She pulled back with a shake of her head. “There is no fire, Ryan, it’s a diversion, Florian following orders, a sham to slow them down. The girls know—we’ve practiced for such a possibility.”
Ryan slowly released his breath. “Good move, but what’s the rest of the escape plan? Unless the cops buy the fire ruse they’ll come knocking any minute.”
“There’s a hidden emergency exit from the balcony. A wall passage connects backstage but tonight’s crowd’s too big, we’d never get through to reach it and others would follow us down.”
“If we go now we can fight our way through and at least attempt it!”
“Look, Ryan, I have connections within the Occupation, powerful connections,” she grabbed a woolen overcoat from the rack, “but you just complicate matters. The Gestapo may have no interest in you now, but caught with me you’re automatically a target. And for all we know, you may have also been compromised.”
His eyes quickly swept the long, narrow room—two small shuttered windows out to the club, a closet in the corner, no escape hatch in the water-stained ceiling. He might be able to drop from one of the projection windows to the balcony, but could she make it in dress and heels? The screeching fire alarms made thinking difficult, and now the distant siren of an arriving fire crew added to the mayhem. “We’ll have to chance the stairs, then.”
Marita pointed to the closet door. “Get in there, now!”
“But there’s no room.”
“Inside and to your left, now! The shelving’s been altered to make room for a watcher.”
“Argent?”
“Yes, Argent. Because of Serge. But it wasn’t needed—we found a better way. Now get in there,” she handed him his coat and hat, “and keep your mouth shut, no matter what happens.”
“They’ll look inside.” Ryan eyed the tight space warily. No claustrophobia, but he preferred any escape option, especially with Gestapo crowding the room.
“Just force your back to the wall—go on now, get in there! Huddle down and you’ll be nearly hidden.”
“Nearly?”
“No arguments, just hurry!” Alarms continued to rattle the building, but the shouting downstairs had eased. She gave his cheek a quick caress, then handed him the pistol and kissed him forcefully on the lips. “Now hide! I can talk myself out of anything, so don’t feel you must be brave, and whatever happens, stay the hell out of it!” She shut the closet door with a final comment: “You’re no good to me in a Gestapo cell.” Ryan thought of Tours and followed orders. A shaft of light from the office caught his eye and he bent to the tiny spyhole.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Marita grabbed her business ledger and cinched closed her coat, feigning an escape from the fire. The door surrendered with a resounding crash and two men barreled in, sending her sprawling and exposing her long legs. One held a Walther, the other a Browning and a small suitcase. She attempted to pull down the hem of the dress now gathered at her hips. “Ah, the lady welcomes us with parted thighs—your typical French Jew-whore.” The man with the suitcase laughed as the other agent dragged her to the couch. Marita cursed and growled, a cornered cat scratching for his face. The policeman backhanded her sharply and her hair fell loose from its ribbon tie.
“Get the hell out of my office, you filthy animals!” Her face flamed in anger. “You’ve no business here and my powerful German friends will make your lives a living hell if you don’t get out of here right this minute!”
“And just who raised that fire alarm, Mademoiselle Chatte bottée?” The hatchet-faced agent sat on the coffee table facing her and placed one hand on her thigh, tightening his grip. “Perhaps you’re unaware that a false alarm in a crowded building is a criminal act? Or perhaps some misguided attempt to keep us from our duty?” He grinned to his partner, who nodded eagerly. “First things first, you must learn to collaborate with your German masters.” The agent shoved his hand between her thighs. Marita gasped and slid back on the couch.
Ryan had seen enough, he’d had enough. He tightened the pistol in his grip, calculating how best to take out both agents without risking her safety. Her eyes appeared fixed on her immediate assailant, but when Ryan lowered the handle of the closet door she shook her head and Ryan knew it was a warning not to interfere.
“Just what do you want, cochons?” Her voice was low and brittle.
“Well, ma petite mademoiselle,” his French as harsh and brutal as his hand, “That should be obvious—we’ve come looking for you.” He released his grip, sniffed crudely at his fingers, and sat back. “We have on good authority that you spy for enemies of the Reich and hide a wireless transmitter here in this office.” He nodded toward the small suitcase at his partner’s feet.
