Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Kohl opened the door and signaled to the waiting soldier. “See this gentleman to the lobby.” The soldier clicked his heels together.

  Ed’s mind was numb with the tragic news. Erika and Leo both dead? What physical evidence could there be after cremation? What can ashes prove? And why warn Ryan he was under Gestapo watch when you’ve just been trying to kill him? Too many questions. Too much manipulation and deception.

  He looked out across the Place de la Concorde. The vast surface glared under a blazing sun and across the Seine the Dôme Church glistened like a beacon. Traffic was mostly bicycles and a few German staff cars. An occasional taxi or troop transport rumbled by.

  Waiting for the cop in the center of the square to wave the pedestrians on, Ed saw a man in herringbone jacket leave the shadow of the Crillon to join Ed curbside. He nodded politely, then began perusing a folded newspaper. Once they reached the Tuileries gardens the two men walked nearly side-by-side until the stranger peeled off toward the Pont du Carousel.

  Ed moved on mechanically, his thoughts now centered solely on how to break the news to Ryan.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Demarcation Line to Saint-Nazaire, Occupied France

  2 - 4 September 1941

  Reaching Nantes proved far easier than the previous day’s journey to Morlanne. The taxi driver made a few inquiries in a border village and Erika greased a few palms with sizeable banknotes before finding the home of a sprightly grandmother. The widow was making ends meet in difficult economic times by helping both the desperate and the smuggler cross in and out of Occupied France. After a restless night in a cheap auberge, Erika and the children climbed into the back of a horse-drawn wagon, the old women took up the reins, and the cart creaked up a dirt road under a canopy of ancient pines.

  The border passage brought only one encounter with authorities. A graying customs official at a dilapidated shed greeted the grand-mère with a kiss to both cheeks, accepted a gratuity from Erika’s handbag for his part in the illegal crossing, and directed them onto a side path ignored by the German guards stationed over the hill. Within minutes their wagon emerged from the deep woods into an overgrown field in the Occupied Zone. A slate-roofed village with a rail line lay in the hazy distance and a northbound train was scheduled to arrive within the hour. The widow wished them well and Erika offered a further gratuity, at first refused. Only when Erika insisted it was “to feed the mare” did the woman accept. The sorry horse had obviously suffered during the hour-long journey and Leo drew attention to her prominent ribs and swayback.

  The one disturbance in an otherwise smooth train passage stemmed from the woes of a fellow passenger on the train to Nantes. When police inspectors boarded, the nervous young man seated across from Leo began to sweat profusely. He repeatedly ran a finger beneath his collar as if it were about to choke him. The man’s eyes darted about the compartment and the boy finally took pity. “Do you need to pee, monsieur? There’s a toilette at the back.”

  The young man smiled nervously. “No, but thanks, kid.” He took a deep breath. “It’s just so infernally hot in this car.” Again he stretched his collar and finally loosened the necktie a fraction.

  Leo gave the man a sly grin. Erika held her breath, terrified he would draw attention with some unexpected move. The inspectors were already approaching their seats. She took charge, abruptly lifting Sophie onto the nervous man’s lap. The girl burst into tears, her wail of protest affecting all within range.

  Throwing Erika a grateful smile, the young man attempted to comfort the child by hugging her closely and kissing the top of her head. Sophie reacted by pushing away and protesting even more loudly. With a baleful look at Leo, Erika joined in the charade, assuring Sophie she should quiet down on “Papa’s” lap. She then began to chastise her “husband” for his poor parenting skills when comforting a tired and obviously distressed daughter.

  Taken aback by a howling child desperately seeking to escape her father’s embrace, the inspectors took pity on the long-suffering parents. One took a brief look at Erika’s papers, exchanged a sour smile with his comrade, and both moved on to escape the chaos. When the officials stepped out into the vestibule, the stranger handed Sophie back to Erika and offered a simple “thank you.”

  “We know how to handle inspectors,” Leo replied.

