SWEAT WAS POURING down his face, and the blinding pain racked every nerve in his body. After a while a shadow started to creep over his brain, but as he was sucked into the blessed release of oblivion a wall of icy water hit his face. He was too exhausted even to lift his head. A few minutes later he heard a door open and close, muted voices, then footsteps receding into the distance.
His left arm hung lifelessly at his side, the broken bones of his fingers jutting out at right angles where they had been snapped back. His right hand was resting on the table, but as far as he could tell the bones remained intact. His arms, like his back and legs, were covered with burns, but the true extent of his injuries, internal and external, was unclear to him; he was long past the point of being able to distinguish one part of his body from another.
He had no idea where he was, or how long he had been there. All he knew was that he had been in this dazzling pool of light at the centre of this windowless room for so long now, inhaling the stench of his own burning flesh, his own blood, that it could only be a matter of time before he lost all sense of reason, if not his life.
He had believed himself to be alone, but suddenly someone coughed. François carefully raised his eyes until he saw the feet of his companion. He willed himself to try again, and got as far as the man’s waist before his head fell back onto his chest. He had not slept for days. It felt like months.
The door opened again, and as if they were approaching down a long, dark corridor of confused consciousness, the sound of footsteps he both recognized and dreaded came to him. For a moment the tiled floor started to swim, the blood on it – his blood – was rising like waves. He blinked hard, and it was steady again.
Walter Brüning, a member of General von Liebermann’s élite Komitee, glanced at the officer partially hidden in the shadows. Then he pulled a chair up to the table so that he was facing François, and said, ‘So, at last you have admitted to working for the Services de Renseignements.’
‘Yes,’ François answered, with difficulty. ‘But I have sworn allegiance to the Reich. I no longer work for France.’
Brüning rested his arms on the table and eyed the ropes binding François to his chair. They were so tight that the man could barely breathe. ‘I am glad to hear this,’ he said. ‘But if it is true, why will you not tell us from whom you obtained the information you so misguidedly passed to the Führer?’
‘I gave him no information,’ François answered in muted tones, ‘I had none to give.’
Brüning nodded to the man beside him. The man lifted a wafer-thin knife from the table and went to stand beside François.
‘Again, monsieur,’ Brüning said. ‘From whom did you acquire the information?’
François didn’t answer. They had been through this a thousand times, and would probably go through it another thousand before they were done with him, but his answer would remain the same. He had given no information, he had had no information to give.
A gasp burst from his lips as the knife slid smoothly under his thumbnail. His head flew back and his teeth bared in agony. Again Brüning nodded, and the man slowly peeled the nail from the skin. A white-hot blaze of pain shot through François’ arm, and blood started to stream from the wound. He braced himself, waiting for his index finger to suffer the same fate, but nothing happened.
Finally, as the searing pain dulled to an excruciating throb, he lowered his head to look at them.
‘Are you prepared to talk now?’ Brüning enquired.
‘For God’s sake,’ François muttered, ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
A peculiar smile twisted Brüning’s mouth. ‘All right, we shall return later, monsieur,’ he said.
When they had gone, François let his head fall back to his chest and tried to wrench his mind away from the pain, but it was a long time before he was capable of coherent thought.
It was pointless, he knew it and they knew it. He was here because someone had to be blamed for Hitler’s astonishing error back in May, when he had halted his army for those three vital days – days in which the British had managed to mount one of the most extraordinary rescue operations the world had ever seen. As soon as Hitler realized what was happening he had given the order to mobilize again, but by then it was too late. The British were snatching their troops from under the Germans’ noses, and despite the fierce battle that raged in the sky, on the sea and on land, they had managed to rescue over three hundred thousand men, who now lived to fight another day. The Germans’ three-day halt was likely to prove one of the greatest strategic errors in history, and Hitler had been persuaded to attribute it to false information supplied by the Abwehr. And he, François, was the Abwehr’s chosen scapegoat. Not only because his loyalty was still in question, but because while he was on a visit to the Franco-Belgian border in May, von Liebermann had introduced him to the Führer. Now the Abwehr were claiming that he had somehow succeeded in passing information to their leader in a three-minute encounter during which any number of generals could have heard his every word.
It was fatuous – and yet, despite everything, it still gave François a certain satisfaction to know that Hitler’s bull-headed refusal to mobilize sooner had had such dire consequences. He knew that France had fallen, but he also knew that Operation Sealion – the plan to invade Britain – had been postponed. That was undoubtedly one consequence of that extraordinary three-day halt – and there were sure to be others.
