City of Spies

by Mara Timon

‘The couriers escort downed airmen to the Normandy coast. They use trawlers to take them back across the Channel.’

  ‘You’re going home?’ Her voice was flat, making her opinion clear.

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’ I toyed with the glass, wishing my hands would stop shaking. ‘I’m sure they’ll need another wireless operator up north. Maybe someone to co-ordinate the pickups.’

  The old lady stood up and rummaged in the pantry. She put the battered tin of biscuits in the centre of the table and sat down. On the lid, one of Alphonse Mucha’s redheads pouted, a heavy-handed reminder of happier times. I pushed it away.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’

  Madame Renard treated me to another condescending look and opened the tin to reveal a stack of photographs. Arthritic fingers flicked through them, pausing now and again, until they lingered on an image. She put it on the table and turned it around so I could see.

  Two men flanked a young woman in a floral dress, standing in front of a stone cottage. A breeze had caught her hair, and her hand was raised, holding her locks in place. The man on the right was a bit older, perhaps thirty, and bore a family resemblance to the woman. The man on the left was shorter, but had a strong bone structure and a determined chin.

  ‘A good-looking set,’ I said.

  She harrumphed and jabbed a finger at the man on the left.

  ‘My nephew, Franc Laronde, outside his house with his wife Christiane and her brother.’

  I forced back a bad feeling and waited for her to continue. She took her time, picking up her glass and taking a delicate sip.

  ‘They live near Rouen.’

  ‘Madame, with all due respect, this isn’t the best time to matchmake.’

  She wheezed, spraying the burgundy over her hand. Then the laughter erupted.

  ‘Cécile, you fool, Franc is part of the Resistance. If you can get to him he’ll help you, or at least introduce you to someone who can.’

  I opened and closed my mouth a few times before my voice caught up.

  ‘Madame, I don’t know what to say!’

  ‘A simple thank you will do. Now, fetch me the Michelin map from the parlour, and I’ll show you how to get there.’

  As the birds fly, it didn’t look far. If the trains were running, I would be able to get there within a few hours. Only the railway stations would be the first place they’d look for me.

  ‘Perhaps a boat up the Seine,’ I mused out loud.

  ‘Still too obvious. Try a bicycle.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Take your friend Juliette’s. She left it here, and I don’t think she’ll be back in Paris anytime soon to protest.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose she will.’

  Juliette, or rather my fellow agent Dominique, had boarded with Madame Renard. In the aftermath of the ambush, Dom had been arrested and taken to the Gestapo’s HQ on Avenue Foch. She’d escaped, and as far as I knew, had successfully disappeared.

  Madame Renard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do know how to ride a bicycle, don’t you?’

  I’d ridden on the handlebars a few times. What was there to it? You sat, you pedalled, and you got where you needed to go. Anyone could do it.

  ‘Of course I can.’

  Madame Renard’s lips pursed. I met her gaze with all the innocence I could muster until she sighed.

  ‘Sleep for a couple of hours. You’ll go just before it gets light.’

  *

  The alleyway was deserted, but it was foolish to think no one watched from behind the shutters and blackout curtains. Madame herself watched from the doorway as I wheeled the bicycle on to the street and straddled it.

  ‘Perhaps you’re waiting for the Second Coming?’ she asked, her voice low.

  ‘Ha, bloody ha.’

  I tossed the strap of my handbag over my head and straddled the frame. She held up a finger for me to wait and disappeared into her house for a moment before returning with the Luger, a book with a postcard tucked a third of the way in, and a box of chocolates.

  ‘Never go to anyone empty-handed,’ she advised.

  Did she realise that where I was going, the Luger was a more effective asset than the sweets?

  ‘Cécile, for once, try and be subtle. Use the chocolates first.’ She tucked the chocolates and the pistol into my handbag, but held back on the paperback. Curious, I reached for it.

  ‘The Count of Monte Cristo?’ I blustered. ‘Have some faith, Madame!’