“That’s absurd.” She rose abruptly from his grasp, covering her thighs. The agent made no attempt to stop her. “I run a reputable club for the entertainment of your Wehrmacht officers and nothing else.” Ryan could see her hands tremble. “Planting ‘evidence’ in my office will get you nowhere.”
The Gestapo officer addressed his partner who now stood beside Ryan’s closet. “Well, now that all those Wehrmacht friends have run from your fire, let’s delve more deeply into your business. Perhaps a more thorough search is in order?” His attentive partner picked up the bag and reached for the handle on the closet door.
“I’ve nothing to hide, messieurs.” She strode toward the exposed stairwell but never made it to the smashed door.
The sharp-faced agent shoved the Walther in his belt and dragged her back by the arms. “Let us be the judge of that, Mademoiselle Lesney. Right now it’s time for a more intimate search, don’t you think.” He stripped off her overcoat and tossed it aside. With one hand at her throat, he traced the line from her neck to the small of her back before lowering her dress. The narrow straps gave way to expose a lace-trimmed brassiere as the red silk pooled at her feet. He ordered her to remove her underwear. She complied.
His partner abandoned the suitcase to get a better view. Marita shuddered but said nothing as the two men traded crude comments about how they would use her body were she worthy of an Aryan cock. The agents’ aroused state was clearly visible with all their attention focused on the naked woman.
Ryan checked the safety, then clenched the pistol forcefully, determined to first put a hole in the man whose hand again slid between her thighs. With luck he could drop the voyeur partner before the first lecherous asshole hit the floor. Slowly lowering the closet handle, Ryan hoped against hope that the hinges wouldn’t creak.
Sudden gunshots rattled the stairwell below and two agents barged into the room. Ryan’s odds had changed for the worse. A heavy-set man, panting from the climb, lumbered over to Marita, who held her head up despite her vulnerable position. The newcomer smiled broadly. “Ah, we arrive just in time, I see. My turn yet?” He tweaked one nipple with his pudgy fingers. “Ah, a gumdrop, just the way I like them.”
“What’s with the gunfire?” Hatchet-face dropped his hands to his side and attempted to cover his groin by shifting his raincoat.
The sweating bruiser wrapped a meaty fist around Marita’s breast and pretended to bite off her nipple. “We had to take out the bouncer. Big guy with plenty of guts, but wouldn’t cooperate, so we popped him good.”
The fourth agent, standing immobile at the ruined doorway, stared for a brief moment at Marita’s nakedness before taking charge. “The bruiser put up a decent fight but couldn’t say no to this.” He held up his pistol. “Now wrap up the bitch and get her down to headquarters. Orders on this one come from the top, so it’s the big boys who’ll get the real entertainment out of this lovely thing.”
The disappointment of the other agents was obvious, but they followed orders. The leader gestured toward the suitcase, still on the floor near Ryan’s closet. “And don’t forget that transmitter. Important evidence of espionage, nicht wahr?”
Once the agents had taken Marita away, Ryan finally relaxed his grip on the pistol and stuck it in his b
elt, then massaged his cramping fingers. He felt physically drained and his red-hot rage blocked rational thought. In the confines of the dark closet the shaft of light still penetrated the spyhole, a caustic reminder of all he had just witnessed—a woman dear to him, manhandled and misused, exposed to vicious depredation. He waited a few minutes, his teeth still on edge. They would surely have hustled her downstairs to a waiting sedan, carting her off to even worse humiliation. And likely torture. He knew first-hand the Gestapo’s methods, and speed was paramount if he was to find a way to help her.
