machine gun. The surreal moment passed as Koenig quickly moved his hand away. He found his voice.
‘Who are you and what are you…’ His trembling words trailed away as Oberst Ulrich Bauer stepped out of the bedroom. The top of his tunic was undone; smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers.
‘Captain, we have been waiting for you. It’s late. Standartenführer Stolz must be working you very hard.’
Colonel… I… I…’ The immediate threat strangled him. He tried to find the logic in his swirling thoughts. ‘Where is Béatrice?’ he finally managed to ask.
Bauer stepped aside, allowing Koenig to go past him into the bedroom. The first thing that was apparent was that Béatrice was not alone in the room. A stern-faced Wehrmacht woman stood next to the wardrobe watching t
he young woman who sat hunched on the bedroom chair, her face tear-streaked from the mascara Koenig had bought for her only a few days before. There was no sign of physical hurt; her clothes were not torn. He went quickly to her and embraced her. She looked at him, holding his face in her hands.
‘My darling,’ she whispered. ‘Help me, Martin, please. I beg you.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Bauer without menace. ‘She has not been harmed, Koenig, but she quickly confessed when I presented her with the evidence. She stays under guard. I don’t want her jumping out of the window.’
Koenig failed to grasp anything. ‘Confessed to what? Sir –?’
Bauer raised a hand to stop any questioning. ‘Come back out here,’ he said and closed the bedroom door behind the nervous captain. He turned to the Feldgendarme. ‘Wait outside.’
The burly military policeman strode across the room leaving the Abwehr colonel and Koenig alone. ‘Sit down, captain,’ said Bauer sociably. He took a brandy bottle from the sideboard and poured two drinks, offering one to Koenig. ‘You looked after her very well, captain. Drink. There are things you need to know. They are not pleasant.’
Koenig mutely took the drink and brought it to his lips, clasping the glass with trembling hands.
‘You are a churchgoer, aren’t you, Koenig?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And do you consider yourself a good Catholic?’
‘We are all sinners, colonel. I attend mass and confession.’
‘And I wonder if you have a deep affection for this girl?’
Koenig felt an immediate reluctance to disclose his feelings for Béatrice. Bauer studied the young man for a moment and then reached inside his tunic and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. ‘Make no mistake, captain, you are in serious trouble and will likely be arrested for treason against the Reich and the Führer.’
Koenig jumped to his feet. ‘I am loyal!’
‘Sit down,’ Bauer commanded.
Panic gripped Koenig but he meekly obeyed.
Bauer raised his hand with the folded documents. ‘These are letters of free passage that come from the SD office. They declare that the bearer be given all assistance by the authorities as they are a friend of the Third Reich. They bear the official stamp of the SD and they were found in this apartment.’
The shock on Koenig’s face was as if he had been slapped. The glass fell from his hand.
‘You have been used, Koenig. Like so many foolish officers here in Paris who take Frenchwomen as their lovers. Did you supply these documents?’
Koenig finally managed to find his voice. ‘I did not. I swear it. And there is no possible explanation why Béatrice could have had them. I believe they must have been planted by someone who wishes me, or her, ill.’
‘Are you accusing me or my agents in the Abwehr?’
‘I am not, sir. But this girl did not have access to the SD office and I did not supply them.’
Bauer paused. It paid to allow a dramatic silence to drive home what he said next. ‘I believe you, captain.’
Koenig gasped. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’
Bauer shrugged. ‘But you will still be arrested and charged. Someone has to be blamed. Don’t look so shocked. Do you think Standartenführer Stolz is going to accept responsibility?’
‘Stolz?’
‘If you did not supply them who do you think did?’
‘I… I don’t know…’
‘You are naïve, Koenig. You have no place being anywhere but in an accountancy office. You were brought into a place of violence, you rub shoulders with the SS, the Gestapo, men who inflict great pain on fellow human beings,’ said Bauer casually. ‘How does that fit in with your religious beliefs?’
‘I abhor it. It goes against everything I believe in.’
‘You delude yourself, my boy. And then you are tempted by a voluptuous young woman. Did you know she was an abortionist?’
An unseen force crushed Koenig’s chest, threatening to squeeze the breath out of him. He felt dizzy. The image of Bauer sitting opposite him blurred momentarily. Anger displaced shock and Koenig defiantly rallied to his lover’s defence. ‘She would never do such a thing. Never!’
‘Like I said. You’re naïve. There’s sufficient evidence and witness statements. She will be arrested. You know the penalty for abortionists. She will be sentenced to death by guillotine at La Santé and you will have the additional charge of being her accomplice added to that of treason. Do not be in any doubt that you will both be executed, captain, for one reason or another.’