  Wearing a familiar expression of pained patience, she waited until I removed the postcard. On the front was the striped cathedral at Marseilles. On the back was a brief note, pleasantly bland as all postcards were these days. The message wasn’t on the card – it was the card. Two friends I had long thought captured or dead had written that card. For me.

  ‘They’re alive?’

  My voice was thick and I fought to hold back tears. I couldn’t cry. Not in public, not even in front of Madame Renard.

  ‘So it would seem,’ she said. ‘And if they can beat the Boche, so can you. Keep the card if you want, but also keep the book. A woman alone looks suspicious, but one with a book, oddly less so.’

  The smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she looked down as her gnarled fingers buckled my bag closed. Madame was a tough old girl, and although she tried to hide it, she cared. So did I.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the right people know about you. And your neighbour. Now, get out of here.’

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I grasped the handlebars. If it were anyone other than Madame Renard, I might have paused for a hug, a last kiss on the cheek, a murmur of thanks. But even if I knew how to extend the sentiment, Madame was too crusty to accept it. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Looked up to clear my own eyes. The last rays of the moon provided just enough light. As long as no one stopped me, I’d be in Rouen tomorrow or, worst case, the day after. I glared at the red metal frame, willing it into submission. Refusing to comply, it wobbled a few times and pitched me into the gutter. I cringed at the noise and looked around, but there was nothing, not even the twitch of a curtain.

  Madame Renard muffled a snort. ‘Shall I fetch someone to hold the saddle for you?’

  ‘You shall not.’ I dusted off my stinging palms and rose to my feet. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Yes. You said. Would you like a plaster for your knee?’

  I glared at the thin red trail snaking its way down my leg.

  ‘I’ve had worse.’

  ‘I remember.’

  She flicked her fingers at me, urging me back on the bicycle.

  It took three more tries before I was able to leave the street. My hands ached from the death grip they had on the handlebars, and sweat made my dress stick to my back. At this rate, it wouldn’t be a day or two before I got to Rouen. It would be a week or two.

  And I’d arrive in an ambulance.

  *

  It was barely dawn but vehicles were already queuing up to have their papers and vehicles inspected at the checkpoint leaving the city. So far I’d been lucky. No one stopped me as I weaved my way through the streets. There were plenty of posters fluttering in the breeze, but none with my face on them. How long my luck would last was a different question.

  ‘You!’ The German-accented voice boomed out.

  The young soldier held his assault rifle in the crook of his arm as he pointed in my direction. I looked over my shoulder, but there was no one behind me. I pointed at my own chest.

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Ja. Come here.’

  I raised my chin and cycled around a horse-drawn cart and the two Germans peering underneath it. The man holding the reins looked away as I passed.

  ‘Your papers?’

  The soldier cradled a rifle in one arm. He thrust the other out for my identity card. I handed it over with a weak smile.

  ‘Madame Laforge?’ Pale eyes darted between my face and the photograp
h.

  ‘Lafontaine.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. And where are you going so early this morning?’

  He stood so that I was half-blinded by the sun. I shielded my eyes with my hand and allowed the all-too-real wobble to enter my voice.

  ‘My aunt is ill and has been asking for her son. She’s sent me to collect him.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Halfway to Caen.’

  ‘You couldn’t use a telephone? Send a telegraph?’

  ‘Not if I expect him to answer. Or to come and see her.’

  A reluctant smile teased his lips. ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And you’re going to get there on the bicycle?’

  I held up my raw palms. ‘If it weren’t important, do you really think I’d voluntarily travel on this godforsaken thing? My cousin has a permit for a car. He can drive us back.’

  The corners of his mouth twitched as he returned my papers.

  ‘Have you never heard of a train?’

  ‘Of course I have.’ I shrugged and lied. By the time he checked, I’d be long gone. ‘I’ve also heard the British bombed the line.’