His mind blurred for a few minutes, then his eyes opened again and he tried to ease himself to a more comfortable position. But his broken ribs and the vice-like ropes intensified the pain as soon as he moved. The scar on his face was once again a fresh, open wound, and blood trickled down his cheek. He wondered dimly if they were going to keep him here until he finally expired from the injuries they were inflicting. He would be of little use to them then – but better that than become a traitor.
His mind, as it always did when he was left alone for any length of time, turned to Claudine. How he wished he had allowed himself the luxury of her love sooner! Perhaps then the thought of dying would be easier to bear. As it was, he wanted more than anything to live, to turn those ten days they had known into a lifetime. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard on the choking emotion. Lack of sleep and food had weakened him, and the desire to see her again, to hold her in his arms and breathe the fragrance of her hair as he told her over and over how much he loved her, was as vivid and unrelenting as the pain.
He had no idea what was happening in France, what she was having to face under the occupation, but he knew that she would find the courage for whatever ordeals she had to meet. The thought reassured him a little, even though he knew how headstrong and impulsive she could be. He just hoped to God Helber’s brother-in-law, Fritz Blomberg, wasn’t carrying out the threats he had made before departing for Lorvoire. Though she would put up a fight, he knew that if she thought his life depended on it she would do whatever Blomberg asked of her, and he had no way of telling her that he would rather die than have her submit to him. As it was, he had contemplated suicide as a means of rescuing her from the threat of Halunke – but he did not have the means for suicide here. And he had no idea where Halunke was, or whom he was planning to strike at next.
François groaned as his frustration fired the physical pain through his body. He had brought her to this, to a point where she was trapped, hemmed in by Blomberg’s lechery and Halunke’s revenge. If anything happened to her … The worst of it was, if he hadn’t been so insanely foolish as to let von Liebermann know how he felt about Max Helber, he might by now have discovered Halunke’s identity. As it was, during the three days he had spent at Helber’s Berlin apartment, Helber had seen to it that they were never alone together; and though he had managed to push a note under Helber’s door telling him that he was now prepared to do whatever Helber wanted in return for the information he required, Helber hadn’t trusted him. And Helber’s instincts were right, because the day would come when he would carry out the threat he had made. Even now, even in here, the thought of Élise’s injuries incensed him beyond words.
Outside in the corridor, at a distance from the room where François was being held, von Liebermann was talking quietly with Brüning.
‘It is hardly surprising that he continues to deny it,’ he wheezed, still breathless from his climb up the stairs. ‘No one in the world knows why the Führer took that decision, least of all de Lorvoire. But we have to make a show. How is he bearing up?’
‘Any other man would be close to death by now,’ Brüning answered. ‘The only thing de Lorvoire has come close to is unconsciousness.’
Von Liebermann scratched the warts on his chin. ‘I did not go to all this effort so that he could be used as a scapegoat for …’ He stopped before the treasonous words were spoken. ‘Everyone knows there can be no confession, and I have plans for de Lorvoire that require his health. So, I am ordering you to leave him be for a while. I will speak with Herr Himmler and see what can be done. How long, in your estimation, will it take for his wounds to heal?’
‘If it was any other man,’ Brüning said with a smirk, ‘I should say six months, possibly more. As it is de Lorvoire, three months.’
Von Liebermann nodded thoughtfully. ‘That will take us into the New Year.’ Annoyance flashed in his eyes. ‘We might have had him sooner if the Luftwaffe’s defeat in the sky battle hadn’t been presented as a direct result of halting our troops for those damned three days. Why, oh why, did I introduce him to the Führer? If I hadn’t, someone else’s neck would be on the block and we wouldn’t be here now, wasting our time. And if you repeat one word of that, Brüning, I’ll have your tongue cut out.’
Brüning saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’
Von Liebermann chuckled. His Komitee were loyal, but it amused him to make that kind of threat. ‘Get a doctor to de Lorvoire,’ he said, starting back towards the stairs and gesturing to Brüning to follow, ‘and keep me abreast of his progress. In the meantime, I have something of a more personal nature to discuss with you concerning de Lorvoire. I have heard from Fritz Blomberg. He has, as we instructed, made contact with Halunke.’
‘Ah! And how is our friend Halunke?’