A sob caught in Koenig’s throat.
Bauer’s tone softened like a father concerned for a troubled son. ‘Let me help you. I know how these documents came to be in Mademoiselle’s possession. I need a little more time to close my case.’
‘I don’t see what I can do,’ said Koenig plaintively, ignoring the admission from Bauer and concentrating on the lifeline he had been thrown.
‘What I want from you is everything you know about trapping the English agent and his wireless operator.’
‘Betray Standartenführer Stolz?’
‘I seek only Alfred Korte. If I find the agent I find the man I want. Stolz, I will deal with later.’
‘And Béatrice?’
‘You cannot save her. Save yourself. Abandon her. ‘
Koenig was stunned into silence. He wiped away the tear edging down his cheek.
And then he nodded.
57
The Corsican threw a bucket of water across the pavement in front of his bar. With one eye on the apartment building opposite he bent to scour the pavement with a broom. He was agitated because Mitchell had not yet responded to the signal in the window and he had seen more of the fake bakery vans circling the streets. It didn’t take a genius to know they were RDFs. He kept the closed sign on the door and checked his watch; anytime soon and the first of the customers would want food and drink. Night-shift workers from one of the factories or those starting their shift would come and trade ration tickets and after some bartering Roccu would serve them drinks at a fraction of their cost or charge them extra for food. It was a give-and-take economy but Roccu always made certain the benefits were in his favour. He saw Mitchell across the street about to enter his building. He must have been out all night, Roccu decided. Probably got a woman somewhere. He threw down the bucket and its clanging attracted the attention of those pedestrians on both sides of the streets, including Mitchell, who visibly flinched. The Corsican caught his eye, the intention obvious. Mitchell strode across the street and as Roccu opened the door for him he saw that there was dried blood on the side of his scalp just below the rim of his hat.
‘What happened to you? You look like shit,’ he said as he closed the door behind them. ‘You need a drink.’
‘No, I have to get back to the apartment. Is there a problem?’
‘Your man has been here since before the curfew last night. I gave him a cot in the back and a woman for the night.’ Roccu shrugged. ‘No charge this time. But I’ve also seen radio vans around. They might be closing in on you.’
Mitchell clapped a hand of appreciation on the Corsican’s shoulder and pushed through the curtain to where Chaval was finishing getting dressed.
‘I thought I heard your voice,’ said the poacher. There was no sign of the prostitute. Chaval tucked in his shirt. ‘I came here last night but the train broke down so it was late. Roccu gave me a bed and a meal.’
‘And some company,’ said Mitchell, looking at the rumpled bedding.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve had a woman and a man can’t turn down an offer like that.’
‘Of course not. What’s happened?
Roccu put his head around the curtain and walked in with a tray of coffee and bread. ‘Excuse me, but I thought you would need this.’ He placed the tray down and went back to the bar. Mitchell and Chaval yielded to their hunger.
‘It’s Gaétan,’ said Chaval through a mouthful of bread. ‘He
said he was expecting you to contact him, to tell him what London wants us to do next. He thinks we should keep hitting the Germans. He’s getting impatient. Look, Pascal, he’s planning a raid and he wants to use us. Laforge, Drossier, Maillé and me. Says he can’t bring his men up from his operating base in Norvé.’
‘What is he after?’
‘He won’t say but Maillé is listening more to the old man than he is to me. I can only restrain him for so long without tying him up or punching him.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Chaval. Maillé was always going to be the one who caused us trouble.’
‘Me and Gaétan, we don’t get along,’ said Chaval. ‘I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut but he keeps promising the men a share of the spoils. His man Edmond is leading the raid. Says he can get them through any patrols. He’s a good man but you know how a poacher feels about a gamekeeper… Anyway, Gaétan’s already convinced Maillé and the others that it’s worth the risk. I’m sorry, Pascal, but Maillé is easily swayed and he still thinks that killing Germans is a game worth playing.’
Conflicting thoughts crossed Mitchell’s mind. Gaétan might well have a legitimate target in mind and did not have any men other than Edmond with him, so using Mitchell’s men made some sense. But he couldn’t dismiss the notion that Gaétan was throwing Mitchell’s men to the wolves. If Mitchell were to set up the Gideon circuit he needed those men to fight and help recruit others. ‘Perhaps Gaétan thinks we’re stepping on his toes and he’s securing his own fiefdom.’
‘And if he takes our men as his own he’s already achieved that,’ said Chaval. ‘There aren’t many around left to fight, Pascal. Anyone who served in the army is in a prison camp or has been sent away as forced labour. All I know is that Drossier has stolen a lorry and Maillé has his tail up. What are we going to do?’
‘Try and stop it before it’s too late.’
*