  In Nantes they were able to find a taxi willing to drive them out along the Loire. At the doctor’s house overlooking the river Erika asked the driver to wait. She led the children to the door and immediately spotted yellow police tape barring the entrance “under order of the civil authorities.” Now she understood the unanswered calls. Given the circumstances it was just as well, since the phone line to the house had likely been tapped by the Gestapo. She looked quickly in all directions. The surroundings appeared quiet and deserted, and the doctor’s dust-covered Peugeot still sat beneath its shelter. Someone had finally denounced the compassionate old widower.

  A quick search of the portico area yielded nothing, so they followed the flagstone path around to the rear garden fronting the Loire. While Leo showed Sophie the flower garden, Erika carefully searched the rear of the house. Above the back door she spotted something protruding from the wooden trim. To the casual eye it appeared to be nothing but a shard of flaking paint, but Erika and René had long ago planned for unexpected separation. With a sliver of wood she carefully coaxed out the cardstock and exhaled in relief. René had found the time to prepare for his departure so was likely still free.

  The message made her heart leap: Héloise should seek refuge where silver fish gather at the sea. Héloise, her current code-name. “Silver fish” surely the targeted U-boats at Saint-Nazaire. She would search out a place with a name implying refuge, likely close to the submarine bunkers. There she would find her husband and never let him go it alone again.

  Le Dernier Refuge was an ancient tavern tucked beneath a narrow, five-story building barely a room and a staircase wide. The inn was shoehorned between similar buildings near the Avant-Port in Saint-Nazaire. The Old Town bar itself was clearly a sailors’ dive, its walls adorned with roping and nets and old lithographs of fishing smacks and tall-masters. A rusty anchor hung from a rough-hewn rafter above the zinc bar. With the fishing fleet still out to sea and the stevedores not yet off the afternoon shift, the place was nearly empty. Two grizzled mariners with tattooed skin like worn leather smoked in a corner. A checkered board sat between them, the white chessmen so smudged by time they differed little from the black pieces.

  The men looked up from their game as Erika entered with the children in tow. Before they could greet her, a middle-aged woman rushed forward from behind the bar, dishtowel still in her hand. “Ah, my dear, we’ve been expecting you!” She dried her hands on her apron, shook Erika’s, then looked to the door in surprise. “Isn’t there another woman, as well?”

  Erika breathed a sigh of relief, sensing a friend at last and knowing she’d found René. “I regret she couldn’t make it, madame.” The mention of Nicole brought a fresh wave of sorrow. “But we are most grateful to find you.”

  The friendly demeanor was in sharp contrast to the woman’s downturned mouth and harsh creases lining her face, evidence of a demanding life. “But of course, my dear. The children must be exhausted after your journey, and you might appreciate some time to rest and freshen up. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Erika reluctantly surrendered the valise. The hostess entered a doorway half-hidden behind the bar. The checked curtain parted to reveal a narrow staircase rising steeply to the next floor. Erika took a last look at the old men, who seemed to have lost all interest in the new arrivals. One tapped an angry finger on the newspaper now lying between them, the chess board shoved aside. Erika put Sophie on her hip. With Leo on the woman’s heels, they ascended the stairs.

  Off the third landing their hostess opened the door to a small room. A double bed hugged the wall and an alcove held a daybed. In the corner, an electric hotplate and tiny sink. Mullioned win
dows bearing multiple layers of chipped paint looked to the basin beyond. In the distance spread the vast Loire estuary flecked with military and civilian vessels.

  Only after the door closed firmly behind them did the woman speak again: “Your husband described you well and said you could show up at any time. He and my man are working side-by-side on a business matter of value to France, so you’re to be our guests for as long as you wish.”

  “You can’t imagine how grateful we are, madame.” Erika recognized René’s pipe sitting in an ashtray on the dresser. How lightly we travel these days, she thought. The woman handed back the heavy suitcase and Erika set it on the quilted bed, eliciting a creak of protest from the ancient springs. “Allow me to pay rent for the next week.” She opened her handbag.

  “Oh no, my dear. Put that away, please! We all fight for the same cause so there will be no talk of money. Just make yourselves at home and I’ll send a message to your man.”