‘Worried. He believes that de Lorvoire’s courier is getting a little too close for comfort. It would appear von Pappen has been asking questions of the right people, and is presumably coming up with the right answers. Naturally, I share Halunke’s concern. It would be most inconvenient if his identity were to be discovered now. Fortunately he is not planning a Blitzkrieg on de Lorvoire’s family because de Lorvoire is not there to witness it – which, as we know, is something our friend Halunke prefers. Even so, his next subject, I believe, will be the vigneron.’
Both men laughed. ‘It will shake de Lorvoire considerably when his wife’s protector is slaughtered,’ von Liebermann continued. ‘He will really feel the net beginning to close then, and that will give us even greater leverage on him.’ Again he laughed, and clapped Brüning on the shoulder as they reached the bottom of the staircase. ‘I do hope I can obtain de Lorvoire’s release soon; I’m looking forward to the time when those two men are forced to pit their skills against one another. It will be a most interesting spectacle, don’t you agree?’
‘You are intending to send de Lorvoire back to France?’ Brüning said, surprised.
‘Most certainly.’
‘But how will that serve us?’
‘All in good time, Walter. All in good time.’
‘And the courier? Are we going to do something about him?’
‘I’m giving the matter some thought,’ von Liebermann answered.
Two junior officers helped them into their coats, then they went out into the biting wind that swept through the bleak grounds of Belsen concentration camp.
‘Incidentally,’ Brüning said, as they approached von Liebermann’s Mercedes, ‘has de Lorvoire’s wife succumbed to Blomberg yet?’
‘I have no idea, Walter. Blomberg’s designs on the Comtesse’s honour are of no interest to me. However, he did have a rather interesting encounter with Élise Pascale when passing through Paris a while ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘I will let Max tell you. He’s waiting in the car. It is most amusing, my friend. Most amusing.’
Béatrice Baptiste, Élise’s ‘nursemaid’, knew only too well what was going on in the sitting-room now that the voices had stopped. Nevertheless she stole a quick look round the door to reassure herself that no harm had come to her charge. Everything was as she had expected. The two Abwehr officers whose chauffeur had driven them over from their headquarters on the avenue de l’Opéra for the third time that week, were seated side by side on the sofa, and Élise, comme d’habitude, was on her knees in front of them, providing them with oral stimulation.
Béatrice closed the door quietly, and sat down on a chair to wait. Today Élise was playing the part of Agnès Sorel, the mistress of King Charles VII. The last time she had been Diane de Poitiers, mistress of King Henry II, and the time before that she had been the most famous of all French mistresses, Jeanne, Marquise de Pompadour. She had had clothes made up to suit each part, which was how Béatrice could tell that she was Agnès Sorel today: the only portrait they had been able to find of Agnès was one in which her bodice was unlaced and her left breast revealed. Élise had been delighted when she saw it was the left breast, for she would never have been able to show her right one; the nipple had been severed by Halunke’s knife.
Béatrice and Erich had decided some time ago that they should allow Élise to do as she pleased with her German visitors. Erich had been against it at first, not only because of what François might say, but because he couldn’t begin to understand why Élise should want to do it. But Béatrice had understood. Élise needed to know that she still had the power not only to arouse a man, but to satisfy him too. If she couldn’t do that, she had wept when explaining it to Béatrice, then she might as well be dead. She had gone on to tell Béatrice how, even as a child, she had idolized the powerful courtesans of the French court. She had modelled herself on them for so long, Béatrice realized, that now, in the troubled recesses of her poor, deranged mind, she had become them – all of them. Naturally, François was the monarch at whose throne she knelt, and like the concubines of old she continued her scheming and conniving to gain what she wanted. Which was, of course, to become his queen.
Madame la Comtesse had little to fear from her, though, for Béatrice never let Élise out of her sight. And as for the German officers Élise was rewarding for their part in her conspiracy to kill Claudine, it was evident that they didn’t know what she was talking about, and didn’t care either. But Élise, poor, tortured, lonely Élise, knew such a sense of purpose to her life again now that, just as Béatrice had hoped, the nightmares and visions had begun to subside.
‘It’s tomorrow!’ Élise hissed, half an hour later as Béatrice closed the door behind the Germans. ‘We’re going to kill her tomorrow!’
Béatrice smiled. She had heard it a hundred times before. Tucking Élise’s breast back into the bodice of her dress, she led her into the sitting-room.
