It was the merest glimmer of hope. ‘Then I have to get to Emma before they hand her over.’
‘Harry, it may be too late, they might already have given her up.’
Walsh knew that was entirely possible but he couldn’t give up on Emma, not yet. ‘They would want to hand her over with a story, a confession, wouldn’t they? Who she is, where she’s from, who she is working with?’ Walsh knew he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself but there was a logic to this. ‘A suspicious woman is one thing but for the Milice to really please their masters they’d want to hand over a self-confessed enemy agent, signed, sealed and delivered. And that might give us a little time.’
‘I hope you are right, Harry.’ Montueil did not add anything. He didn’t have to. Once Emma was in the hands of the Germans there would be no saving her.
‘Tell me about this Combret,’ urged Walsh.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
Combret walked into the dark drawing room of his cold and draughty home. He sighed. It had been a long day and the housekeeper had allowed the fire to die out again. He turned on the light and started. Walsh was sitting in his favourite armchair, pointing the Luger straight at him. Despite the fear in his heart he understood immediately.
‘You have come to kill me?’
Walsh shook his head. ‘I’ve come to show you how easy it would be to kill you,’ said Walsh, ‘the rest is up to you.’
‘I have a choice?’ Combret was attempting to hide his nervousness, ‘May I?’ and he slowly turned his palm to pat a pocket.
‘Make sure you light it very slowly.’
With exaggerated caution, Combret took the pack from his pocket. He removed a cigarette and lit it with a shaking hand. Walsh noticed the lighter was gold. Montueil had said Combret worshipped only money. The Milice man took a long drag on the cigarette, his eyes never leaving Walsh’s.
‘The peasants round here have been threatening my life for years.’
‘But I’m a professional. If I tell you I’m going to kill you, it will happen.’
Combret nodded slowly, ‘Oh, I believe you, Englishman. You are English I assume and so is the girl? You did say there was a choice? Perhaps a more satisfactory outcome for both of us?’
‘Release her.’
‘That I cannot do.’
‘Then you die tonight.’
‘I see.’
Walsh immediately changed tack, ‘They can’t win this war, the Germans. You must know that. Since Stalingrad, with America on our side, you understand there’s no way.’ Walsh took Combret’s silence as grudging acceptance. ‘Between us we will defeat them. It’s just a question of time.’
‘Perhaps, in five, ten years. Who knows? Maybe instead they will beat you and the Americans after all.’
‘Five, ten years, possibly a lot sooner than that. Then where will you be, Combret? A hunted man, a criminal, a fugitive hiding from his own countrymen. I wonder what they will do to all of the traitors when it’s over. Hang you in the town square I should expect, in front of everybody. They’ll bring the children to watch, make a day of it.’
Combret snorted, ‘That day is a long way off, English.’
‘It could be a lot closer than you think, unless you are clever, unless you have something to fall back on, more than just Deutschmarks or Francs. They’ll be worthless, won’t even get you out of the country.’
Combret was listening now. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘The goodwill of the allies you helped along the way, testimony from commissioned officers in Her Majesty’s armed forces that you occasionally worked for us, turned a blind eye when it was needed, saved a life from time to time.’
‘Oh sure, you’d do that for me. You’d save me from the mob despite my so-called crimes. As soon as I sent for you, you’d forget I existed. You’d say bad luck and he got what was coming to him, he deserved the noose. You would not stand up for me in the courtroom when so many others stood against me.’
‘I would. For her life I would, for the girl. Just bring me the girl. I’d give you my word here and now and I take my word seriously.’
Walsh knew he’d overplayed it but he couldn’t help himself. What would Price have said? ‘I rather think you’ve over-egged the pudding there,’ and for once he’d have been right.
Combret smiled his understanding, ‘So it’s love. And I thought you were just screwing her till your war is over and you run back home to your wife. Oh, you don’t need a wedding ring; you have the married look about you.’ Combret seemed more relaxed suddenly, as if he understood the strength of his hand. ‘She doesn’t though. Wonder if she thinks you’ll leave. Do you think Evie, or whatever her name is, dreams of becoming the next Mrs English?’
‘Be quiet.’
‘I’m just wondering what she is thinking, that’s all. Maybe she doesn’t know what you and I know, that we men never leave. We have our fun and go home. Isn’t that how it always works? She’ll get tired of longing for you eventually, waiting for her own home and children. When she starts to get older you’ll, how can I put this, reluctantly set her free? She’ll probably love you even more for that, if you handle it right, even though you’ll be very glad to see the back of her by then.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Except that is not how it will happen because she has an appointment with the Gestapo in the morning and she is going to keep it.’
Walsh crossed the floor with frightening speed, grabbed the older man’s shoulder, forced him to stand rigidly upright and landed a crashing blow into Combret’s stomach with the fist that still held the Luger. The Milice man let out a huge gasp and would have dropped to the floor if Walsh had not held him there. Walsh steered Combret into an armchair and dropped him unceremoniously into it. It was more than two minutes before Walsh deemed him sufficiently recovered to continue.
‘I knew appealing to your better nature would be a mistake, you don’t have one, but your sense of self-preservation alone should convert you to my way of thinking. If it doesn’t then perhaps this will.’