  His smile froze. ‘Again? Damned Tommies,’ he muttered and waved me through.

  Chapter Two

  M

  y death grip on the handlebars eased as the miles passed, but I was wary of stopping. Partially because I was eager to get to Rouen, but more out of the fear that if I stopped too long, the muscles in my shoulders and legs, already burning, might cease working.

  I stopped late that night at a half-burnt barn, slept for a few hours and left before daybreak against the protests of my sore body. Fuelled by desperation, I cycled through the pain and the sun had already set by the time I rode past the stone cottage from Madame’s photograph. It was a mile or so outside the nearest village, and set far enough back from the road to be almost hidden from view.

  Circling the cottage would bring unnecessary attention. I did what I could to make sure there was no tail before coasting to a stop in front of Laronde’s house. My knees buckled as I slid from the bicycle and dug my fists into the aching muscles to coax them into action. Slipped Madame Renard’s Luger into the waistband of my skirt, and adjusted my cardigan over it. Combed my hair and applied lipstick to make myself look respectable. My gloves hid the blisters, but there wasn’t much to be done about the scraped knees, other than hope no one would notice.

  The couriers claimed nine out of ten homes would open the door to a resistance member, but that one in a hundred would summon the police. Laronde might open the door, but would he betray me?

  I leant the bicycle against a tree and took out Madame’s chocolates, just in case I had been seen. With the reassuring weight of the Luger at my back, I knocked on Laronde’s door. Instead of the silence I’d expected, the door opened and I was pulled inside. A bright light shone into my eyes, almost blinding me. I stepped backwards until I pressed against the door.

  ‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded in French, the accent low and guttural. German. His dark hair was slicked back from a wide forehead, accenting small porcine eyes set too close to each other. He wore a well-tailored suit rather than uniform.

  Hello, Gestapo!

  Sod the subtle approach; I would have to brazen it out.

  ‘Just what’s this all about?’ I demanded, throwing off his arm and stepping to the side. A second man, taller and slimmer with a scar that bisected his cheek, pointed a Walther PPK at me. I jabbed my finger at him. ‘And you put that away. You’re liable to hurt someone with that!’

  ‘Where is he?’ Pig-eyes asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ he snapped.

  ‘Franc Laronde? If I thought he wasn’t in, do you really think I’d be here?’ Sweat trailed down my back, but my voice remained even.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Madame Laronde kept an eye on my mother while I was away.’ I held up the box of chocolates. ‘I brought her a thank-you gift.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘It’s still before curfew. Besides, I’ve only just returned!’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Your papers!’ the other man barked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I put the chocolates down on a side table and, keeping my back to the wall to avoid them seeing my hidden gun, rummaged in my bag. I should have left the Luger in there; with both men watching my every move, it would have been easier to grab.

  ‘Black market chocolates?’ Scar sneered.

  ‘No. Just old. And probably stale. You can have them.’

  Maybe Madame Renard had poisoned them.

  ‘Papers, Madame!’

  ‘Yes. They’re at the bottom of my bag. As usual,’ I grumbled.

  He grabbed it from me and began to root around for them.

  Despite my compliance, Pig-eyes raised his left hand to strike me. Instinct, months of training, and a deep-seated anger at the situation dictated what happened next. I deflected his blow and drove my right fist into his nose. He rocked back and before he could recover, I gripped his shoulder and slammed my knee into his groin. He doubled over, resting his pistol on his thigh and gasping for breath. Blood poured from his nose, pooling on the rug.

  Despite its small size, Scar’s PPK sounded like a cannon in the small parlour. Dust settled from the ceiling and I locked my eyes with Scar’s.

  ‘Who are you?’ He pointed the pistol at me.

  ‘Who are you to bloody attack me?’ I growled, calculating and recalculating my options.

  He stepped closer. ‘I will ask you again: who are you and why are you here?’