For several minutes she listened as Élise told her, in frenzied detail, what she had discussed with the Germans. It was obvious that she had forgotten precisely what she was talking about. Then at last the glassy look came into her eyes, signalling an imminent return to sanity.
‘I know they’re laughing at me, Béatrice,’ she said, her long skirts sweeping across the floor as she limped to the window. ‘But I have to do it. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I understand, chérie.’
‘But will François?’ She turned to look at Béatrice, and Béatrice’s heart turned over at the haunted, childlike look in her eyes. ‘Has there been any word from him?’
Béatrice shook her head.
After a while Élise smiled and said, ‘There will be, soon.’ Then her face darkened. ‘Has Erich found out who Halunke is yet?’ And fully expecting Béatrice to say no, she turned to gaze out of the window. But when Béatrice’s soft voice answered in the affirmative, Élise’s eyes dilated and she turned back again.
‘What!’ she gasped. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Who? Who is it?’
‘He won’t tell me,’ Béatrice said apologetically. ‘He says that …’
‘No, I don’t believe you,’ Élise said, shaking her head rapidly from side to side. ‘If he knew he would have told you, I know he would, and I have a right to know, Béatrice.’
‘I won’t deny that, Élise, but I swear it’s the truth. I don’t know who Halunke is.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve already gone too far in telling you this much. It was only that I wanted you to know that he’ll be caught soon. But until Erich has actual proof, and until he talks to François, he’s refusing even to tell me.’
Erich von Pappen was sitting in his shabby studio room in the Residence Domance on the Left Bank, staring down at the papers in front of him. His eyes were sore from lack of sleep and his fingers stained with nicotine. He had been over it time and time again, sifting through lists of names and dates until his head ached and his vision blurred, but always the result was the same. And he knew he now had finally to admit that he was never going to come up with the answer.
He gazed despondently down at the single sheet of paper he had placed on top of the pile. There was no longer any doubt that Halunke’s true identity belonged to one of the two men whose names were written on it. He gained no satisfaction from knowing that he had been right to think Hortense de Bourchain’s murder was at the root of it, but if he lived to reach a hundred he would never understand why either man should feel the need to seek such bitter revenge. François would not understand it either; von Pappen knew that he had never for a moment considered that Halunke was a man as close to him as this.
He stood up, walked over to the bed and sat down with his head in his hands. He knew now that François was being held in Belsen. He also knew that he would be returning to France within a month – his source inside the Abwehr had given him the information a week ago. The question was, how the hell was he going to tell François about Halunke? And what the hell was François going to do when he found out that the man who had butchered Élise, who had killed his father, who had driven him into the hands of the Abwehr, and who could even now be threatening the lives of his wife and son, was either his brother, Lucien de Lorvoire, or his vigneron, Armand St Jacques?
Everything fitted for both men, the dates, the times, the places. The only thing he could not get straight was motive. Lucien had been Hortense de Bourchain’s lover, and Armand had witnessed François killing her. But why in God’s name would Lucien kill his own father? And why should Hortense’s death matter to Armand? But there could no longer be any doubt. At the time Élise was attacked, Lucien was in Paris and Armand, von Pappen had since discovered, was absent from Lorvoire. At the time Louis died, both men were at Lorvoire. And every time Claudine had experienced that extraordinary sense of being spied on, Lucien had been absent from his regiment and Armand had been there in the forest with her.
Von Pappen glanced at the window and saw that it was beginning to get dark. He heard the dull clatter of wooden shoes on the cobbles as the people of Montparnasse hurried to get home before curfew. Knowing that very soon now the concièrge would go outside to check that there was no light escaping from the Residence windows, he got up to close the shutters and pull the heavy black drapes. The power had been off all day; he struck a match and lit both a candle and a cigarette.
He didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, or the bare boards creaking on the landing outside. Even if he had, he would have presumed they belonged to one of his neighbours. He drew deeply on his cigarette and asked himself for the thousandth time where Lucien de Lorvoire was now.
The door handle behind him started to turn. Unaware of it, his mind moved to Armand St Jacques, the man François had allowed to have an affair with his wife in order that he should protect her. Which of these two hated François so much that they could do this to him? Which one of them was Halunke?
Von Pappen felt a cold draught blow into the room. It unsettled the curtains and made him shiver. Then he realized that he was no longer alone. He turned round. A sad, crooked smile came to his face. So now he knew who Halunke was, and his last thought before the bullet tore through his brain was one of desperate sorrow that he would never be able to tell François.