Combret winced, expecting another blow. He was still in severe pain. He’d been assaulted by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Never had he been struck with such force and there was anger behind the blow, as well as professional expertise. He lamely held up a hand to parry the next punch. Instead he felt the light sensation of a small velvet bag as it was dropped into his lap. Puzzled, Combret drew back the string, opened it and spread the contents into his outstretched palm. His mouth widened at the sight, for he was now holding four perfect diamonds.
‘They are yours when you bring me the girl,’ explained Walsh while Combret gaped at this treasure.
Combret sat up now. He was almost recovered. He’d been transfixed by the huge diamonds and asked Walsh, ‘Where did you get them?’
‘Traded them and I’ll trade them again to you once I have the girl.’ He made Combret put the gems in the velvet bag and hand them back.
‘Bring her to the stone quarry outside town in two hours. Come alone.’
‘It’s not possible,’
‘Oh you’d be surprised what’s possible when your life depends on it.’
‘But the Gestapo are expecting her in the morning.’
‘What are they expecting? A young female suspect, so that is what you will give them.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t care. Someone else.’
‘You want me to hand over an innocent girl to take her place? Is that what you are saying?’
‘Don’t try to pretend you are outraged, Combret. You’ll do what you have to do to cover yourself with the Germans. Whether you pick an innocent girl or a genuine suspect is entirely your concern. Just bring me the girl.’
‘Ruthless bastard aren’t you, English?’ Combret sounded impressed
.
‘The stone quarry, with the girl but otherwise alone. If you bring anybody with you, anyone at all, they will be killed and so will you. That’s another promise by the way so there can be no misunderstanding later. Mercy is a quality in short supply these days and I won’t be wasting any of it on you. You understand?’
‘Of course. And the diamonds?’
‘When you hand over the girl, I hand over the diamonds.’
‘Then you kill me, yes?’ he sneered.
‘No, like I said, I take an oath seriously.’
‘I hope you do, English.’
‘Normally, killing you would be easy. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d enjoy it but it wouldn’t trouble me. But tonight all I want is the girl. Bring her, unharmed. The diamonds are yours and you get to live. Maybe next time we meet it will be different.’
Maybe it will, thought Combret, maybe it will. ‘I agree.’
‘Good, now get up and turn around. I need to search you.’
Combret stood and Walsh turned him round till he faced the fireplace. ‘Put your hands on the mantel, palms down.’ Combret complied and Walsh kicked his legs wider till he was in a star shape, his head down, feet level with his hands, palms pressed on to the mantelpiece either side of the antique clock as it began to strike the quarter hour.
‘Now don’t move.’ Combret could hear Walsh’s voice but not see him now. Tell me, Combret, because I’m curious. What is it that turns a man like you into a traitor? Is it greed, simply the money or are you going to say there is a more noble reason for selling your soul to the Germans?’
‘I’ll tell you, English, but I doubt you will understand. Your country has not been invaded like ours and no, I don’t mean the Germans. We were invaded years ago, France died long before 1940. The nation I knew as a boy had already disappeared. My country was being fought over by radicals and communists while the Jews bankrolled them both. The only shame I feel is the embarrassment that we could not put our own house in order. Imagine having to get the Germans to rid our country of the communists, the queers and the Jews. They do our dirty work for us. Perhaps you are a Jew lover or a friend of Joseph Stalin and you think everybody should just travel along together regardless of their race. Is that it? Do you still think you would like your country so much if it was not an island? Who would you side with if England were the dumping ground for every socialist and so-called freethinker in Europe?’
Walsh did not respond.
‘What would you do then, eh, English? Tell me that.’
Still no reply. Combret waited a moment for he did not want to be hit again. He kept his hands and feet where they were but slowly, cautiously, turned his head, only to find he had been addressing an empty room, for the Englishman was gone.
34
‘A man who has been in danger, when he comes out of it forgets his fears, and sometimes he forgets his promises.’
Euripides
‘Where is the girl now?’ Combret was grim-faced and serious. There was something else there – anger? But not directed at his right-hand man. Whatever had transpired between Combret and the mysterious Englishman it had left his leader eager for blood and he had gone straight to the Milice HQ, a building which they had taken over almost gleefully since it had once been the headquarters of the local communist party.
‘Locked in the cellar,’ answered Bruno.
‘Good,’ Combret had learned to keep prisoners from the Gestapo until he was ready to hand them over. It made matters less complicated if he decided it was better for someone to simply disappear. Only Bruno and Combret had taken Emma from the hotel, which simplified matters. This girl was a precious commodity and now he would make the most of her.
Bruno Genoud had not been given all of the details, nor did he need them. Bruno was not a thinker but he had enough faith in Combret to comply with his wishes. It had always been this way, ever since Combret first took the illiterate, heavy-set country boy under his wing. Bruno was a peasant, with an agrarian view of the world, which made him instinctively agree with Combret’s right-wing politics. Who were the communists but land grabbers and murderers? Who were the Jews but communists by another name? Bruno wasn’t particularly fond of the Germans but they were here now. It was an unavoidable fact. There was no disputing their control over France. Better to work with them then and stop the communist hordes swarming in from the east. Besides, under what other regime would there be an elevated position for such a simple man as Bruno. Combret made use of his muscle, his loyalty and simple view of the world to good effect. Bruno repaid him by hurting the people he was instructed to hurt; nearly all of them Jews or communists, or sympathisers of Jews and communists, which amounted to the same thing, and by not asking too many questions. Not asking any questions at all in point of fact.