He cracked the closet door to scan the office, then moved cautiously to the edge of the ruined doorway and peered down the stairwell. Florian’s body slumped against the wall at the bottom steps. The mezzanine beyond was silent and empty. A click of the light switch erased his silhouette from the door frame. Pistol ready, he slipped down the steps to examine the bodyguard. His fingers found a feeble pulse. Even unconscious, Florian was a bear. One bullet had found his arm, the suit jacket blackened by the spreading stain around the entry hole. He removed his necktie and wrapped the arm, cinching the fabric tight. Parting the coat, Ryan found the other wound, a clean shot piercing the bodyguard’s barrel chest. He tore open the shirt and rolled up the undershirt, pressing the material against the wound to encourage clotting. Help was needed fast if Florian was to survive.
The cold barrel of an automatic pressed to Ryan’s ear and froze all movement. Intent on helping the wounded man, he had missed the new arrival.
“Votre nom,” the voice low and menacing.
“Lemmon. Ryan Lemmon. Je suis Américain!”
“Vos papiers, monsieur Lemmon.” The barrel eased off. “And quickly!” Ryan lowered his right hand toward his pants pocket, edging closer to the pistol he’d placed on the step.
“Non, monsieur. Left hand only. Jacket pocket first.”
Ryan withdrew his hand and followed orders, fishing out the American passport Ed had given him just hours earlier. He handed it over his shoulder and began to turn around, but pressure from the pistol dissuaded him. The man ordered him to remain seated facing the wounded bodyguard, then stepped back to read under the dull light of the wall sconce. The pistol remained trained on Ryan’s head. He managed to glimpse a Wehrmacht uniform.
When the man spoke again, the voice remained uneasy but all menace was gone. “Enchanté, Monsieur Lemmon. Or should I say ‘Erfreut, Sie kennenzulernen?’ As the old American friend of Mademoiselle Lesney, you may call me ‘Argent.’ Now, shall we save poor Florian before it’s too late?”
“Marita! She’s—”
“I’ve already placed a call for help. There’s nothing more to do until we learn who’s responsible for this outrage. I put my driver on their tail so at least we’ll know where they’ve taken her.”
Ryan heard the anxiety in Argent’s voice and felt immediate kinship with the young officer. At least for now he had a partner in rescuing Marita.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nantes and Bayonne, Occupied France
28 August 1941
“Please tell me this is some sort of joke, René!” Her anger rising, Erika slammed down the platter of roasted potatoes. Chunks skittered across the table in a smear of oil and parsley and one dropped into Leo’s lap. He gingerly bit off a corner, grinning as he caught René’s attention. Erika shook her head in further frustration. “Leo’s finally back with us. There’s no way we’re splitting up now!”
With a flick of a thumb trained by shooting marbles, Leo sent the potato wedge racing across the table into René’s waiting hands. He gave the boy a wink and popped it into his mouth. “There’s simply too much at stake and too little time.” His words were muddled by chewing and he took a sip of wine. “The group’s relying on me, the partisans in Saint-Nazaire are primed and ready to act, and you three will only be gone a few days anyway.”
Erika glared at them both. “Leo, go see if Madame Nicole is ready for dinner?” She handed René a napkin and pointed to a fleck of food stuck in his beard.
“But Maman—”
“Now, Leo.”
“Yes, Maman.” Leo shot René another quick grin. Despite her anger, René knew Erika was pleased to see how close her “two men” had grown in recent days, and he was delighted with the new role of father bestowed by Ryan.
Erika picked up the remaining spilled potatoes and rinsed them in the sink. Food was hard enough to come by to waste any. “I just can’t do this right now, René. This last encounter with Horst drained me. I need a rest, not new worries, and that means you help us get Sophie back for Nicole. Once the children are out of that cursed hostage house in Bayonne, we can all spend a few weeks recovering on the Morlanne farm. Together.”
“It’s not that easy.” René rose cautiously from the wicker chair and joined her at the sink. She knew he was still in pain. Sitting was uncomfortable from the bullet wound just three days old, his limp worse after the fierce struggle, and his ribs and shoulder ached from the sadist’s beating. Despite all that, he wrapped his arms around her. “Saint-Nazaire can’t wait, you know. If we’re to be effective there, we can’t waste time—”
She turned in his arms and laid her head against his chest. “A couple of days won’t end this damned war any sooner. Others can carry the load for a few weeks—I can’t risk losing you, not now. Not ever!”