  I’d rehearsed this, was trained for this with sergeants correcting me until I could do it without even thinking. A cold confidence settled over me and I pulled Pig-eyes erect, his back to my breast. Wrapped my hand around his and shot Scar between the eyes. As he crumbled, I buried the pistol’s nose in the fleshy folds of Pig-eyes’ chin and fired again.

  His body hit the floor with a low thud. A trickle of blood traced its way from the third eye in Scar’s head, disappearing into his dark oiled hair. They were dead, and I’d killed them. I fired another round into each of them. Just to make sure. Because either they were dead, or I was.

  I stuffed the chocolates back into my bag and bolted, in case anyone had heard the shots and called for reinforcements. Grabbed the bicycle and pedalled hard, throwing myself behind a low rock wall only when I heard a vehicle pass. Cringed when I realised it was a transport, heading towards Laronde’s house.

  Forcing my heartbeat to slow, I considered my options. Fleeing on the bicycle wasn’t possible. Too many people could have seen me and quite frankly, there was no way I’d be able to out-pedal the Gestapo. Franc Laronde was gone, maybe dead. He wouldn’t be able to help me, and without him, how in the blazes would I find the Resistance? What else was there? Hot-wiring a car? Without the right papers, I’d be caught at the first checkpoint.

  I closed my eyes and remembered Madame Renard’s map. The lines criss-crossing the countryside. She was quite right: passenger trains were too risky.

  But there was one other option, and it wasn’t far.

  Chapter Three

  D

  im starlight revealed the men in dark coveralls, milling around outside a medium-sized station house on the far side of the tracks. Casks were lined up on the platform, ready for transfer. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have long to wait for the train, and guessed that if it stopped here, then there would be other local stations like this, transporting wine east to Germany, or south towards Vichy. And frequent stops would give me plenty of opportunities to slip off once it was safe. Once far enough from Rouen, I’d be able to formulate a plan to get in touch with the local Resistance cells.

  I crouched in the bushes and waited. Heard the engine before I saw it, clacking along the tracks, followed closely by flat carriages carrying tarpaulin-covered tanks. Th
e train slowed as the container carriages came into sight and I crossed the strap of my bag over my head, leaving my hands free.

  Getting on board proved surprisingly easy. Using the train itself to block me from view, I hauled myself onto the junction between the carriages and eased over until I could grip the lever. The sounds farther down the train hid the creak as I eased the door open and slid through, grateful that there were no locks. And if there wasn’t much room between the casks to manoeuvre, at least I was reasonably certain this carriage wouldn’t be opened until the train reached its ultimate destination. I eased to the floor and allowed myself to smile.

  With a jolt, the train began to move. Braced against the casks, I held the Luger in my hand. Just in case.

  The rhythm of the rails and the swish of wine had a lulling effect, and I only realised I’d slept when my head bumped against the wooden barrel. Pins and needles tortured my legs and I shifted as much as I could. How much time had passed? Was I far enough from Rouen yet?

  Clickety-clack.

  It was less than two days since I’d fled Paris and the journey was worse than I’d imagined. How did the couriers do it? Did they get used to the constant fear? The confinement? The overwhelming stench of burgundy that seeped from a broken cask?

  Clickety-clack . . . THROMMMM . . .

  The rhythm changed. It didn’t undulate. It was loud, insistent. And frightfully familiar.

  A sick feeling radiated from the pit of my belly as I realised that trains were bombed all the time, and this train pulled more than just local vintages.

  Oh, hell!

  I tucked the Luger in the back of my skirt and scrambled to my feet.

  An explosion rocked the train. Bracing myself, I leant hard on the latch. It moved easily enough, but the door refused to open. The blasted thing was either broken or disabled, and the RAF were trying to make sure the whole damn train was as well.

  Another bomb exploded but the train continued forward. How the bomber could have missed a large object, following a predictable trail, was something I could only be grateful for, and if I had any chance of survival, I had to get out.

  A whistling sound ended in a loud BOOM! The train shuddered and rocked from side to side.