‘Bring your rifle,’ ordered Combret and he explained what he had in mind, before adding, ‘normally I’d ask the Germans to send their soldiers but the Englishman would see them coming. He won’t see you though, Bruno, you’re too good for that. Be invisible,’ he urged the younger man, ‘just make sure you don’t miss, that’s all.’
Bruno was deeply offended by the notion. He was a hunter, always had been, ever since his father had first taken him into the woods as a little boy and taught him how to aim a rifle. If the target was in range Bruno could not miss.
‘And where will you be?’ Bruno asked Combret.
‘Baiting the trap.’
Emma was blind and scared, her remaining senses heightened by the loss of her sight. Muted sounds took on a far greater significance as she strained to make sense of them. The blindfold caused her to blunder into objects her captors did not bother to warn her about as they dragged her along. Where were they taking her?
They had removed Emma from the locked cellar, binding her hands tightly out in front of her before applying the blindfold. Now they rested meekly on her lap as the car sped along. The blindfold was too tight and the rope chafed at her wrists but she was otherwise unharmed, though she felt sure this condition was unlikely to last. As soon as the car began to move she was gripped by a terrible fear this would be the final day of her short life, for she could see no other reason for their journey.
Emma had been readying herself for an appointment with the Gestapo that had been promised for the following morning. At least there might be a slim chance she could talk her way out of trouble. Emma had gone through her cover story over and over in her head. She would use the aggressive tone of the wronged innocent. They had made a ridiculous mistake and must release her immediately. This had given Emma a grain of hope. But the Milice had changed their mind about handing her over and she knew they had a reputation for making people simply disappear. Emma was beginning to reach a tearful despair. She was almost glad of the blindfold so they could not witness her distress.
She knew she was heading out of town from the upward tilt of the vehicle, which set her back more firmly into the rear seat. She was now more sure than ever that she would be killed and her body buried in the woods where it would never be found. Emma had tried not to think about death but the stark reality of it was staring her in the face. The Milice had done this kind of thing before to their own countrymen so why not her? One young girl, who cannot easily be proven to be a spy or a saboteur, might become an inconvenience. How undeniably expedient for the Milice to simply rid themselves of this nuisance with a bullet in the back of the head?
It occurred to Emma to tell them everything then; who she was, how she had been sent by London to assist the maquisards, their names, descriptions and location. Anything to avoid this lonely, pitiful fate hundreds of miles from her home and family, with no one ever knowing what became of her. Emma forced herself to fight the increasing sense of hopelessness and despair. She told herself she was not dead yet, that she owed it to the others, including Harry, especially Harry, to stay silent for as long as possible, right to the end if
need be. She forced herself to stay alert, concentrate on the journey and take her chance if it came.
Both men were in the car with her. She knew that for she could smell the man next to her. It was the same stale, unwashed and sweaty odour she had come to associate with Bruno, her chief tormentor who possessed a bulk large enough to make the seat they shared sag slightly, as its springs buckled underneath him. Bruno it was who underlined Combret’s threats of violence by his muscular presence, his idea of amusement to make repeated mention of Emma’s handover to the Gestapo then draw his chubby finger slowly across his throat, while making a clicking sound to indicate her doom. Emma guessed Combret was driving and that it would be Bruno who would do the dirty work when it came to it.
The car was climbing again, the road steeper now. She could feel her head being forced gently backwards as it began a long ascent and there were tight bends. Then finally the car began to slow. The driver was trying to ease the brakes as gently as possible until it came to a total halt. The rear passenger door was opened and closed and Emma felt the chill of the night air and this, coupled with a gradual easing on the rear seat springs, meant Bruno must have left the vehicle. The car idled for a while, its engine ticking over but Emma could tell it wasn’t moving. What was Combret waiting for? Minutes passed though Emma could not be sure how many, until the car finally moved away then continued its slow and steady journey up the hill. What in hell was going on?
Walsh was waiting for Combret as the Milice man drove into the disused quarry. He kept out of sight to begin with but left a lantern burning in the centre of the clearing and Combret moved towards it, halted the car, got out and went to the rear of the vehicle. Wasting no time, he dragged Emma roughly from the car, ensuring he was behind and to one side of her. He pressed a revolver into her torso as his eyes darted from left to right.
‘Where are you, English?’ he called into the darkness, the strain showing in his voice. ‘Show yourself.’
For a moment Walsh made no move. Instead he took his time, taking in the scene. Emma was standing so stiffly she could have been posing for the school photograph at Roedean. She seemed unharmed, though of course he couldn’t tell what she had been through just by looking at her. Walsh told himself he would kill Combret if he’d touched her, regardless of the deal they had struck.
Ungentlemanly Warfare Page 21