“I don’t know whether this helps or hurts my case,” René lifted her chin, “but we made a huge mistake in those last minutes as you and Ryan finished off Horst.”
Her brow furrowed as she gingerly touched the lump on his head. It seemed to be healing nicely. “What mistake? We killed the bastard, crated the bodies, took the weapons and identity papers…oh my God!” She took a step back. “It’s those damned plans for the U-boat pens! That’s it, isn’t it? We left the diagrams!”
René nodded. “Whoever cleaned up the mess will have handed them over to the Boches, and that means they already know we’re planning something big. Not specifics, but they’ll be more vigilant than ever. If we’re to act, it has to be now, not weeks from now.” Erika leaned into him again and he caressed her hair. “You know I’m right. You’ve no choice but to head to Bayonne tomorrow without me—poor Nicole won’t wait any longer to find her daughter, and who can blame her?”
“I’m surprised she’s held out this long. Sophie’s the last family she has, thanks to that bastard, may he rot in hell.”
“Doctor Ballineux says she can travel now. She walks without much flinching, but there’s some infection so he says to keep an eye on her wound and he’ll make up a little medical kit. Yves dropped off the forged travel documents a few minutes ago, and you certainly won’t need my help getting to Morlanne. But I must enter those Saint-Nazaire pens before they button them up so tight no one sneaks in.”
Erika pushed him away gently. “Of course, you’re right. I’m being selfish. I’d imagined our having a few days for each other, and for Leo, a moment of rest before losing ourselves again in this saboteur business.” She retrieved the platter from the table and scraped the rinsed potatoes back into the roasting pan. “I’ll just warm these up a bit.” Once the oven door was shut, she dropped to a chair and wiped at her eyes. René placed a hand on her shoulder.
Leo came in with Nicole. “What’s wrong, Maman?” He ran over and put his arms around her neck. “What’s wrong now?”
Erika stroked his cheek. “Nothing, nothing at all.” She moved a lock of his hair aside. “Just disappointed that Uncle René can’t go down to Bayonne with us.”
“Why not, Uncle? It’ll be fun and you’ll meet Sophie.”
“Business, Leo—important business. But you can be the man of the group, right? You take your mother and Madame Nicole to rescue the kids, then introduce them to your animals at the farm. I’ll come join you in a few weeks.”
The Morlanne neighbor had been most understanding. Monsieur LeBlanc had immediately agreed to arrange a proper burial in the village cemetery for Jeanne. He also gave assurances he w
ould look after the farmhouse for them. Erika knew René’s grief would remain a deep and constant ache in his heart, but as usual he would suppress any emotional pain to stay focused on the greater battle. Jeanne had made a lifelong commitment to fighting injustice, so would be proud that she had raised their son to be selfless in the battle against social and racial intolerance.
“Will you be safe without us?” Leo gave his uncle a worried look.
“Always, Leo. But just in case I run into trouble, I’ll remember that little trick of yours when you bit the policeman’s hand. You saved us all with that one, you know.” He ruffled Leo’s blond hair. “Mighty clever thinking, young man.”
Nicole had removed the potatoes from the oven and was slicing up the small chunk of roast pork, a welcome gift from one of the doctor’s patients. She’d been so silent the last days that Erika was startled to hear her speak. “Yes, Leo, we’re all extremely grateful for your help in ridding us of that monster. And for leading me to my little girl tomorrow.” She bent to hug him, but instead flinched and pressed a hand to her bandaged side.
Erika was concerned. “Come, Nicole, you’ve done enough. Save your strength for tomorrow’s trip and before you know you’ll have Sophie back in your arms.” She topped off the wine in the adults’ glasses, diluting Leo’s with an equal amount of water. “Quick, Leo, tell Doctor Ballineux that we’re about to eat. He should still be in his office.”
“Yes, looking into his microscope again. This afternoon he let me help. You want to know what’s swimming around in the drinking water?” Before anyone could respond, Leo left the room with a smug grin.
Fulcrum of Malice Page 4
