Most of the prisoners had been billeted through the town and in the castle itself, disarmed and in small groups with each house guarded by Maquisards that Nancy trusted not to get drunk and take a bloody revenge before the Allies arrived. Still nothing on any Gestapo men, though perhaps they were hiding among the ordinary soldiers. She would find out soon. She would look every one of them in the eye before the Americans arrived. First she had to make sure that peace held, that the day of victory did not slide into slaughter at darkness.
Nancy and Fournier went back to the Great Hall of the chateau and, with a bottle of brandy on the table in front of them, worked through the arrangements for the next weeks. They had already had deputations from some of the towns and villages in the area asking representatives of their group to take part in ceremonies of thanksgiving for their liberation. Denden was in some far-off corner of the tower, sending and receiving messages and updates in a frenzy of Morse.
“We go to the villages that were victims of reprisals first,” Nancy said. “Then the home towns of the men who died.”
She pulled a notebook from her tunic pocket.
“What is that?” Fournier asked. “I thought you gave your notes to Captain Rake.”
“My book of the dead,” Nancy replied, handing it to him and then refilling her glass. “Names, addresses. That I kept with me.”
Fournier took it like a holy object and put it in his own pocket, then finished his own glass. “I’ll make a tour in town. Check everything is in order. Good night, Field Marshal.”
“Good night.”
But Nancy didn’t go to bed. She had to work out a plan to gather up all the weapons and explosives she could, empty the remaining caches of arms before some kid found them and come up with some system to distribute the remaining cash she had from London to the men and the families of those who had not survived. Then she would make her search.
An urgent step in the corridor made her lift her head. Jules.
“Madame Nancy, we have picked up the colonel who commanded the column. Tardivat has him locked up in the pantry.”
“That’s fine, Jules. What else?”
“The colonel had a Gestapo man with him. Denis told me… if I heard of any Gestapo I should tell you, only you. But I think some of the men have found out. He’s in the stables.”
She shot to her feet and was out of the room before he had even finished speaking, hand on her side arm.
Half a dozen Maquisards were there, arguing with the two guards, who stood aside as she approached.
“Lads,” she said lightly, “go get some sleep. And check yourself for wounds. Keep them clean. Be a bit fucking tragic if you died of blood poisoning now, wouldn’t it? Leave this one to me.”
It worked. The little crowd melted away and the guards shot her grateful looks. She lit a lantern from the one hanging in the courtyard. Would this man know what had happened to Henri? She was afraid she’d answer a blank look with a bullet. Could any of them remember how many people they’d killed? She opened the door, shutting it behind her before lifting the lamp. The stables smelled of fresh hay and leather. The Gestapo man was propped up against the door of one of the stalls, his ankles and wrists bound and a feed sack over his head. Nancy remembered how that felt. She hung the lantern on a hook to her side.
The shock, when she pulled the sack off his head and saw Böhm blinking up at her, was brutal. Another of God’s little bombshells. He knew. She was going to get her answer and suddenly she was afraid, afraid for the first time in her life. It was as if the floor had disappeared underneath her and it took all her strength to stay standing.
She had taken out her side arm and pressed the barrel to the side of his head before her conscious mind even recognized him.
“Is Henri alive?” she said. She imagined the bullet in slow motion spinning in the barrel then shattering his skull, plowing through the soft matter of his brain, the long spurt of blood and bone that would fly across the straw beside him.
He watched her. Then, seeing she would wait for an answer, he reached with his bound wrists into the side pocket of his tunic.
“I will tell you. But do this one thing for me.” His fingers caught the edge of a letter and plucked it free. “Get this to my daughter. Give me your word.”
“Fine.”
He lifted his bound hands and she took the envelope, shoved it into the pocket of her slacks, still holding the revolver to his head.
“Now tell me. Is Henri alive?”
“The answer is in your pocket. That’s a farewell letter to my child. Because I know that you’re going to execute me, just as I did your husband many weeks ago. He was killed, shortly after a visit from his father and sister. Life has a cruel symmetry.”
The image of Böhm’s brains splattering all over the straw was so clear she was surprised to discover that she had not already pulled the trigger.
Böhm was staring up at her, and for the first time since she had met him, he looked… confused.
“Do it, Madame Fiocca. I murdered your husband. I ordered his torture. I tormented him for weeks. He suffered terribly, you know. Then I tortured you, with a chance to save him. I know what that did to you, Madame Fiocca. I saw it. You have already tried to kill me once; why are you hesitating now?”
She heard the desperation in his voice. She uncocked her revolver and returned it to the holster on her hip.
“No, Böhm. You will stand trial. I’d like very much to kill you, but that would be selfish of me, don’t you think? There are plenty of other widows, mothers, fathers and husbands who need answers from you. I’m going to hand you over to the Americans.”
He knitted his fingers together, but Nancy could see they were trembling. She picked up the lantern and left him alone in the dark.