  “How rude of me—” Erika reached out to shake the woman’s hand again. “My name is Héloise.”

  “Not rude at all, Héloise. So much on our minds these days, n´est-ce pas? Please call me Geneviève, and a pleasure to meet you.” Her grip was firm, a working woman’s hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my guests down below before they kill each other. Those two always argue politics the minute my back is turned. They know I forbid it.” She smiled at the children, who already stood at the window, Leo pointing out the swooping seagulls to Sophie. “It’s been a long while since I had little ones here. You’re very lucky, Héloise. Lucky indeed.”

  Erika saw loss in the woman’s eyes but didn’t feel the time was right to inquire. Instead she silently acknowledged her own good fortune and again shook the woman’s calloused hand. “Thank you so much for your gracious hospitality, Geneviève.”

  The innkeeper disappeared down the staircase and returned moments later. She carried a tray of fatty sausages, some butter and cheese, a half-empty bottle of red wine and a chunk of dark bread. A pitcher of milk for the children completed the unexpected and welcome meal. Setting the tray on the dresser beside René’s pipe, she smiled at last and left as quickly as she had come.

  Now came the anxious waiting. While the children devoured bits of sausage wrapped in butter-smeared bread, Erika sipped at the wine. Her stomach had troubled her since Bayonne and nothing seemed to sit well. Concerns about her husband had been her first thought, and Ryan out there somewhere with Horst still on his tail.

  From the window she watched the activity on the streets and docks and waited for René to make his way home. A certainty was growing within and forcing her to rethink their life ahead. She’d hoped to seek confirmation from Doctor Ballineux but it wasn’t needed after all. A second missed menstrual period now, and they’d always come like clockwork. Except that one time, of course, with Ryan back in America and Leo growing inside her. Nevertheless, she’d wait a few days before telling René, just in case. He would have enough on his mind. The raid must be getting close.

  “Uncle René!” Leo hopped down and flew into René’s open arms.

  He gave the boy a big kiss on the top of his head. “And this little beauty must be Sophie.” He swung her around the room, much to the delight of both children. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his shoulder, “need to take it easy a bit longer.” He smiled again. “But where’s Nicole? Has she gone out?”

  Erika embraced her husband. She kissed him and rested her head against his chest. “Little Sophie’s ours now.” Her voice was barely audible. “But more about that later, d’accord?”

  René’s face clouded, his grin gone. “Are you all well, my love?” She nodded, and he bent down to put an arm around Leo. “And have you looked after your mother, my little man?”

  “We’ve been really busy, with nice ladies we first thought were mean, and soldiers who were brothers and saved us from the Nazis, and Monsieur LeBlanc, who really is mean, but I put stuff in his gas tanks and let air from his tires and we rode with some old lady on a horse-cart, and then I fooled the German inspector with Sophie’s help—” he paused for a breath, “—and then…” his steam running low, “and then…oh yes, Musette’s finding lots to eat in the barn so she’s getting along without us.”

  “Quite a story, Leo, but for now do you suppose you might look after Sophie? Your mother and I have grown-up things to discuss down in the tavern.”

  Sophie stood beside Erika, grasping her skirt. “Yes. Sophie and I will read some more.” Leo helped her up onto the mattress. “But don’t let Maman tell you all the story or I won’t have anything more for later.” Erika was pleased he hadn’t mentioned the death of Nicole in front of the girl. Such a thoughtful boy!

  They found the bar filling with customers and claimed a small table in the farthest corner. Erika told of Horst’s inexplicable survival and the tragic suicide of Nicole. “So the girl is our responsibility now, my love,” she said at last.

  René smiled wanly. “But my God, Erika, I thought Ryan forced cyanide down his throat!”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought, but we’ll never know how it happened. The poison supposedly came from a British agent. That might have been another of Horst’s deceptions. Maybe it wasn’t a kill pill at all. Horst might have planted both the dying spy and the fake poison.” She took his hand in hers. “Listen, darling, it really doesn’t matter now, does it? What’s important is that the sadist is still very much a danger. He drove Nicole to suicide, and should now believe Leo and I are dead, but he’s sure to come after you and Ryan. Go give his brother a call right away!”

  René reached a receptionist at the consular number given him by Ryan. He crafted a simple message: Extreme urgency. Tell RL Le Masque alive in Berlin. RG. He included the name and number of the inn. Erika waited impatiently for him to finish and return from the phone in the alcove. From time to time she eyed the front door as each new patron arrived. Even if Horst was in Berlin, his agents could be lurking out there somewhere. René returned with two glasses of beer. “It’s done.”

  Almost an hour passed as she detailed Madame de Brassis’ unexpected death, the episode at the border crossing and finally the treachery of LeBlanc.

  “I’m the one who phoned that bastard and told him to expect you,” René confessed. “Then the partisans told me the Gestapo picked up the doctor the day we all left. The bastards must have just missed us. I knew you’d be worried if you tried to reach me through Ballineux and got no answer. There’s no way you’d stay put in Morlanne—I know you too well—so I snuck back and hid the note.” He bent over and kissed her. “When I called LeBlanc again, hoping to let you know what had happened, he said you’d already come and gone. I got suspicious when he insisted on a way to reach me, so I hung up. Then I started worrying, but I knew you wouldn’t rest until we made contact again.”

  While René brought her current on the group’s sabotage plan, her thoughts drifted to Ryan, out in the field and believing himself free of a target on his back. Her stomach again unsettled, she emptied the rest of her beer into René’s glass.

  God, how sick I am of this war!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Saint-Nazaire, Occupied France

  9 September 1941

  René and Malraux entered Old Town just as dawn broke over the hills to the east. Daylight raced across the broad estuary, but barely penetrated the tight labyrinth of stone buildings surrounding the headquarters of the 7th Submarine Flotilla.

  René’s dark beard was gone. Young partisan Raymond, apprenticed to a barber, had created for him a tight military haircut befitting his new look. A black-and-silver Knight’s Cross decorated the blue Kriegsmarine uniform of a Kapitän zur See. Awarded for distinguished valor in battle, the medal justified René’s limp, clearly an old war wound.

  Malraux’s uniform denoted his status as René’s adjutant. The British spy’s first-hand knowledge of the German military had prepared both men for what to expect. The guard at the door accepted the high-ranking
officer at face value. He saluted and all but ignored the forged identity papers before announcing the visitors’ arrival to the commandant.

  The office smelled of mold and stale tobacco, and the old stone walls glistened with moisture. Kapitänleutnant Herbert Steiner had just arrived from his main headquarters at l’Hôtel l’Hermitage some thirty minutes up the coast at La Baule. He showed deference to René’s superior rank as the three officers exchanged Hitler salutes.

  Steiner had the bearing of a typical submarine commander—fit of body, sparing of words and accustomed to having his orders obeyed. The man appeared about René’s age, slender and handsome in an unassuming way. He offered his guests tea. René politely declined for both, “determined to keep to a tight inspection schedule.”

  Steiner held out cigarettes in a monogrammed case and his lighter made the rounds. As smoke gathered in the low overhead beams, the commandant scanned René’s letter of introduction. Ostensibly from Navy Group Command West in Paris, it directed Kapitän zur See “Greifinger” to inspect the entire 7th Flotilla naval facility at Saint-Nazaire and evaluate its preparedness. It mentioned potential SOE or partisan sabotage and instructed Steiner to give full access to the visitors.

  René and Malraux owed the authenticity of their paperwork to a libidinous naval courier. The man had fallen for the charms of a particularly attractive prostitute whose sole mission in the cause of freedom was to attract his attention. Once the German was deep in her embrace at one of the town’s notorious maisons tolerées, a partisan within the brothel filched a few official documents from the courier’s bag. Those innocuous items gave the group’s forger enough to replicate documents worthy of very close scrutiny. Whether they were missed was anyone’s guess.

  René checked his watch and again mentioned a schedule too tight for extended pleasantries. He took back the papers and handed them to Malraux for safekeeping. The commandant’s distaste for their intrusion was obvious. “Why Command West’s sudden interest in our security protocols?”